RuneWarriors (6 page)

Anxious to get on with it, Voldar gave a signal and the hornsman blew a ram's horn.

The crowd quieted. Voldar drew the Shield of Odin from its fur-trimmed sheath. He was about to rise with it when Thidrek himself abruptly took the Shield from his hands and held it aloft for all to see, wanting this moment all for himself. Voldar stayed seated, gazing at the Shield agleam in the sun as Thidrek moved it left to right, reflecting rays of sunlight off the disk and onto the people gathered on the field below. No sound was heard as every man, woman, and child fixed their eyes on the sacred talisman. Eldermen stood, straining to be hit with the light. Mothers raised babies into these gleaming flashes, believing that to be touched by this godly glitter—the very “light of Odin's Eye”—was to be bathed in its protective powers and blessed with good luck and good health as well.

Thidrek, it seemed to Voldar, was anxious for his own moment of glory, for he soon dropped the Shield into Voldar's lap and struck a regal pose. And, keenly attuned to the use of the dramatic pause, Thidrek gave his subjects time to gaze upon him in wonderment. When they'd been given a long enough look, he raised his arm and let his princely voice ring out.

“Let the games begin!” he cried. And so decreed, the competition commenced.

And great games they were! Archery and axe-throwing contests for both distance and accuracy. Tree-climbing and wood-chopping and spear-throwing. There were foot races and boat races and wrestling matches and rope-pulls. There were even ice-carving and cheese-sculpting contests for the less athletically inclined. The winner of each match moved on to the quarterfinals, the semifinals, and finally to the final finals.

The crowd saw amazing feats of athletic prowess. One young man could lift twice his weight in ox manure. Another could wrestle three men at once and pin them all. There was even a senior division, in which the elderly (those over forty years of age, long past their prime) were allowed to compete in contests more suited to their physical abilities, such as ale chugging and thumb wrestling.

There were also moments of lesser athletic prowess. During the river-cross—with men racing hand over hand along ropes suspended across a raging torrent of water—Drott the Dim had lifted a hand to wave to his mother on shore, fallen in, and nearly drowned. And in a tree-climb, Orm the Hairy One lost his footing and fell down onto Fulnir, who was clinging to a limb right below him, and they both went tumbling all the way to the ground, where they landed in a heap and lay moaning and writhing in pain, and had to be carried off and tended to. This, of
course, drew cheers from the raucous crowd, seeing others cry out and writhe in pain being the whole reason most folk watched sporting events in the first place. The other reason being to watch people actually die.

Perhaps most popular of all was Astrid, Mistress of the Blade, as she had come to be called. Looking fine and fetching in furred vest and blond braids, she put on a dazzling display of axe throwing that had the crowd on its feet. In speed, distance, or accuracy, no one could beat her, and by midafternoon she'd swept all five axe-throwing events, winning a standing ovation. Then, as spectators chanted for more, she began juggling her axes, spinning them up in the air two, three, four at a time, until finally she was juggling five axes at once, each sharp enough to slice off a finger in one false move. And then—just as the crowd thought she could do no better—she caught and threw them one by one backward over her shoulder and
thwik! thwik! thwik! thwik! thwik!
each axe sank into the side of a tree, forming the runic symbol, which represented her name.

The Blade Mistress had done it again! The place exploded in cheers! No one appeared more pleased than her father, Blek the Boatman, who looked on in pride, cheering a little too loudly at his daughter's prowess.

Thidrek took a keen interest too, telling Voldar that he thought Astrid possessed “remarkable poise and a pleasing shape.” She would make a fine serving wench, he went on to say, to cook and clean and polish a man's armor and
bring him a drink whenever he liked and work out the kinks in his back. Voldar agreed, saying the Blade Mistress's beauty was indeed a subject much talked about throughout the surrounding fjordlands, and adding that several men had already approached Blek with proposals to take her to wife, but her father had driven them off at spearpoint.

Dane gazed at Astrid with the kind of singular intensity and longing that only comes to one first in love or to a wolverine in heat. He cared dearly for the girl, and not a night went by that he didn't wish upon the stars and ask the gods to grant him the strength, charm, and musculature to win her affections and someday make her his wife.

