Ship of the Dead

by James Jennewein

  “You do not turn your back on us!” screeched Urdr.

  “You insolent child!” spat Verdandi. “How dare you!”

  Astrid said nothing as she reached Vali. She whispered in her mount’s ear. “Now they are losing their heads.”

  “Astrid!”

  She turned and saw the Fates standing before her. Their faces were contorted in angry disbelief that a human would show them such defiance. “Your audience with us is not over,” fumed Skuld.

  “Really? Then why am I leaving?” Astrid boosted herself atop Vali. Seeing that Astrid was calling their bluff, the harpies immediately adopted a sweeter tone.

  “Dear child,” Verdandi cooed. “You mustn’t take offense at our jests.”

  “We meant no harm,” purred Urdr. “It was all in fun.”

  Astrid jumped down to the ground. “I’m on to you, sisters. You arranged my conviction so I would come here, begging for your help. When all the while you need my help.”

  The Norns shared a conspiring look. Whispers passed between them. It seemed they were in argument, because the whispers started to grow heated in nature. Finally, Skuld made a curt gesture with her hand, ending the argument, and turned to Astrid again.

  “The future you saw in the pool is not of my making,” Skuld admitted reluctantly.

  “Not of your making?” Astrid said. “But . . . I thought you created all destinies.”

  “Thidrek is the poison in our stewpot,” said Urdr. “He is not living, therefore we cannot control his fate. And the destinies of all those he touches become corrupted too.”

  “Does that mean the future I saw in the pool can be changed?” Astrid said, grasping at hope.

  “Yes,” said Skuld.

  “But how? Tell me what I must do to make it so!”

  “There are two labors you must perform,” Skuld said. “One easy, one difficult. First, you must steal Odin’s horse.”

  Astrid stood there, not quite sure she had heard this correctly. “Steal Odin’s horse?” The Norns nodded. “You want me to break into the Asgard stables and steal the favorite animal of our most powerful god.” The three nodded. “Well! At least that’s the difficult labor, right?” The three looked at her. Astrid had a sinking feeling. “R-right?”

  Chapter 17

  Death to Draugrs

  Riding along the coastline in the early afternoon, Dane and his party arrived at a small village, a handful of ramshackle huts hunched along the shore. Grelf assured them that the Ship of the Dead lay just three leagues north. They had ridden hard all day, so Lut ordered that they rest and feed their exhausted mounts before setting off on the final leg of their journey.

  Grelf hopped down from the horse he shared with Drott and announced, “Having brought you so close to your destination, I have fulfilled my duties as guide. I now bid you good-bye and wish you all very merry draugr hunting.” He started to scuttle away when Jarl grabbed his collar, jerking him back.

  “Off to find Thidrek and tell him where we are?” Jarl asked.

  “In good faith I’ve led you here—and still you don’t trust me?” Grelf asked indignantly.

  “I’d sooner trust a Berserker with my sister,” Jarl said. “You’re coming with us—all the way.”

  An enterprising villager who came forward with a basket of food to sell to the weary travelers spoke up. “You’re hunting draugrs, you say?”

  Lut told him they were seeking the fabled Ship of the Dead that was said to be buried nearby with a full complement of draugr warriors. “Another draugr named Thidrek seeks to awake these undead men so the ship may sail again. We have come to destroy it before that can happen.”

  The food vendor’s face darkened in dread. “We have heard of this cursed ship. Come! Our völva will advise you.”

  Dane knew that a völva was a female shaman known for her galdra, or magic abilities. Another name for such a practitioner of the dark arts was witch, and as the food vendor led them to her hut, Dane expected to see some sinister-looking ancient crone with hairy warts, missing teeth, and a hooked nose. Instead, as they were led in, Dane beheld a handsome woman in fine dress who bade them take seats on the furs laid out on the floor. The hut itself was neat and orderly, with lighted candles giving off a pleasing scent. the bewitchery said a sign above the door, and Dane noticed she had her fees posted on the wall. One price for standard spells, potions, and elixirs, another for what she termed “designer enchantments.” She was even running a two-for-one special.

  “The Ship of the Dead is no ordinary craft,” the völva explained after she had poured them each a cup of herbal tea. “Hel has bewitched it to resist fire and ordinary weapons.”

