A dubious Mist took the crown, examining it. “Maybe I haven’t clearly described the goddess. Or, as we call her behind her back, Her Grotesqueness.”
“It won’t change her looks,” Astrid said, “but merely deceive her into believing she’s beautiful. Can you get me an audience with her?”
“An audience? You are insane. How would you explain your entrance to the underworld?”
Astrid hadn’t considered that. She thought for a long moment. “I’ll say I’m an emissary from Odin with a gift of peace.”
“That flimsy crown? Hel would take that ‘gift’ as an insult and throw you in the moat. No, the whole thing is impossible. You should leave now before you’re discovered.”
“I can’t, Mist.”
“But you must! Or you’ll be like me, trapped here forever.”
Astrid had to tell her the bigger reason why she had come. “There’s more at stake than Dane and my friends. The Norns say that Hel will unleash an army of the dead upon earth, with Thidrek leading them in his ship. I have to stop him.”
“So the Norns are behind this,” Mist said. “I should’ve known. They play with our lives, but in the end they don’t care what happens to us.”
“I’m beginning to think they do care. At least they don’t want our world destroyed.”
“It’s your world, not mine anymore,” Mist said. She started to weep again, then found strength to stifle her tears. “I won’t let Hel turn it into a place like this. I’ll take the crown to her.”
“No,” Astrid protested. “Eventually she’ll realize she’s been deceived. You’ll be blamed.”
“Good. Then at least the hag will know it was me who foiled her.” She gave her sly, crooked grin, the same one Astrid knew from when they were best friends, flying the skies together in service to Odin. Then Mist kissed her on the cheek and hurried away up the ravine, quickly disappearing into the gloom.
The dead were extremely curious. They pressed in around the Rune Warriors, their gray hands reaching out to touch them. To Dane their touch felt oddly insubstantial, like the light brush of a feather upon his skin. It even tickled a bit.
“Get away, will you!” an irritated Jarl shouted as they crowded in. “Back off!”
Dane was kneeling over Lut, who was sitting up, having just regained consciousness, although his eyes were glassy and he looked confused. “Where are we?’ he croaked.
“We’re in Hel’s moat,” Drott said.
“But at least we’re alive,” Fulnir said.
“Which is more than I can say for the other inmates,” Dane added.
Drott giggled as hands touched him. “Stop! It tickles!”
An ancient-looking soul with a long beard stepped forward and announced that his name was Gudmund. “Please forgive our forward manner. Many of us have not seen a living person for ages. Why are you here?” Dane told them how they had been captured, taken to the underworld, and now become Hel’s prisoners. “Well, I’d advise you to abandon all hope,” Gudmund said. “Besides, once you settle in, this place isn’t all that bad.”
“Sure, it’s a sunny paradise,” Jarl cracked. “When does the mead start flowing?”
“At least we’re not in the Lake of Fire,” Gudmund said. “You’ve seen it?”
“Can’t really miss it,” Jarl said. “See, it’s a lake that’s on fire.”
“The kind of men who killed me dwell there,” Gudmund said, “those who preyed on the weak and killed for plunder or just because they liked killing. I was leader of my village and bribed a raiding party to pass us by. But they murdered me and all my kin.”
“So that’s why you’re here?” Drott asked. “Because you bribed a gang of brigands?”
Gudmund hung his head in shame. “Perhaps had I been brave and fought them off, I would have gone to Valhalla.”
There was a sharp cracking sound as a flash of lightning lashed down, sparking the ground right near where Lut was sitting. Twenty feet above them on the bridge was a demon holding the whip handle. He stared down malevolently at Dane and his friends, as if the lash he’d given was just a taste of what was to come.
“You pig-faced goon!” Jarl shouted up to him. “Wait till I get you without that whip in your hand!” The guard whipped down again, missing Jarl but catching Fulnir across the shoulders. Chuckling to himself, the guard moved on.
Drott checked out the burn marks across his friend’s flesh. “It’s not deep. Does it hurt?”
“Nothing worse than a hundred wasp stings at once,” Fulnir said, grimacing.
