Sword of Doom (10 page)

Murmurs of disbelief ran through the room, Dane as shocked as everyone else that a mere stripling lad would be so brash as to imply his eminence the king was being miserly. King Eldred's cheeks darkened. He stared hard at the boy, but William didn't blink.

“No disrespect, sire,” William continued, “but you have to admit Godrek's head is worth at least twice that.”

The king's eyes bulged. “You have dangerous gall, boy!”

“
Three
times!” said Drott, coming to the boy's rescue.

“Yes, sire,” said Fulnir, chiming in. “It was you yourself who said Godrek was such a death merchant, a master of warcraft and—”

“Fine!” Eldred barked. “A thousand pieces for the man who brings me Whitecloak's head! Make it
two
thousand pieces! Not that I'll ever have to pay it!”

“You are a most generous king,” William said, bowing. “I will sing your praises to my dying day.”

“Pursue Godrek and that day shall arrive sooner than you think,” observed King Eldred the Moody.

A
gust of icy wind blew open his coat as Dane reached the top of the riverbank, still feeling a fierce pain in his arm from his fall down the crevasse. He set down the bucket of water he had brought for his horse and, pulling up his woolen hood, stood a moment, taking in the scene. A hazy sun hung low in the western sky like a shimmering bronze medallion. Looking southward, down the sparsely treed ridge line that ran alongside the winding river, he saw Fulnir, Drott, Ulf, and the others all spread in a line, tending to their horses and their own thirst as well. And he could still see, far on the southernmost horizon, the dot that was Skrellborg, the king's fortress whence they'd come.

All day they had ridden, and all of it uphill. Soon they would have to find a safe place to build a fire and camp for
the night, somewhere near the water but wooded enough as well. With winter coming on, ice had begun to form on either side of the river, growing wider and thicker the narrower the river became. He looked upriver, into the rolling hills that lay northward, past the tree line to the icy peaks beyond. Were they headed on the proper course? What would Godrek do to his mother? And what would happen when he did catch up with the man—how would he fare against one so heartless?

That morning they had set out on their journey from Skrellborg, following the runic inscriptions Dane had marked on the leather lining of his cloak. Deciphered by Lut, the message turned out to be a cryptic verse:

Though the words
Serpent's Mouth
had disturbed him, reminding him of his dream, Dane joined his friends in the daunting task of decoding the message.

“‘Travel east or west or south,'” said Fulnir, as they huddled in a circle outside the fortress, “‘and ye'll not see the Serpent's Mouth'?”

“Well, that's easy,” Astrid had said. “It means we go north.”

“But north of where? And what is the Serpent's Mouth?” asked Dane, remembering the sword hilt. “Does it mean the serpent on the sword itself? Or…” A frustrated silence had followed; no one seemed to know the answer.

Then Lut had spoken.

“My father's father, Umleth Blacktooth, was something of a fisherman. All day he spent in his skinboat, plying his trade up and down the waters of this very region. He was a bad fisherman, but he did love his rivers. Whether shallow or deep, marshy or swift, he loved them all.” The others had begun to roll their eyes, expecting another of Lut's rambling stories that went nowhere. Dane knew better.

“He would say that a river is like a person,” Lut told them. “And that each had a character all its own. Umleth named each river according to its own particular nature. If I'm not mistaken, the name he gave to the river that lies north of here was the Coiling Snake.”

“So the Serpent's Mouth is the end of the river,” said Dane, solving the riddle. “And when we reach the end, it's there we'll find the ‘moonless water.'”

“What about the facing-your-darkest-fear part?” asked Ulf. “Is that something we should discuss now, or—?”

Jarl threw back his hair and declared, “Let us hie to the hills! And may our blades find Godrek's head!” And without another word, they had mounted their horses and begun
the trek northward, Dane letting Jarl, Rik, and Vik ride out in front at first, to let them feel that they were somehow in charge. By noon, they had found the serpentine river and followed it to the spot where Dane now stood. He bade everyone remount and move on, wondering again what lay ahead.

Just before sundown, in a tiny grove of alder and pine beside a bend in the river, they stopped to make camp, everyone too weary to go on. Still atop his horse, Jarl began to give orders to the others. “You and you—gather some wood!” “You two—set up the tents!” “You there—get started with the meal!” Catching irritated looks from Ulf and Fulnir, Dane just shrugged as if to say that it was better for Jarl to be bossy about the little things than about anything really important.