  “Then how do we destroy it?” Dane asked.

  “You must destroy its crew,” she answered. “Without them, the ship cannot sail.”

  “Kill the draugrs, you mean,” Jarl said with a smirking look aimed at Dane. “Like with a special blade we used to have?”

  “A draugr who is up and about is indeed difficult to destroy,” the völva said. “But asleep in its crypt, the creature is greatly weakened. That is when you must strike—not with blades, but with magic.” She explained that—by employing her own proprietary blend of ingredients in a recipe known only to her—she could make a special brew that when poured into the mouth of a sleeping draugr would guarantee to turn the undead creature into a fully dead one.

  “Perfect,” said Lut. “Can you get started right away? We’re in a hurry.”

  “For right away,” she said, “there’s an additional ten-percent right-away charge to my normal fee.” Lut tried to negotiate her down, but she said her prices were fixed by the Guild of Völvas & Shaewives, a labor cooperative formed by the many soothsayers in the area. Everyone had to empty their pockets—including an unwilling Grelf—but they managed to scrape together enough, and she immediately began work.

  “How many draugrs need killing?” she asked. “My standard recipe serves five.”

  “I would say there are twenty,” Grelf said, “give or take a draugr.”

  “I’ll make an extra-large portion, just to be safe.” Dane watched with interest as she began by pouring rainwater into a stewpot over a fire. “The rainwater must be new—not more than a day old,” she said, “so it still retains the freshness of the heavenly spring above from which it came.” To this she added a pinch of this and a splash of that from the scores of clay jars in her apothecary, careful to conceal from view exactly how much of each ingredient she was using. After the concoction was left to boil a short time, the völva took a spoon and tasted it, smacking her lips. “Mmmm, now that’s draugr-killing goodness.” The brew was poured into a small watertight cask and sealed with a cork. She then gave Lut the kit bag of accessories: a prying tool, a leather funnel, a needle, and a spool of thread. “Pry open the mouth, put the spout of the funnel in, and pour in the brew. Then quickly seal up the mouth by sewing it shut. Then stand back.”

  “Stand back?” said Lut

  “I’d recommend it,” said the völva. “Thank you—come again.”

  Soon after, the party set out north along the coast and by sundown reached the river that flowed into the sea. They tethered their horses on the beach and in darkness crept inland along the river. A hundred yards from the waterfall they took cover behind a large boulder.

  Now, just a short walk from where the draugrs were said to dwell, cold dread gripped Dane. It had always spooked him to be near burial grounds. Of course, most graves were filled with the normal type dead who just lay there. What they faced in the cave was far worse—the kind of corpse that could jump up and bite your face off.

  Grelf had told them how, after the chieftain draugr had nixed Thidrek’s offer, all of them had dived back under the soil to sleep in their graves again. Were they still sleeping? Or had Thidrek arrived at the ship already and roused them once more?

  “Ready to do this?” Lut asked him.

  “Is ‘no’ an acceptable answer?” Dane gave a grim smile.
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  “It’s the answer we all would give,” Lut said, smiling back. “But we’ve come all this way . . .”

  “Right,” Dane said. “And we paid so much for the draugr-killing brew. Be a shame to waste it.”

  “You two finished with the clever back-and-forth?” Jarl said, itching to get to the action.

  Lut led them out, carrying an unlit torch, its head wrapped in an oilskin cover to protect it from the spray of the waterfall. Grelf had to be prodded with Jarl’s sword tip before he fell in line. Fulnir and Drott trailed, carrying the cask of the völva’s brew and accessory bag. Before long they were at the base of the mountain beside the falls. They crept along the wet rocks and soon slipped behind the waterfall, finding themselves at the mouth of the pitch-black cave.

  Holding his sword at the ready, Dane found his nerves were stretched tight, fearing something was about to spring out from the dark. Beside him, Jarl, too, was armed and on edge.

  Lut removed the oilskin cover and lit the torch with his flint. The fire took hold, filling the chamber with light. As Grelf had described it, the cave was enormous. And thankfully, no shield wall of ferocious draugrs faced them. Dane and Jarl relaxed a bit.