“You mustn’t show defiance,” cautioned Gudmund. “It will only bring more lashes.”
“What are we to do?” Jarl said. “Just stand here and take it like sheep?”
“We have to,” Gudmund said. “We’re doomed.”
“Who says you’re doomed?” Jarl challenged. “You’re only doomed ’cause you think you are.”
“Coming through! Make a path!” said a voice. Horvik the Virtuous pushed up to the front. “What’s this about us not being doomed?”
“You’re a perfect example, Horvik,” Jarl said. “You don’t deserve eternal whipping by demons for what you did.”
“You’re right. I imagine maybe a day or two of whipping would take care of my sins,” Horvik said.
“What about the female souls here?” asked a stout woman soul. “We’re shuttled to Niflheim because we didn’t go off to war and die with a sword in our hands. Is that fair?”
“No!” shouted several nearby female souls.
“I was a thrall,” volunteered a young male soul, “like many here. We suffered on earth—must we suffer here, too?”
“No!” cried many of his comrades.
Jarl waded into the crowd, egging them on to rise up and fight. “Even in the underworld our friend is true to form,” Lut said weakly to Dane. “Whether souls are living or dead, his only instinct is to rouse them to rebellion.”
Dane smiled at the truth in that. He looked into Lut’s watery blue eyes that had lost the sparkle of youth. “Why did you do it?”
“Give Thidrek my years?” He heaved a deep sigh, as if mourning what he had sacrificed. “I read of my fate in the book.”
“The Book of Fate? You opened it? What did it say?”
“It said . . . I would die an old man. So here I am . . . old and ready to die.”
Dane’s eyes filled with tears. “No, I won’t let you.”
Lut smiled. “When I said ‘ready,’ I didn’t mean right now.”
“Oh . . . good,” Dane said, relieved. He heard a crawk! He looked up and saw his raven circling in the gloom above.
“It’s Klint!” shouted Drott. “He’s looking for us. Here, Klinty!” A sizzling lash from above caught Drott across the back and he cried out in pain. The demon guard was back, probably alerted by Jarl’s rabble-rousing. He whipped down again; Dane jumped in front of Drott to protect him and took the force of the lash across his raised forearm. The pain was searingly intense. The demon drew back the whip again—when a sharp shriek caused him to turn his head. Diving from above, Klint caught him at full speed in the face, his beak like a sword tip plunging deep into the demon’s eye. The guard stumbled back, lost his balance, and fell off the bridge into the moat.
“Get him!” cried Jarl. But Fulnir was already on the brute, pummeling his hideous boarlike face. The demon roared and threw Fulnir off. He grabbed for the handle of his whip that had fallen to the ground—but Horvik kicked it away, and it was grabbed by the thrall soul. For an instant the thrall stood there, gazing timidly at the whip in his hand, afraid to act.
Gudmund, of all souls, screamed at him. “Use it!”
The thrall reared back and whipped the lightning lash forward to where it wrapped around the guard’s legs, sizzling his hide. He bellowed in pain, falling to the ground. Then Jarl, Fulnir, and Drott attacked, pummeling the bestial thing’s face into a bloody pulp.
“Look out!” cried one of the souls, pointing to the bridge abo
ve, where another demon guard had appeared with a whip. The guard lashed down, but at the same time, the thrall soul whipped a lightning strike back up at him. The thrall’s lash caught the guard around the neck. The thrall gave a hard yank, taking the guard off the bridge and into the moat. He fell headfirst, and when he hit, his skull burst open like a ripe melon, spewing blood and brains.
The souls gazed in silent awe at the lifeless guards, shocked that the demons who had so brutally oppressed them now lay dead at their feet. “See what happens when you fight?” Jarl announced, clearly taking credit for the killing of the two demons. “Those two won’t beat you anymore.”
“But what do we do about the others who are sure to come?” asked one soul.
“And the fact that we’re still stuck in this moat?” said another.
The souls all started chattering among themselves, worried about the repercussions of killing the guards. Some voiced panicked fears they all would be thrown into the Lake of Fire. Gudmund held up his hand, bringing silence. “I’m sure this man did not incite us to fight,” he said, gesturing to Jarl, “without a plan that would save us from Hel’s wrath. Let him speak.”
