Sword of Doom (16 page)

She fell into the old man's arms, more tears came, and the story spilled forth. About Mist and the Norns. Everything. And choking out the words through her tears, she told him the worst of it. If Dane was to die, when the time came she would be given a choice: To save his life she would have to pledge her own instead. And for nights now she had been unable to sleep, tortured by the question she soon would have to answer: Whose life was more important, hers or his?

Lut held her at arm's length. His eyes were wet and he let out a deep, mournful moan. “Oh, child,” he said, barely able to speak, and she fell into his arms again and stayed for a time, sobbing out her tears.

 

Geldrun's roan, Freyja, chestnut and white, was much smaller than the brutish mounts bred for battle that Godrek and his men rode. During the journey, these warhorses had tried to have their way with Freyja, biting and bullying her. But the little roan would have none of it, using her teeth and sharp hooves to give back in kind. Freyja was brave, but also calm and dependable, qualities Geldrun needed the night she escaped, for the trail was strewn with rocks and pitfalls, and she had to trust that her mount would not be spooked by shadows or a sudden hoot from an owl. Still, the going was slow, and when the dark veil of night lifted, Geldrun quickened the pace, riding as fast as Freyja would abide, for she knew Godrek and his men were already on her trail. And their horses were trained to ride hard for days, if need be, to relentlessly hunt down an enemy. Freyja was simply not capable of galloping without stop for long distances. She was game and gave it her all without complaint, but Geldrun had to often stop to give the horse respite.

Late in the day she dismounted and broke the ice on a stream so Freyja could drink. Giving the animal rest, Geldrun climbed a steep rise that afforded a view to the south for leagues. All there was to see was the harsh terrain of mountains, rocks, and snow she had traversed before. Had Ragnar lied to her? Was Dane out there somewhere, or was she riding into a wilderness in which she could not possibly survive alone? Despair overtook her, and she felt her escape foolish and impulsive. Just as her agreeing to go away and
marry Godrek had been. How blind she had been not to see his true motives!

In the midst of berating herself for all that had gone wrong, she glimpsed something moving far in the distance. Something big…no,
gigantic
. A frost giant! Yes! And it seemed to be pulling something behind it…perhaps a sled of some kind? Then she saw horses and riders, and knew the frost giant was Thrym and that Dane was with him.

T
he five men on their mounts crested a ridge. It was nearing nightfall, they had ridden all day without rest, and their horses were glistening with sweat. Man and animal alike were hard-bitten warriors, accustomed to pushing themselves past exhaustion in the pursuit of prey, for their leader never gave up, never retreated until he had either killed or captured what he was after. And he expected no less from those in his service.

In the dim light, movement in the rocks below caught Godrek's eye. It appeared to be the roan, maybe a league up the trail. He saw a figure on foot, hurriedly mounting the horse. For a moment she looked his way, and he was sure she saw them, silhouetted on the ridge, for she immediately spurred her horse and took off at a gallop.
The pursuers spurred their mounts on, the heady scent of the chase filling the nostrils of both man and beast.

 

Geldrun knew her only hope was to reach her son before they ran her down from behind. Once they saw the frost giant, either they would turn back or, if they chose to fight, their weapons would be useless against a gigantic man made of ice. Thrym would crush them.

As if sensing new urgency, Freyja, tired but game, raced south, her golden mane and tail flying. When Voldar had presented Geldrun with the horse, he'd suggested naming her Shining Mane, after the steed that pulls the chariot of the sun across the sky. But Geldrun chose the name of her favorite deity, Freyja, the golden-haired goddess of love.

She heard a hiss and saw a white-fledged arrow fly over her head. She knew it was a warning shot, a message telling her the chase was over; they were close now and there was no escape. But with safe harbor so near, she was not about to stop. She rounded a turn on the trail and spied Thrym in the distance, the soft amber light of the setting sun coloring his ice-clad body. She was only a half league away now, but it was too dark for Dane and the others to see her.

Another arrow flew by. She heard hoofbeats thundering ever closer behind her. And then she was panicked to see Godrek himself coming up beside her on the right, riding his coal-black stallion. At full gallop she rammed Freyja
into his horse, trying to knock him off the trail and into the ravine below. Both horses stumbled, Godrek's massive war mount veering into her little roan, biting her neck in fury. The roan's teeth flashed, biting back the stallion on the soft, tender flesh of his nose. Godrek leaned in and grabbed her reins, trying to pull up the mount. Geldrun fought him with her fists and went to draw her knife from her belt, when a vicious backhand from Godrek sent her tumbling off Freyja to the ground.

She lay dazed for a moment, then got to her feet and ran, screaming,
“Dane! Dane!”
Godrek leaped from his mount and caught her, wrestling her back to the ground. His men rode up, Thorfinn gasping, “Lord, look!” All eyes followed his petrified gaze. There in the dusky light they saw the colossal monster down the trail in the distance.

