Dane, too, felt terror, but endeavored to keep it in check for the good of his men. He glanced at Drott, Fulnir, Jarl, and the others, all of them looking strong and resolute, like the sons of Thor they were—all except Lut, whose palsied hand wouldn’t stop shaking until Orm reached out and took the hand in his.
“We’ll get to them in a minute,” Dane heard Thidrek shout. “But first, a little surprise…” The crowd quieted in expectation. “Well, it’s not really little at all. In fact, it’s huge. And the fact that I possess it promises peace in our land for generations to come!”
And with a sweeping gesture, Thidrek beckoned to the THIDREK RULES! banner that bore his visage. The banner was flung aside to reveal an awesome sight: There on the upper ramparts, set upon a giant wooden catapult, was Thor’s Hammer. Fifty feet long from the end of its roughhewn wooden handle to the tip of its massive iron head. And most breathtaking of all, it glowed with an unearthly light. A thousand rays of multicolored light burst forth from the Hammer, a luminous aura crackling and sparking up into the sky like miniature bolts of lightning.
So it was true! Dane could scarcely believe his eyes. Thor’s Hammer was real! It did exist, just as his father and the elders had always said. A hush fell over the crowd as the peasantfolk kissed the charms they wore round their necks, touching them to their foreheads in awe. For the longest moment one could only hear the buzz and sizzle of the otherworldly sparks the Hammer gave off, all eyes glued to its radiant glow. Dane gazed upon it, marveling at its magnificence. The frost giant was a wonder, but this literally took his breath away. Then his awe gave way to an awful dread as he remembered the man who possessed it.
Thidrek stood on the stage like a pleased parent, beaming with pride.
“Kind of puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?” Thidrek crowed, his eyes agleam. “It’s what we royal rulers call ‘a weapon of…of’…oh, what’s that phrase, Grelf?”
Grelf quickly whispered in his ear and Thidrek nodded in recognition.
“Ah, yes, ‘a weapon of mass destruction’! That’s it. And as you can see, using the latest in catapult craftsmanship, we do, in fact, have the capability to launch it rather effectively, at whichever village might be so pigheaded as to disobey, disrespect, or displease me in any way. And seeing as how it’s a weapon of mindboggling destructive power, well, I’d rather not ever have to use it.”
The crowd gave a gasp. Thidrek saw the looks of fear on their faces.
“You’re frightened? Of course you are! Who wouldn’t be? But that’s the beauty of it, you see? Because it’s so stupendously terrifying, the man who possesses it need never use it. It acts as—”
He stopped, and Grelf again whispered in his ear.
“It acts as a ‘deterrent,’ almost ensuring that it will never be used. Which is just a fancy way of saying that you are safer now than you ever were before!”
A deadly pall fell over the people, a terrible dread having silenced them. But Thidrek seemed happier than ever before now that he’d indeed become Thidrek the Terrifying.
At that moment, high in his mountaintop cave, Thrym sat alone, thinking of Astrid. He cradled the ice carving of the winged horse that Astrid had left for him. It comforted him to hold and touch the delicate ice creature, because he knew she’d made it for him and him only. And that she’d made it out of love. For only love could create something this beautiful.
He heard a sound. Crawk! He looked up to see a large black bird had found his way into the cave. A raven. Yes, it was Klint himself, the very bird seen plummeting into the trees earlier. Although the guard who shot him had been sure the bird was dead, in fact he’d only been hit in the wing, losing a feather or two, and, after regaining his wits a short time later, he’d flown off again toward his intended destination, for such was the fortitude of Dane’s fine feathered friend.
Flapping his wings, the bird hopped up on the tabletop, cocked his head, and stared up at Thrym, squawking as if trying to tell him something. Screek! Thrym marveled at the creature. His beak looked so sharp, his feathers so black and shiny. He’d never seen a bird so beautiful. He didn’t know what the creature was trying to tell him, but all the squawking made him think the bird was lost and trying to find his way out of the cave.