Ashen faces gazed intently at Jarl. They were not aware—as Dane and the rest of the Rune Warriors were—that Jarl was best at stirring things up and doing the actual fighting. But when it came to any kind of strategic thinking? Forget it.
“Uh . . . well . . . uh,” Jarl began, his normal bombastic style of speech deserting him. “Look, I just got here. I can’t solve all your problems.”
“He’s doomed us!” cried the thrall soul. It appeared that Jarl was about to be swarmed by the angry dead when above them appeared a heaven-sent vision bathed in a golden glow.
“The gods be praised,” an awestruck Gudmund murmured, falling to his knees. “Have you come to take me to Valhalla?”
Horse and rider descended. “What? No, sorry. I’ve come for the live ones,” the Valkyrie said.
Chapter 23
A Magic Crown
William knew he didn’t belong here. He belonged with the rest of the Rune Warriors—not with Grelf, Thidrek, and the monumentally repulsive goddess Hel. It had hurt when Dane had said that he lacked the courage to be a Rune Warrior, though he realized Dane had only said this so Hel would spare him from death. But would death be worse than being thrall to Thidrek? He wasn’t rotting and full of maggots now, but his living state had not lessened his capacity for cruelty, William was sure. It helped that Grelf was with him. He thought he could even trust the man a little—but not to the point where Grelf would risk his own skin to save him from harm.
The four of them stood high up on a fortress parapet that afforded a view of the Lake of Fire. Hel raised her staff, pointed the orb end at the Ship of the Dead, which could be seen docked below, and proclaimed, “By my command, summon the cursed damned! Awake those who will venture forth to destroy the world of the living!”
William watched, transfixed, as the carved wooden creature on the prow of the ship came alive once more. The horn was brought to the creature’s mouth and a thunderous, deep bellow echoed across the lake. Three such blasts followed the first, and after the last bellow sounded, William saw what looked to be the heads of dragons slowly rise from beneath the fiery muck. There were hundreds of them—no!—thousands spread across the lake! What ungodly horde was Hel unleashing? As the heads continued to rise, William saw they were but the figureheads on the prows of Viking warships, a vast armada, summoned from the cursed depths. The ships rose and settled upon the lake, and to William’s horror he saw that at the oars were dead Viking warriors—those whose savage brutality had no doubt condemned them to reside in Hel’s worst place of punishment.
Realizing they had been raised and given new purpose, the thousands of ship-bound warrior dead cheered and began to bang their oar shafts in unison against the gunwales, chanting a war chant as their drumming grew ever louder.
“There is your army, Thidrek,” Hel intoned. “I free them to make war on the fools who worship Odin. They will follow the Ship of the Dead wherever it doth go. The Niflheim gate is open. Take them and deliver earth to me!”
“Yes, your majesty,” Thidrek said. “I shall leave at once.”
“Excuse me, your majesty,” said another voice. Everyone turned to see that one of Hel’s handmaidens had come onto the parapet. “A guard confiscated this from one of the Rune Warriors,” she said. “I thought I should bring it to you.” She came forward, and in her hand was a metal crown, tarnished and simply made.
Hel gave it a cursory glance. “Why do you bother me with such a crude trinket?”
“The one they took it from swears that he stole it from Skuld herself,” the handmaiden said.
This appeared to strike a chord of interest within the goddess. “Skuld, you say?” Hel took the crown in her hands, inspecting it. “That witch of fate has simple tastes. I’d never wear a thing so ugly.” She handed it back to the servant. “Away with you!”
The handmaiden started off, then hesitated. “May I keep it, then? The one who stole it says it has magic.”
“Magic?” said Hel, raising an eyebrow.
“It is said to enhance the beauty of one who wears it, your majesty. But since your, um, loveliness already has no equal, you would not need such help.” The handmaiden hurried away.
“Wait!” commanded Hel, and the handmaiden froze. “Bring it back.” She returned and Hel snatched the crown and placed it upon her head. Nothing changed. She was still as homely as a bullfrog’s butt. “Fetch the mirror!” she ordered.
