Soon they were outside the cave gazing in all directions and calling his name. This brought Fulnir and Drott outside, and William told them Lut was missing.
“Probably went out to relieve himself and saw an interesting butterfly to chase,” Dane said mildly, downplaying the matter. “You know how his mind wanders.”
“He has bad pain in his chest,” Fulnir said. “I saw him take a potion of willow powder for it.”
“Pain?” Dane asked, now worried. “Why didn’t you tell me of it?”
“Would you have cared?” replied Fulnir.
They glared at one another until William broke in. “Last night, after we found him—he said he was tired of being a burden to us. Tired of being old. You don’t suppose he went off to—”
“Lut wouldn’t do that,” Dane said. But he wasn’t at all convinced this was true, for the old one’s thoughts were a mystery of late. Jarl appeared from the cave, and everyone split up to search for him. Dane went north, plunging into thick woods, loudly calling his name. He heard the others call too as they spread out in different directions, expecting any moment to hear a cheerful shout that Lut had been found safe and sound. However, as time wore on, no such thing was heard, and the deeper Dane went into the woods, the more he feared that the old one had met a horrible end, self-inflicted or otherwise.
He remembered the many times he had visited Lut’s hut to ask for advice or just to hear him tell amusing stories of his distant youth. When Dane had lost his father at Thidrek’s murderous hands, it had been Lut’s wisdom and understanding that had helped guide Dane toward manhood. Now, realizing Lut might be gone, Dane was ashamed he had taken the kindly old sage’s presence for granted, as if it would always be there.
Seeing it was now full daylight, he again stopped to listen, hoping for a sign that Lut had been found. But the twittering birdsong and the rush of wind in the pines were all that came to his ears. He walked on—then froze of a sudden to the spot. Some distance away a figure with a hooded cloak had appeared through the trees, kneeling on the bank of a small pond. He or she—Dane was too far away to tell—seemed to be staring intently down into the water.
Drawing nearer, Dane came close enough to recognize the garb. It was Lut’s! But as Dane began to rush forward to greet his friend, the figure raised his head and threw back his hood, and Dane saw that it wasn’t an old man at all but instead a very young one with a full head of jet-black hair. Dane’s footstep cracked a twig, but as the man’s head jerked round to look, Dane darted behind a tree to hide. A few moments later he peeked out to see that the man had turned away once more and was looking into the water again. The hairs rising on his neck, Dane pulled his sword from its sheath as quietly as he could. Whoever this interloper was, Dane was determined to learn what he had done to Lut.
But what if the stranger was not alone?
What if Lut had stumbled onto a gang of thieves? They would certainly know that an old man would not be in the wilds alone. Perhaps they had waylaid him, meaning to ransom him back to his compatriots. Or worse—they were planning a sneak attack on the cave, which would be easy since everyone was spread out in the countryside looking for Lut. The thieves would take everything, including the horses.
Dane decided his best strategy lay in surprise. Once he was close enough, he would make his move and cut the man down at the water’s edge. His gang would be camped near the water too. If Dane was lucky, he could kill one or two more and get away with Lut. If he found Lut already dead, then he would kill them all. It was risky, and, yes, a tad foolhardy, but this being his best option, he had to take it.
Sword in hand, he crept from tree to tree toward the kneeling man. He stopped to sniff the air. He detected no scent of campfire smoke, heard no other voices. This was strange. Was the man really alone? And why was he gazing so intently into the water as if possessed by his own image? Moving closer still, Dane saw the gleam of a newly sharpened knife lying on the ground within the man’s reach, a knife he was sure was Lut’s. Dane drew in a deep breath—
—and rushed, sword high. Lightning fast, the stranger grabbed the knife and whirled, his cloak flying up into Dane’s face. Dane hacked down, but up came the knife, blocking the blade. Dane slashed with his sword. The man whipped the cloak up again, twisting the cloth around the blade. The man grabbed the sword blade—now wrapped in fabric—and kicked Dane in the groin. Doubled over in pain, Dane instantly lost his grip on the sword handle and fell backward, splashing into the water. He lay like a stunned fish under the surface, looking up through the water at the rippling image of the man on the bank. The man’s hand came down at him and Dane knew it held the knife. But he felt the hand grab his shirtfront and pull him up out of the water. He lay facedown on the bank, coughing and cradling his wounded privates.