He was reaching for the bird to take him outside when he caught sight of something else. A tiny trinket lay at the bird’s feet. The frost giant leaned down for a closer look. It was a locket of silver and turquoise in the shape of Thor’s Hammer. As he picked it up, the locket fell open. And inside, Thrym was struck to find the one face he’d thought he’d never see again. The tiny etched portrait of Astrid.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
DANE THE DEFIANT LIVES UP TO HIS NAME
Standing in a small portico just offstage, peeking through curtains that separated her from the crowd, Astrid could see the horrified looks on the faces in the courtyard.
“Who’s ready for romance?” she heard Grelf crow. “I know I am!” She felt a cold emptiness rising inside her as handmaidens began tossing flowers into the crowd, and Grelf, gesturing, cued the musicians. Now Astrid heard music, a sweet sprightly melody that further sickened her. Then all at once the curtains drew aside and Thidrek had her by the hand and was drawing her out onto the open stage. And now, with all eyes upon her and her snow-white dress, teal taffeta headdress, and elbow-length white velvet gloves, she was further shocked to hear the people actually cheering her!
“Isn’t she magnificent?” she heard Thidrek cry. “Behold your queen!” The cheers grew louder now, the people chanting her name and waving the little Astrid figurines that had also been for sale. Hrolf, the royal clothier, beamed too as she passed him onstage, his mates in the crowd cheering, appreciating fine design when they saw it.
She wanted to stop the music and scream out that it was all a charade. That she detested Thidrek and would rather die than marry him. But she knew it was for naught. Grelf had made a private visit to her chamber that morning and made it clear that either she submit to marriage to Thidrek, or Dane, her father, and everyone else would be hideously tortured before being put to death. But if she smiled to the crowd and pretended to be a willing bride, then the executions would be quick and painless—or relatively so, given Thidrek’s penchant for theatricality.
Now, as Thidrek paraded her by the hand before his cheering subjects, showing her off as if she were but another trophy for his wall, her flesh crawled at his cold, reptilian touch, and she tried her best to smile and appear every bit the shining picture of poise she knew the people needed. After the awful business of the Hammer, they desperately craved a diversion, a story of love, a lie, an illusion—anything to quell their terror. And so she beamed a smile and waved to the crowd and patted Thidrek’s arm, a tiny reassuring voice deep inside her saying that at least Dane would die having seen her looking more beautiful than she ever had before.
Dane watched in agony. There stood his beloved Astrid in all her wedding finery, looking more radiantly lovely than he ever could have imagined. He ached to hold her, to tell her all the secrets of his heart, but—how was it possible? She was soon to wed Thidrek. It was all too monstrous. At that moment Astrid passed by him, and his eyes met hers, and the pained look he saw there was too much to bear. And before he even knew what he was doing, Dane stumbled forward and shouted out the single word that overwhelmed his heart.
“No!”
The music stopped. Thidrek dropped Astrid’s hand and turned to face Dane. All eyes in the castle courtyard fell on Dane now as they waited for Thidrek’s reaction.
“No?” said Thidrek, chuckling in amusement. “No what, pray tell?”
“No, you can’t have her—she’s mine!”
“Dear me!” Thidrek said, turning to the crowd, putting his palms to his cheeks in mock shock. “I almost forgot to introduce him. M’lords and ladies, the man responsible for Thor’s Hammer falling into my possession. He as good as handed it to me himself! None other than Dane the Defiant!”
Dane began to speak again but was hit from behind by a guardsman. He fell forward, feeling a sharp stab of pain as his jaw hit the stage floor. Sprawled there, he spied a familiar face in the crowd. The boy with the basket, William the Brave! The boy stood beside the platform, eyes glued to Dane. And in a span of time too brief to measure, something passed between them—a look, a decision.
“Tell you what I’ll do,” Thidrek continued. “Just to show I’m not the coldhearted guy everyone thinks I am. I’ll make you a deal. My regular executioner is out sick today. I’m promoting you to first assistant executioner. You kill whoever I say and I’ll let you marry the girl. How’s that?” For a brief moment it actually sounded good to Dane. Well, the part about him getting Astrid did, at least.
“How ’bout I kill you?” Dane suggested, delighting the crowd.