  Lut brought the torch down to the ground. In the sand could be seen two sets of footsteps leading in and out of the cave. Lut asked Grelf to place his foot over the smaller print. It matched. There were no other footprints, which meant no one had been in the cave since Grelf and Thidrek. If luck was with them, the draugrs would still be slumbering and vulnerable. The little group went deeper into the cave and it grew eerily quiet, the only sound the muffled shuffling of footsteps through the sand.

  A monstrous, fanged beast rose up in front of them. Dane gasped and stepped back, as did Jarl. Their swords came up, ready to attack.

  “Wait!” Lut said. He held the torch higher, casting more light on the beast, revealing it to be the ship’s figurehead, a reptilian catlike thing with long, spiky fangs. In its paw was clutched the horn Grelf had described.

  “Almost l-l-looks alive,” said Drott between hiccups.

  “Grelf, where are the graves?” Dane asked.

  Grelf indicated an area that lay within the hull of the buried ship. Dane, Jarl, and Lut hurriedly started digging with shovels purchased at the völva’s village. Fulnir and Drott readied the draugr-killing materials.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Drott said. “Exterminating draugrs could be a lucrative business.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Fulnir said. “We could travel round in a wagon with a big sign that says, ‘Got Undead?’”

  “That’s catchy.”

  “I’ve found one!” Jarl hollered. “Bring the brew!”

  Drott and Fulnir hurried over with the cask and accessories. Dane and Lut stopped their shovel work and watched Jarl clear away the earth from the body he’d exposed. Like Thidrek, the draugr was in a half-decomposed state. Its skeletal hand clutched a rusted sword, and on its chest lay a Viking shield, the limewood now moldy with rot. Dane had seen corpses before, and this thing appeared to be exactly that: a putrid shell devoid of life.

  Fulnir and Drott kneeled next to the body. “Prying tool,” Fulnir said, holding out his hand. Drott slapped the wedgelike tool into his palm. Fulnir thrust the end between the draugr’s teeth, prying open its jaw. “Funnel.” Drott gave him the funnel, and Fulnir jammed the spout end into the open mouth. “Dispense brew.” Drott now poured a measure of the liquid from the cask into the funnel. There was a gurgling sound as the liquid trickled down the draugr’s throat. “You can close,” Fulnir said. Drott took the needle and thread and wasted no time sewing the draugr’s mouth shut. The job done, they all stared at the draugr, expecting something to happen.

  “The völva said we should stand back,” Lut said.

  They all took a couple of steps back. And waited. The draugr lay there looking no different than before. “Maybe you didn’t put in enough,” Jarl said.

  “Look, we know what we’re doing,” Fulnir said.

  “We’re the draugr-killing experts,” said Drott.

  Jarl rolled his eyes. “I still think it needs more—”

  The draugr exploded, spewing out a vomitous stew of rotten flesh and entrails that splattered against shirtfronts and faces. For a moment they all stood there, stunned, covered by the disgusting gore. Dane spied a lone eyeball perched on Lut’s shoulder. He flicked it away with a finger. “A little less on the next one, hmm?”

  “Greetings!” said a familiar voice behind them. They whirled to see Thidrek standing before the prow beast, holding a bound and gagged William, the Blade of Oblivion pressed to the boy’s throat. Beside him was Grelf, wearing the chagrined look of a man who has been forced to change his loyalties once again. “My loyal and trusted servant has done an excellent job leading you into my trap. Good work, Grelf.”

  Grelf gave a sheepish nod. “I am honored to serve you, my lord.”

  “He informs me you’ve been killing my kind in a most unsporting way,” Thidrek said.

  Dane drew his sword, “Let’s make it sporting. You and me.” He took a step toward Thidrek, who pressed his blade deeper into William’s flesh, causing the boy to stiffen in pain.

  “Stay where you are!” Thidrek ordered. Dane stopped. “Fool, have you forgotten your weapons cannot scratch me?”

  “Five wolves can kill a bear,” Lut said, drawing his sword, as did Jarl, Fulnir, and Drott. “It may take a while, but we’ll get the blade.”

  “Another step, this pup sees Hel,” Thidrek warned. “How she’ll delight in his cries of pain.”

  Dane saw fear in William’s eyes—but also acceptance of his fate. As if the boy were giving them permission to attack. Dane gave Lut a searching look. What do we do?