“Sorry I had to kick you,” Dane heard the man say.
Once he was through coughing, Dane said, “What have you done to him?”
“Who?”
“You know who! You have his knife and cloak.”
“Ah. The old man. I have done away with him.”
Dane saw his sword lying within reach. Despite his pain he made a grab for it, but the man’s boot stepped on the blade, pinning it. “I have done a bad thing,” the man said, sounding ashamed.
“You’ve killed my friend and I’m going to kill you!”
“Look at me, Dane.” Bent on destroying the man, Dane struggled to pull his sword from under the man’s boot but to no avail. “I said look at me.” Dane angrily lifted his gaze and for the first time took in the young man’s face. There was great strength there, a hint of humor, but certainly no cruelty. Far from it. The eyes were a sparkling blue, filled with wisdom and compassion.
Dane knew those eyes; he had looked into them countless times before.
“Lut?”
The man nodded but then broke into a smile, eager to share his secret. “Dane, it was amazing! I was so weary of my frailties and fearing death, I couldn’t resist. From the first bite of the apple I felt so alive again, the vitality of youth flowing through me, my aches and pains vanishing. I grew straighter. Taller. My hair grew back. And look, I’ve got teeth now!” He grinned to show his rows of strong white teeth. “And muscles everywhere!” Lut pulled back his sleeve, showing his arm bulging with hard sinew. He picked up a stone and threw it over the pond out of sight. “I could brain a squirrel from two hundred paces—I could outrun a deer! And fighting? Well, you saw how I handled myself. When you came at me I didn’t know it was you at first. And when I saw it was you, I had to end it before you were hurt. Again, forgive the kick.”
Dane lay stupefied, unable to speak. Lut a young man again? To see him standing before him, broad shouldered and brimming with youth and vitality—it was amazingly . . . awful! How could his most trusted friend be so monumentally selfish? How could he eat the apple that was meant for Déttmárr? Unbelievable! “You delight in your youth—but what of Astrid? Now we have nothing to revive the smith with!”
“I didn’t eat the whole apple. Just a nibble. There should be more than enough for Déttmárr.” Lut turned to the pond, gazing with appreciation at his reflection.
“Just what we need, another Jarl,” Dane said with venom.
Lut swiveled his gaze to meet Dane’s. “How long have I listened to your woes, soothed your troubles? Advised you, consoled you? Once I wish to relieve my pain—soothe my fears—and you have nothing but contempt for me.”
Dane jumped to his feet. “Don’t try and turn this around and make me the selfish one. You had this planned since Skuld gave me the apple. That’s why you wanted to carry it!” Lut waved his hand as if replying to this accusation was beneath his dignity. “Show me the apple,” Dane ordered.
“Very well,” Lut said with a sigh. He patted his cloak and pockets. “I had it somewhere . . .”
“Where is it!”
“It must’ve fallen out while we were tussling.” They looked around on the ground but saw nothing. Then came a rustling
in the nearby bush. Dane motioned for silence and crept toward it. Out sprang a hissing badger, the core of the apple clenched in its jaws. The ferocious beast held its ground, not about to relinquish its newfound booty. Hearing Lut cry his name, Dane turned in time to see Lut tossing him his sword. Dane caught the hilt of the sword and turned back to the badger, meaning to make short work of it, but the animal had the good sense to flee, scampering away with the precious fruit in its mouth.
“After him!” Dane cried. They gave chase across the forest floor, the low-slung badger darting to and fro, barely avoiding swipes from Dane’s blade. Lut threw his knife and missed. Dane made a desperate throw with his sword but hit a tree. Dane saw the beast move toward its burrow hole and knew if it went underground, the apple was lost. He made a last-ditch dive, grabbing the badger by its hind legs as it plunged into the hole.