Thidrek just issued a poisonous smile and, to Dane’s horror, pointed to Blek the Boatman, Astrid’s father. “Him, for instance. Cut off his head and you’re home free. Take the girl and all your friends and live happily ever after. On my honor. How’s that for mercy, huh? Here”—Thidrek threw an executioner’s axe to Dane—“show us your stuff.”
A guardsman pushed Blek’s head down onto the chopping block. Dane looked at Astrid, then down at Blek. Kill the father of the woman he loved? How could he?
“Oh, come, come,” Thidrek clucked. “You call yourself a man? A Viking? One teensy little swipe of the axe and it’s done. And you can’t do it?” He turned to the crowd. “Well, I guess he doesn’t love her after all.” The crowd let out a deflated sigh; if there had to be killing, at least it should be for love.
“I suppose we’ll have to call him Dane the Indecisive,” said Thidrek, drawing more sniggers from his men, “or Dane the Incredibly Doubtful,” drawing more laughter still.
Dane was in torment. He looked down at Blek, surprised to hear him say, “Go on, son. Do it. I’ve lived a good life. It’s the only way I have to save my daughter. Just make it quick.” But would it save Astrid’s life? That was the question. What assurance did he have that Thidrek would keep his word?
Dane stood hefting the executioner’s axe in his hands, feeling the weight of it, its long spruce handle worn smooth by countless beheadings, its blade honed to a gleaming edge. Time seemed to stand still. A kaleidoscopic swirl of images ran through his head, memories of all he and his friends had been through in tracking Astrid. The storm on the ship, the finding of wisdom, the escape from the doomfish, freeing Astrid from the frost giant, only to be captured again by Thidrek.
And now this—an impossible impasse.
All he need do was kill one person to have his heart’s desire. Only trouble was, it wasn’t the right person. And as the moment seemed to stretch into minutes, he caught the eyes of the boy with the basket, of Astrid, of his friends Jarl and Drott and Fulnir and the others, and it seemed his hands knew what they were doing before his mind had realized he’d made his decision.
“Forgive me, brother Blek!”
Dane raised the axe up to chop off the man’s head. In one terror-stricken moment, Blek’s eyes shut. Thidrek felt the satisfaction rising in his throat. And what happened next happened in the blink of an eye. Dane swiftly brought down the axe, deliberately missing Blek completely, and threw it behind him—to Astrid! Being the Mistress of the Blade, she handily caught it and—catching all by surprise—she slashed and flashed it, dispatching three guards, their long spears falling to Vik and Rik the Vicious Brothers, who swiftly began their own campaign of destruction.
At this same moment William threw the basket up onstage. Dane grabbed it, pulling out the many weapons that he’d known from the boy’s look would be inside. Daggers, knives, cleavers, clubs—Dane threw one of each to Jarl, Drott, Fulnir, Orm, and Blek, and in a wink the stage was mayhem. With arrows from above whizzing by their heads, Dane and his kinsmen hacked away at the guards, pushing them off the platform and into the crowd. Thidrek disappeared in the ensuing chaos. Then, following Dane’s lead, the men rushed through the archway into the castle proper, thereby taking themselves out of range of the bowmen on the parapets.
Barring the door behind them, Dane barked orders as they dashed down the stairs, saying that he’d stay behind, giving Jarl and the others time to spirit Astrid safely away. And as they got to a fork in the hallway, he couldn’t understand why Astrid was still standing with him and not going with Jarl and the others. “Astrid? Go!”
“We fight together or not at all,” she said in irritation, pulling off her veil and gloves.
“But—”
“But what? Just because I’m a girl you’re supposed to die trying to protect me? Hog pizzle! I say we die trying to protect each other!” They could hear the chaos of screams outside—the sound of the people in revolt—and the pounding of Thidrek’s men against the door, its creaking hinges about to give way.
“And no matter what happens,” said Jarl, “we can’t let Thidrek launch that Hammer!”
“Right,” said Astrid, hefting her executioner’s axe. “Now let our blades taste blood!”
Moments later, the door was broken open, and down the steps ran four of Thidrek’s guardsmen, spears and swords in hand. But Astrid stood firm with Jarl, Dane, and the others. Orm fired two arrows, one right after the other, quickly felling two of the guardsman, as Dane and Astrid worked their spears and swords to kill a third.