  In that moment of indecision, Thidrek whispered something in the prow beast’s ear. The thing came alive; Dane stared, transfixed, as the beast brought the horn to its mouth. . . .

  “Run!” Lut cried.

  An earsplitting blast sounded. From out of the holes that Dane and Lut had dug sprang draugr warriors— rusty weapons and rotted shields in hand, their decomposed faces set in a furious death’s-head grimace. A score or more of them shot from the sand like fleas leaping from a dog’s back.

  They gave blood-curdling war cries and attacked.

  Almost instantly their shields disintegrated and their corroded weapons were shattered by the strong steel blades wielded by the Rune Warriors. But steel had no effect on the draugrs themselves—the blades seemed to magically pass right through without leaving a mark. The undead warriors bore in, stabbing with their broken blades, backing Dane and his friends toward a cave wall. If they should be cornered there, Dane knew, the draugrs would take their time, wear them down, and kill them.

  And then it got worse.

  A hulking draugr in a tarnished bronze helmet topped with an eagle’s head—the chieftain Grelf had described—shouted out, “Agi! Geilir! Jorkell!” From beneath the sand leaped three monstrous creatures.

  Draugrhounds.

  Dane’s knees went weak. He felt his heart implode and sink into the pit of his stomach. He’d never beheld something as ghastly, as malefic. Each of their bodies, head to tail, appeared to be a suppurating wound, with patches of black fur and bone poking out here and there. Their pointed ears lay flat against their skulls, and the red, crusted flesh around their massive jaws was pulled back in what looked like savage, pitiless leers. Even the draugr warriors appeared terrified of them, for they immediately ceased their attack and stood aside to let the hounds have at the enemy.

  Issuing deep, guttural growls, the creatures fanned out and came slowly, heads low, their yellow bloodshot eyes locked on their prey. Jarl made a quick slash with his sword at one—but his blade passed harmlessly through as if the hound were nothing but a reflected image upon water. Dane and his friends were forced back, and soon they could go no farther. Solid rock was behind them, and draugr warriors blocked escape right and left. The faces of the warrior
s were alight with bloodthirsty anticipation, as if they couldn’t wait to witness the slaughter. The hounds paused a few feet away, and Dane saw their haunches tense and he knew the next instant they would spring. In that last instant Dane said a silent prayer that Astrid would find his soul and they would be together once again.

  “Call them off!” a voice commanded.

  The hounds’ ears pricked up. Their growling heads whipped around to see who dared meddle in their blood feast.

  Blade over his shoulder, Thidrek came forward with the confident air of a king strolling into his own court.

  “If it isn’t Lord Thidrek,” said the draugr chieftain with scorn. “And how your ranks have grown. Did you think a measly five warriors were enough to seize my ship?”

  “They’re no warriors of mine. In fact, their deaths would please me to no end.”

  “Well, then, I’ll let my hounds finish them.”

  The chieftain went to raise his hand to signal his beasts to attack when Thidrek said, “Please—I’d rather they didn’t die now.”

  The chieftain was losing his patience. “Bah! I’m in no mood for mercy!”

  “Neither am I,” Thidrek said. “For a quick death here is mercy. I have different plans. I am taking your ship and them to Niflheim. Hel has rather ingenious ways to make death anything but merciful.”

  “Taking my ship? This again?” The chieftain gave a sharp laugh. “I’m sure you’ve brought me signed orders from the goddess?”

  “Here are my orders.” Thidrek jumped forward, swinging the Blade of Oblivion. And fzzzt! The axe caught the chieftain in the left shoulder, slicing diagonally downward, exiting at his right hip. White sparks flew from the wound, and the chieftain had just enough time to register an expression that said, This can’t be good, before his entire body exploded in white-hot fire. A moment later there was nothing left, just a sprinkling of fine ash that settled to the ground and the echoing, dying shriek of a soul sent packing to the realm of eternal suffering.

  So stupefied were the draugr warriors by the abrupt, violent exit of their leader, there were a few whose eyeballs literally popped out of their sockets. A draugrhound, perhaps incensed by his master’s demise, ran and leaped at Thidrek. Fzzzzt! Thidrek cut off the beast’s head in midleap—and an instant later Dane saw its ashes floating to earth. Thidrek glared a warning at the two remaining hounds, and they slouched to the ground in whimpering submission.