Dane yanked the beast out and it attacked with its legendary fury, biting and slashing him with its razor-sharp claws and teeth. In its rage the animal dropped the apple, and Dane grabbed it and rolled it away. A well-aimed rock thrown by Lut struck the beast a glancing blow. It hissed and snarled, but then, deciding the prize wasn’t worth the fight, the badger whipped round and disappeared down its burrow hole.
His face scratched, his hand bleeding from the badger’s vicious bites, Dane examined the apple, wiping off the badger spit. All that was left was the core and a little part near the stem. “There’s not enough here to revive an elderly dung beetle,” Dane bemoaned.
“But the core is most potent,” Lut said. “Besides, Déttmárr, being of diminutive stature, will require less.”
Dane fixed Lut with an accusatory eye. “How much exactly did you eat?”
“As I said, a nibble.”
“And the badger ate the rest,” Dane said skeptically.
“No wonder he was so ferocious,” Lut reasoned.
“As opposed to other badgers that are shy and meek,” said Dane. He heard footsteps, turned, and saw Jarl, Fulnir, and Drott approaching. They stopped a few feet away and warily eyed the black-haired stranger.
“Who is that?” Jarl asked Dane.
“Someone I thought I knew,” Dane said, walking away.
A moment later he heard Drott exclaim, “Lut! Is that you? You’re—you’re un-bent!”
Dane returned to the cave, cursing this new complication. As he approached, he saw something glinting in the grass. He stopped and reached down for it and saw the Thor’s Hammer locket upon the broken chain. His heart began to pound. Could it be true? His dream of Astrid hadn’t been a dream at all.
Chapter 8
Dwarfed by a Mystery
Dane was glad to be on the move again. The air was warm, the skies were bright with promise, and an encouraging wind blew at their backs as they headed to their rendezvous with the ancient swordsmith.
Lut was elated. So excited was he to be once again in the full flower of youth, Lut could not stop talking. The man had the vigor of a roaring river as he jogged alongside the horses, insisting he felt too good to ride. Lut’s memory had returned to him as well, and he hooted with glee, remembering the name of the first girl he’d ever kissed—Hlífey the Quiet—and the favorite insult of his older brother, Freybjörn the Foulmouth: “You dog-livered dung heap!”
For his entire life, Dane had only known Lut to be gray of hair and bent of frame, his voice a thin rasp. And now there he was, erect, feisty, his voice booming with the command of an energetic man of twenty, and Dane still felt it strange to see.
At midmorning, reaching the northern edge of the plain, Dane gazed down into the dry, rock-strewn valley below and halted everyone. He heard the murmurs of his friends as they too now sighted what he had seen cut into the cliffside on the far side of the valley floor: a narrow black crevice, cut like a long jagged scar from the ground to the sky.
“Well, there it is,” said Lut. “The Passage of Mystery.”
“Doesn’t look too mysterious to me,” Jarl said. “Sure this is it, Lut?”
“In my sixty-fifth year,” Lut said, “my third wife and I journeyed past here on the way to her home village. I remember it clearly.”
“How can you remember forty years back when you’re only in your twenties now?” Jarl shook his head in disbelief. “Am I the only one boggled by that?”
“Just because I appear young like you,” Lut said, “does not mean I am equally brainless. My wisdom is intact. Perhaps, if you stop being so damned sure of yourself—impulsively leaping into every fight without a thought—you may live long enough to acquire some.” Dane laughed and Lut turned on him. “That goes for you, too.” He looked back at Drott, Fulnir, and William. “And you.” Lut moved off down the trail.
“He may look young, but he’s still a cranky old fart,” Jarl said. No one disagreed.
Soon they had crossed the valley floor and now stood at the doorstep of the crevice. The rock walls soared up in a V shape, and the trail at the bottom was so narrow that they had to picket the horses and proceed single file on foot. An eerie, moaning wind blew through the crevice, and the deeper into it they went, the more dread Dane felt. The looks of unease on his friends’ faces told him they shared his fears. Klint also seemed to be spooked. Riding atop Dane’s shoulder, he took wing, flying back toward where they had left the horses. Lut, though, seemed not to have a care in the world, and he led them at a good clip, whistling merrily.