“I have it right here, your majesty.” The handmaiden produced the mirror and Hel eagerly grabbed it, brought it up to her face—and gasped. Tears glistened in her viperish eyes. “You were right!” she said breathlessly. “I—I am . . . resplendent.”
William whispered to Grelf, who stood next to him, “What’s resplendent mean?”
Grelf whispered back, “It means dazzling.” They shared a confused shrug, for either Grelf was wrong about what resplendent meant or Hel had been bewitched to see beauty that wasn’t there.
Just then, Alrick the Most Merciless rushed onto the parapet. “My lord, the prisoners have escaped!”
Dane held on tight to Astrid as they soared high into the gloom upon Sleipnir. Below he saw Jarl and the rest of the Rune Warriors running out of the gates of the fortress at the head of a mass tide of the dead, liberated from the moat of souls. Demon guards rushed to stop them, using their lightning whips, but the souls were armed as well with the whips they had taken off the dead guards. Bright flashes of lightning erupted here and there as the crowd of the dead skirmished with the outnumbered guards, overwhelming them and taking their weapons. In the confusion, Dane saw his friends make it to the steps leading down to the Ship of the Dead. Now all he and Astrid had to do was to find William, because he was not leaving without the boy.
When he had first seen his beloved Astrid sitting atop Odin’s eight-legged steed hovering above them, his first thought was that it was a mirage spawned by Hel’s trickery. But then Astrid had set the gigantic horse down among them, and he saw—as did the dumbfounded others—that it really was her. His first instinct was to pull her from the horse into his arms and shower her with kisses. But her sharp command had brought him to his senses.
“Quick!” she had said. “Climb on Sleipnir and I’ll take you out of the moat. Drott, Fulnir, you two first!”
“You’re leaving us to face Hel’s wrath alone?” Gudmund had asked.
“Of course they are,” the thrall soul had said bitterly. “Why should the living care about us?”
“Go your merry way,” said another. “Give no thought to the suffering that is sure to be inflicted upon us when they discover two dead guards in our midst.”
“Which never would’ve happened if you hadn’t shown up,” said yet another.
“They’re really laying on the guilt,” Fulnir had said. “Isn’t there something we can do?”
Lut had an idea. He pointed to the wall of the fortress that abutted the moat. “If the workmanship is as bad as we’ve been told, a couple of kicks from the horse should knock that wall down into the moat. Then we can all climb out over the blocks.”
Astrid flew Sleipnir to the wall. “Stand clear!” she had shouted. It took only a couple of kicks with his four massively powerful back legs and the wall collapsed. The living and dead gave a loud cheer and immediately started scrambling up the rubble and out of the moat—all except Lut, who was so weak, he had to be carried by Fulnir. Dane joined Astrid atop Sleipnir, and Jarl led everyone else to storm out the fortress gates.
William and Grelf stood at the ramparts, watching the furious battle below between the dead and the demon guards. “What’s happening, Grelf?”
“I’d say young Dane and his friends have sparked a rebellion. Look! There they go!” He pointed beyond the fortress walls, where William saw the Rune Warriors escaping through the melee toward the steps that led down to the Ship of the Dead.
William’s joy at seeing his friends escape was abruptly tempered by the knowledge that they were leaving him behind. But they had to, didn’t they? They probably had one chance to save themselves, and that meant they could not come back to rescue him. Those were the hard facts, he knew, but he still felt the ache of abandonment. He wanted to cry, but that was what a little boy did, and he was not so little anymore. In his heart he knew he was a Rune Warrior—which meant he must be willing to sacrifice his life for the good of the others.
“There! Thidrek and the draugrs!” shouted Grelf, pointing. William saw the undead horde and Thidrek, Blade of Oblivion in hand, rush out the fortress gates in pursuit, battering their way through the mass of the dead fighting the demon guards. William looked ahead and saw Drott, the last of his friends, disappear down the steps.
William wished he had done something to stop Thidrek, or at least delay him. But, in truth, what could he have done—tackled Thidrek before he rushed out? That would have delayed him for only an instant.
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