When the last remaining guardsman raised his hand to throw a knife at Blek, who’d fallen and lay defenseless in the open with no cover, Astrid let fly a hatchet—whoosha! whoosha!—and it sliced the man’s arm clean off. And with these four dispatched, Astrid, Dane, Drott, Blek, and Orm took the men’s weapons and ran off down the corridor toward the southern ramparts, Jarl and his men having already run to the stairway leading to the north wall and the Hammer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
COURAGE, BLOOD, AND CABBAGES
Dane and Astrid, fighting shoulder to shoulder with Blek, Orm, and Drott, found resistance as they hacked their way toward the winding staircase that led to the southern rampart wall. Thidrek’s guardsmen fought hard and well. But Astrid’s axes and Dane’s slashing sword overpowered the first line of defense, and soon Dane and company were moving up the stairs.
Halfway up, however, they encountered more of the enemy and had to fall back. Splitting apart a tabletop and fashioning shields from the broken slabs of cedarwood and bits of rope, they mounted another attack, slowly advancing higher and higher up the stairs. After some hard fighting they finally reached the upper ramparts and could look down into the open air of the compound.
Crouched behind the stone wall, Dane could see, all the way across the courtyard, more of Thidrek’s men and the Hammer atop the north rampart, its power jolts sparking. But where was Thidrek? And what had become of Jarl, Fulnir, and the Vicious Brothers? He worried an ill fate had befallen them. He was about to call a command to his crew to retreat down the stairs and make their way to the north wall—sensing he’d find Thidrek there, near his precious Hammer—but then he heard footsteps on the stairs behind him. More guardsmen appeared. Then faces appeared in the windows of the castle tower, two stories above them, and bowmen began firing arrows down upon them.
Taking cover behind the low wall, they were trapped there, pinned down by arrows raining from above and the guardsmen on the stairs. For now, they could neither advance nor retreat. Though in desperate straits, Dane was comforted to see that all those with him—Astrid, Blek, Drott, Orm, and Lut—were, as yet, safe and unharmed. Thoughts of Jarl and the others flashed through his mind, and he hoped for their sakes that his friends were fighting well that day.
Meanwhile, beneath the tapestries in the great north hall, Jarl fought like a demon, taking on two, even three men at a time. With Fulnir’s help, and the aid of Vik and Rik, Jarl broke through Thidrek’s first-floor defenses and ran up the stairs to where the Hammer’s launch catapult was stationed. He had a hunch Thidrek would hasten to the source of his power, and he was rig
ht. Rounding the top of the stairway, he spied Thidrek out on the ramparts, gesticulating and shouting to his men, who were straining to prepare the Hammer for launch.
The Hammer itself was majestic, and the sight of it momentarily held Jarl rapt, its radiating glow a wonder to see. To be so near to something the gods had touched, something of such awesome, otherworldly power, was nearly overwhelming. Mesmerized, Jarl was unable to take his eyes away from it. But then he heard a scream, and behind him on the steps he saw Rik fall, the sight of this sending him into a fury. With a bloodcurdling war cry, Jarl ran out onto the ramparts, heading straight for Thidrek.
No one fought with more ferocity than Jarl the Fair that fateful day. Stories of his singlehanded attack on Thidrek and the five guardsmen who rushed to protect their lord and master became legend in the years to follow. Little children were to hear endless stories of the courage Jarl showed in fighting off five heavily armed men. How with his Demon Claw dagger in one hand and a newfound broadsword in the other, using all his considerable strength and agility, one by one he ended each man’s life. And then turned at last on Thidrek.
And Jarl, they say, would have easily taken Thidrek apart had Thidrek not had the one thing Jarl could not defeat: the Shield of Odin. For as Jarl made his final attack on Thidrek, Thidrek brought forth the Shield, and as the stories go, no matter where Jarl’s sword struck, the Shield, by some unseen force, was there to shield its owner. And soon, fatigued by the fearsome battle, gasping for breath, Jarl fell to the stone floor, where Thidrek easily kicked away his weapons, spiked him in the face with a boot, then knocked the poor boy over the battlements.
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