They came to where the passage forked into two deep, tight channels. Without hesitation, Lut took the right one and everyone dutifully followed. Then they came to another fork, then another, and each time without so much as a pause, Lut chose which way to go. Dane started to sense that they were going in circles, first north, then west, then south, going back the way they had started. It was as if they were caught in a high-walled maze, an endless loop they would never escape. They came to where the trail forked off into another channel again, and Dane ordered everyone to halt.
“We’ve already come past here,” Dane said. “We’re lost, Lut, admit it.”
Lut sighed in exasperation, like a parent growing weary of his complaining children. “Would you doubt me if I still looked like the old Lut?”
“That’s just it. You’re not the old Lut,” Dane said. “And now you’re the one who’s so damn sure of himself. In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve been walking in circles.”
“Do you see that?” Lut pointed to a spot on the rock wall, two feet from the ground.
Dane looked; there was nothing but bare rock. “What?”
“If you were familiar with dwarfish symbology, you would see a sign that directs us to Déttmárr’s lair.”
Dane and Jarl bent down and saw faint scratchings in the rock. Jarl asked, “Why is it so low to the—oh, right. Dwarves are short.”
“Any more questions?” Lut asked. “Or can we continue—quiet!” Lut tensed, listening. There was a tinkling sound. They looked up and saw a few pebbles cascading down the rock wall. The pebbles showered down, a few of them bouncing painfully off heads, coming to rest on the ground. The round little stones unfurled like sow bugs and scurried away on tiny legs.
“What in Odin’s name is that?” Fulnir exclaimed.
“An unknown species of hard-shelled insect, I’d say,” replied Lut. “I’d like to grab one for my collection.”
A high, shrieking cackle echoed throughout the crevice. It seemed to come from above. Dane glimpsed a tiny, wrinkled face fringed with a wild fuzz of hair peering down at them from atop the crevice.
Then boom—boom—boom! came another cascade of spherical rocks. These were much larger, maybe half the size of a Viking shield—capable of crushing a human head. “Run!” Lut cried. They did, dashing for their lives up the tight passageway as the hail of deadly stones crashed down upon them, and only by sheer luck were they saved. Dane looked back and saw the “rocks” unfurl like the pebbles had and scurry away down the crevice floor, disappearing around a turn.
Another shrieking cackle came from abo
ve. “Care for another round of my roly-polies?” They could now see the wrinkled visage of an ancient she-dwarf leaning over the edge.
Lut cupped his hands and yelled up, “We come in peace to see Déttmárr the Smith!”
“He is close to death and will see no one. Go away!” Another of the “roly-polies” careened down, barely missing Dane, who leaped out of the way.
“I’m tired of these things!” Jarl said, drawing his sword. He hacked at its shell, but his blade just bounced off, and the mammoth insect unfurled and scurried away.
“If he is near death, let us pay our respects,” Lut yelled up. “We bring a special gift.”
“A gift? Is it gold?” said the she-dwarf eagerly, her interest piqued.
“Yes! We bring gold!” Lut lied. “Lots of it!”
“Well, why didn’t you say that before? Come forward!”
They hurried up the crevice, and before long they came to where it dead-ended at an ancient, massive door. Jarl pounded on it with the pommel of his sword. A small hatch opened at knee height and the she-dwarf barked from it, “Show me the gold!”
“I’ll be happy to if you open the door,” Lut said.
The she-dwarf paused like she was thinking it over. “This better not be a trick.” They heard a scrape. Slowly the door opened, revealing the face of the very tiny and very weathered old woman.
“Well? Produce the gold!” she rasped. Lut pushed in past her, as did everyone else, entering a low-ceilinged rock chamber lit by torches. It was a cozy-size living area about half the size of Dane’s own hut. It had pictures on the rock walls, a hearth fire, a table and chairs—albeit tiny ones—and ancient wooden shelves holding dozens of soapstone pots and jars filled with what Dane surmised were herbs and root vegetables and dried flowers and such. The place had a rather ripe odor, and looking around for the source of the smell, Dane saw a dozen or more roly-polies of various sizes penned off in an adjoining room.
“Trespass! Trespass!” she screeched. “Who gave you permission to enter?”
Ship of the Dead Page 7