Joining Drott and William in the woods, Dane began to help them collect wood for a fire, pulling down dead tree limbs and chopping them into kindling. He quelled their complaints about Jarl, complimented William on his diligence with his long-handled axe, and thanked him for his challenge to the king back in Skrellborg.

William grinned and said, “The king could well afford it.” And as Dane turned to begin work on another tree, he found Astrid was already there, chopping off the lower limbs with one of her hand axes. They worked together, side by side in silence, until Astrid finally spoke.

“It's sweet,” she said, nodding to William, “the way he
looks up to you. They all do, you know. They'd rather follow you than Jarl any day.”

“Even after my performance at Eldred's banquet?”

“You mean when you puffed up your heroics and became a vain, self-lauding ass?”

Dane smiled. “Exactly.”

“I think they forgive you.”

“Do you? I see you still wear the locket.”

She fingered the locket for a moment, thoughtful. “Do I have reason to remove it?”

“No. I'm more sure of
that
than ever.”

He held her look, the birdsong in the treetops all at once going still, and for a moment it seemed they were alone in the world, she and he enfolded in the glow of affection they felt for each other. And then the spell was broken by a clamor of voices from the camp.

As he and Astrid came back into the clearing, Dane could scarce believe his eyes. Beside the supply sled, surrounded by Lut, Fulnir, and the others, stood Kára, the very girl he thought he was finally free of. Wrapped in the finest white fox-fur hat and coat, she was complaining that she hadn't eaten all day and was so ravenous she would die for a plate of hot mutton stew. “The quicker the better,” she said, “and don't forget the vegetables. But no radishes or carrots; they don't agree with me—and no greasy meats, either; they're bad for my skin. Oh, and a double mug of mulled cider with just a pinch of cinnamon, and a clove or two if you have it.”

Rik and Vik stumbled over themselves to fetch it all for her. Seeing Dane approach, she threw her arms round him, kissing and hugging him so tightly, he had to pry himself free of her.

“Well?” Kára pouted. “Aren't you glad to see me?”

But before Dane could speak, Jarl arrived on the scene and erupted. “What is
she
doing here?”

Kára spun on Jarl, her eyes afire. “
She?
You will use proper language when addressing a princess!”

“Do forgive me,” said Jarl with a courtly bow. “Is
pompous brat
a better term?”

Astrid laughed. Kára now turned to Dane and ordered, “Put this man in chains for his impudence.”

“Princess, no one is putting anyone in chains,” Dane said. “In fact, we don't
have
any chains.”

“Well, you can just behead him.”

“Princess,” said Dane delicately, “might you perhaps tell us
why
you are here?”

She began to explain, rather melodramatically, how she hated her life in Skrellborg, could bear it no longer, and craving the company of real adventurers, she had hidden in the supply sled beneath the folded canvas tents. There she'd lain all day long, quietly enduring the bumps and lurches along the way, her mind alive with visions of what she would encounter in the days ahead.

“But what of your uncle the king?” Jarl growled. “When
he
discovers you missing, he'll know exactly where you went!
He'll send men after you—and no doubt blame
us
for your escapade!”

“My uncle will send no one. He left this morning to raise troops in the west lands. And he gave orders that no man remaining was to leave the fortress. By the time he returns, I'll be so far from home, there's no way he'll find me. Isn't it delicious?”

“It stinks!” Jarl bellowed. “You're just one more mouth to feed. A drain on our resources. Excess baggage that's just going to slow us down and make us more vulnerable than we already are!”

“Excess
baggage
!?” Kára seemed about to explode.

“You're going back,” Jarl said, “and if you refuse, I'll tie you to a tree and leave you here.”

“You just try it,” Kára shot back.

“Now where was that rope?” Jarl said, starting for the sled.

“I can easily tell Uncle you kidnapped me,” said Kára with an arched brow.

Jarl froze in his tracks. He looked in shock at Dane and the others. Would this mollycoddle be capable of such a bald-faced lie? “I will tell Uncle, ever so tearfully,” she continued, sniffing mock tears, “that you were angry with him for not sending troops with you. So you seized me—took me hostage—with plans to sell me and raise money for more men. Such treachery would never be forgotten, much less forgiven. For as long as you lived, there'd be prices on
your
heads.”