But Astrid was no buttercup. Though she had feelings for Dane, she wasn't going to let him win her easily. Others sought her hand. Suitors from neighboring locales and even eligible young men from her own village had given her pause.

There was the good-looking Jarl the Fair, for example. And once or twice she'd entertained the notion of going with Orm the Hairy One, but the thought of all that braiding and combing had put her off. This, and his annoying habit of saving the heads of all the animals he'd killed. No, there'd be no easy way into her heart. To win her, a young man would have to prove himself worthy. She wasn't going to give in and give over to just any smooth talker who professed undying love. She knew that, for love to last, for it to grow and endure the various calamities of
life, a man must be made of harder stuff than talk. And though her affections were with Dane, he still had yet to prove that he possessed the kind of inner fire her heart told her she deserved in a man.

 

Dane fought hard to stand out in the day's contests, and by afternoon's end, it was down to him and Jarl in the final round. They were called out to the center of the field and stood side by side in the sun.

Jarl the Fair had great hair. Gorgeously long flowing locks that shone golden in the sun. He did a thing with it—tossing back his head to flip his hair off his forehead—and when he did the hair thing, the girls would squeal in delight and Jarl's toothy grin would grow wider, his muscles would bulge a bit bigger, and his chest would puff up ever so slightly. This made girls swoon all the more, which was the very effect he hoped it would have. This kind of display of vanity was known in the village as “doing a Jarl,” and no one could do it quite like him, what with his golden hair, his high cheekbones, and his high opinion of himself.

It drove Dane mad to see Jarl so full of himself. Boastful and brash and so arrogantly humorless! “What do they see in that guy?” he once asked Fulnir while out on a soul-searching walk.

“Great hair, good looks, a fine singing voice—”

“I
know
what they
see
in him! It was just a rhetorical question.”

“Oh. Right.” They walked on.

“What does
rhetorical
mean again?” asked Fulnir a few moments later, but Dane didn't answer.

 

Jarl and Dane stood side by side in the center of the field, preparing to face each other in the final round of competition.

“And now…”
the ringmaster's voice rang out,
“the final round!”
Jarl did the hair thing. Girls went wild. Even some men cheered. Jarl did a two-fisted “victory dance,” playing to the crowd and drawing more cheers. This dented Dane's confidence, until he caught sight of Astrid waving to him, and he waved right back. Jarl then threw her a wave of his own, grinning his perfect-toothed grin, and under his breath said to Dane: “She'll be my wife, y'know.”

Dane eyed Jarl and, keeping a smile on his face for the crowd, said, “She'll be
mine
or I'll die trying.” At that moment the ringmaster again called to the crowd.

“Jarl the Fair!…versus Dane the Defiant!”

Dane's friends on the sidelines cheered when they heard his name announced. Astrid did too, he noticed, as did Klint, who gave a
crawk!
of comment from high in the fir trees overlooking the field.

Jarl merely sneered. “Ooo, ‘Dane the Defiant,'” he said mockingly. “I'm
so-o-o
scared.”

Dane's cheeks burned in anger. He yearned to flatten Jarl right there and easily could have had the flag not been raised, signifying that the final event had begun.

They drew lots. Dane's hopes sank as he saw Jarl draw the long straw. It meant Jarl would choose archery. Dane was handy with bow and arrow, but Jarl was a master. There was no way Dane could win. Briefly, he entertained the notion that if he signaled to Klint, the bird could fly high in the air and knock Jarl's arrow off course. That would surely fix him, Dane thought, cheered by the idea of Jarl humiliated in defeat. But this, he knew, would be cheating, a thing strictly forbidden in Viking society. The Viking code of honor was a sacred bond, never to be broken. So Dane said not a word.

 

From his seat beside Thidrek, Voldar looked down in pride, silently imploring the gods to give his son strength for the final contest. Dane had greatly surprised him in getting this far. He'd thought the boy would surely be eliminated by now, believing him somewhat lacking in stamina. Yet there he was, his own flesh and blood, one of the last two standing. Perhaps Dane had it in him after all. The crowd went silent. The day's events would be decided by three shots: each man to let fly three arrows, and he who shot the farthest would be declared the winner. Voldar saw that Thidrek too had taken interest in the outcome; his lordship's gaze was fixed on the field.

 

Jarl and Dane took turns shooting arrows. And when it was over, the ringmaster pronounced it a draw: Each had
shot the same distance. Now it was a free shot; each man would do the trick shot of his choice.

Jarl shot first. He pointed his bow straight up in the air over his head and, holding his arm stock-still, let it fly.
Bzing!
Up, up it flew, disappearing, it seemed, into the clouds…and then down, down it came, speeding straight for Jarl. He moved not a muscle. The crowd gasped. His arrow was falling directly toward him; if he didn't move, he'd surely be killed. Then, at just the last moment, he thrust his bow aloft over his head and
thwwfft!
the arrow point sank into the wooden bow itself, stopping inches from Jarl's face.

Cheers went up! The spectators could scarcely believe it, and neither could Dane. He was beaten. He knew he had no trick shot to top Jarl's stunt. He dropped his bow and walked off the field, the villagers rushing past him to crowd around and congratulate the victor, their chants of “Jar-rl! Jar-rl! Jar-rl!” making Dane feel empty and small.

 

Astrid felt sick. She'd dearly wanted Dane to win. Feeling his pangs of dejection as if they were her own, she tried to find the words that might ease his pain. Pushing through the throngs of commoners, she was halfway to him when the crowd abruptly parted, and a tall commanding figure moved toward her.

It was Prince Thidrek, pinning her with his coal-black stare.

“
You
, young lady,” said Thidrek, “were magnificent. Allow me to congratulate you.” Curtsying, she offered her hand. He kissed it and said, “Do me the honor of dining with me tonight at the feasting?”

She eyed her father, then Thidrek. What could she do but accept? And by the time Thidrek withdrew, she looked round to see Dane was nowhere to be found.

 

Lut the Bent felt momentarily dizzy as the crowd swarmed round him, streaming toward the feasting tables. Where was Voldar? And how would he tell him of his awful premonition with so many people around? He'd wanted to take him aside and tell him at first light that morning. But he'd overslept, and by the time he'd risen and stretched and bathed and combed his beard and breakfasted on ale and salt fish, well, Voldar had been too involved in preparation for the festivities. Then Lut had been asked to say a blessing over the athletes and Thidrek had arrived, and then the games had begun and Lut decided he'd have to wait until later. But when? The longer he waited, the harder it would be. Wearied by the long day in the sun, his belly rumbling in hunger, he looked for a place he might sit down and rest. Yes, he would get his strength back. He needed his strength.

And then the crowd parted and there was Voldar, standing right in front of him, deep in excited conversation with a half dozen elders from the outlying villages, the men all
drinking with gusto and replaying favorite highlights of the day's games. Lut saw too that Thidrek himself was among them, joining in the joviality.

“Lut!” said Voldar, spotting the old one. “Great games, huh?”

Stepping forward, Lut cleared his throat and tried to speak.

“My friend—” he rasped. “I need a word.”

“A word?” Voldar said, playing up to the men. “I got a word—
bacchanal
! How's
that
for a word?” The men exploded in knowing laughter. Lut felt his nerve now faltering, acutely aware this was the worst moment possible for broaching such a delicate subject.

Then, noticing Lut needed to speak, Voldar said, “What is it, Lut?”

In a blink, everyone stopped talking. They turned to stare at the seer, waiting to hear what he had to say. But Lut couldn't speak. His mind went blank. His throat went dry. His insides quaked with hunger. The sky spun overhead. His thoughts were ablur. Lifting his gaze, he found Thidrek staring at him, the dark eyes drilling into his.

“It's about—your son…,” Lut blurted out.

“What about him?” said Voldar.

“I—I—”

“Well, out of with it, old man!” said Thidrek, drawing a laugh from the men. Lut's nerve then evaporated altogether.

And Lut said, “He played well today.”

“Yes, yes, that he did,” said Voldar. “Now to the feast.” And off he went with Thidrek and the others. Lut was only too relieved to see them go.