Kára stood there, arms folded, a proud, self-satisfied smirk on her face. Then Astrid spoke, casually running her finger along the sharp blade of her axe. “Perhaps you should consider
this
, princess. If you died out here and the wolves ravaged your pretty bones…who in Skrellborg would even know what happened to you?”

Kára held Astrid's unblinking stare. “I had thoughts of making you my maidservant, but you prove too coarse even for
that
lowly a position.” Astrid's eyes flashed, she raised her hand at Kára, and the girl rushed to Dane for protection, throwing her arms about him. “I am Princess Kára of the Skrellborg royal house!” she spat to all. “And I bid you build a fire—
now
—for I am cold!”

Dane just stood there, sheepish, Jarl and Astrid staring daggers at him. What was he to do? He looked to Lut for help, but the old one merely shrugged and tottered away, leaving it to Dane to figure out for himself. Yet another moment that made Dane hate being a leader.

 

Astrid lay awake in her tent, listening to the low murmur of the river, too upset to sleep. For hours she had lain there, turning this way and that beneath her furs, her mind astir.

That night they had debated what to do with the stow-away. Sending her back to Skrellborg would take horses and manpower, and their ranks were too thin already. Also there was her kidnapping threat to consider. Jarl argued that they should just hang her upside down from a tree and let the
wolves and wights have at her, but Dane had insisted that that was too harsh. At length it was decided: They had no choice but to take her along. And although Astrid knew there was no wiser alternative, she could not help but notice how hard Dane had argued for it.

What did he feel for this girl? She was silly and spoiled, it was true. But she was of uncommon beauty
and
a princess. Whoever won her might very well gain a kingdom and all its riches. Dane had assured Astrid that he still loved her; but now, with Kára in their midst, Astrid feared the brat would be tempted to use her enticements to try to turn Dane's head.

Astrid pushed it all from her mind, telling herself that it would work out. That they would save Dane's mother and get back safe and sound, and return Kára to Skrellborg where she belonged. But when at last she was just starting to drift off to sleep, she heard something. Footsteps? She peeked outside the tent, past the dying embers of the fire. Nothing. No one. All seemed quiet. But just as she was about to turn away, she saw a figure that looked to be a female approaching Dane's tent.

Astrid sat up in disbelief. Had Dane lied to her? Or was Kára acting on her own to force a rendezvous? Astrid got to her feet and threw back the flap of her tent. Upon hearing this, the figure froze. In an instant she turned and was fleeing toward the river. Astrid had her boots on in a wink and was out of the tent, determined to set this girl straight, princess or not.

Reaching the ridge that ran along the river, Astrid crept behind a tree and peered down at the water. What she saw took her breath away. The most magnificent horse she had ever laid eyes on: Monumentally tall and as white as pearls, he was most definitely not one of their mounts. Astrid now saw that the figure moving toward the horse wore a white-feathered cloak, and on her head a helmet of some kind.

Who on earth was this? A spy?

Wasting no time, Astrid was down the bank in a flash, and as the figure was climbing onto her horse, Astrid grabbed her from behind. The cloak came away in Astrid's hand. The girl gave a cry and tumbled backward into the wet grass. Astrid put a foot down onto her chest, which she saw was covered in gleaming armor. This was no girl, but a woman, with big green eyes and a fine bloom of jet black hair spilling out from under her winged helmet.

“Who are you?” Astrid demanded.

“No concern of yours!”

“I'll decide that. Why were you in our camp?”

Before Astrid could react, the woman grabbed her foot and flung her backward onto the grass with amazing power. In an instant Astrid was on her feet again—but the woman was gone! “Give me my cloak!” Astrid looked up, alarmed to see the woman was now seated on the horse—floating in midair over her head, well out of reach. The floating woman sighed with irritation. “No, I'm not real. You're asleep and dreaming.”

“You're…you're a Valkyrie,” Astrid gasped.

“I am but a phantasm of your imagination. The cloak! Give it up and I'll disappear.”

Astrid looked down and saw she still held the feathered garment and sensed she might have bargaining power. “I think I'll keep it.”