“Frostkjempe!”
Svein uttered, touching the Thor's Hammer amulet around his neck.

All the men looked stricken with terror, even Godrek. Geldrun tried to call out again, but Godrek clamped a hand over her mouth. She was quickly dragged away, her mouth stuffed with cloth, and was lifted back atop Freyja. Godrek made sure the arrows they shot were collected, so as to not give away they had even been there. Her hands were tied to the saddle and the reins given to one of Godrek's men to lead the horse away. Godrek gave the order to retreat, but half his men were already galloping away, fleeing in fear of the frost giant.

 

Dane heard a cry in the distance. He ordered everyone to stop so the air was not filled with the sounds of horse hooves and the loud scraping of the log sled over the trail. He listened for it again, hearing nothing but the brush of cold wind on his face.

“What is it?” asked Jarl.

“It sounded like someone calling my name.” They heard the distant cry of what sounded like an eagle.

“Bad omen,” Jarl said. Dane shot him a questioning look, and Jarl explained, “Well, you know, ‘feed the eagle' means to die in battle. So if you hear the bird call your name, you're maybe going to die.”

“Thanks for sharing that with me,” Dane said.

“Next time I see an omen, I'll keep it to myself,” Jarl said tartly.

“You do that, Jarl.”

Was it an eagle's cry, or had his burning desire to see his mother again made him
think
he'd heard her call to him?
Was
she near? He wanted to press on, but darkness was upon them, another storm was approaching from the west, and they had to make camp for the night.

 

Ragnar kept wondering when and if Geldrun would reveal his complicity in her escape. After they had captured her and retrieved the rune sword, he tried to covertly meet her eyes a few times while they rode away from her son's party and
the frost giant. Her return look was sullen and hostile, which only increased his disquiet.

She was tied to a tree when they returned to camp so she could not escape. Godrek went and spoke alone to her. Although unable to hear much of their conversation, Ragnar did catch a few of her loud curses. Godrek stood, and his hard eyes found Ragnar across the camp. In that instant Ragnar thought his only chance of escape was to run to his horse. But he saw it was picketed with the other mounts and knew that by the time he got it free, he'd be cut down. Why had he shown mercy to her? Didn't he
know
mercy always makes trouble for a warrior? Godrek was now walking toward him, and he thought it a good time to compose his death poem.

Though it was still a bit rough, he knew there'd be no time for revisions as he saw Godrek striding toward him, and he girded himself for the thrust of his lord's blade.

“Guard her—never let her out of your sight,” Godrek said as he walked past. Ragnar's guts unclenched. His feelings of relief were momentary, however, for soon he realized she still held the proverbial axe over his head—and could spill the
beans about him yet. Well, at least now he'd have time to work on a second draft of his death poem.

At
náttmál
he brought her food and untied her hands so she could eat. He spoke in whispers and turned his head so the others, eating round the campfire, could not see he was talking with her. “Why have you not told Godrek?”

“Because you will help me escape,” she whispered back.

“Again? Have you not noticed there are only eleven liegemen? Godrek executed the sentry who was supposed to be watching you last night.”

Her eyes flashed concern. “But I drugged him. It wasn't his fault—”

“Matters not to Godrek. I'll be dead, too, if I help you again. Or if you tell him what I did the first time.”

As Ragnar turned to leave, she whispered, “The rune sword—why does he need it?”

“It leads to great treasure. Enough to make him invincible.”

“But why does he need
me
? Why can't he let me go?”

Ragnar shook his head and started away.

“Tell me!” she whispered loudly. “Or shall I call Godrek?”

Ragnar glanced at the men at the campfire, hoping she hadn't drawn their attention. “
This
is what I get for aiding you? What—I'm just an ugly brute that you threaten?”

She looked away for a moment; then her eyes returned to him. “Forgive me. I'll not do it again.”
Was
she sorry, or
merely playing him? Realizing that if he were in her place, he'd say or do anything to gain his freedom, he decided to tell what he knew. “To unlock the treasure, Godrek needs a woman's blood.”

He read the shock on her face. “
My
blood?”

“It has something to do with the rune sword. That's all I know,” he said, and hurried away.

Later, Thorfinn took sentry duty and the others bedded down to sleep. Since it was Ragnar's duty to guard Geldrun, he made a place near her. She was shivering, so he took one of his blankets and wrapped it round her and made her as comfortable as possible, even though she remained tied up.

“You're not like the others,” she whispered.

“What,
they're
easier to look at?”

“Very touchy about that scar.”

“It's what people see.”

“Some people. I see other things. Like you, off by yourself, writing in your book.”

“You're mistaken,” he whispered brusquely. “I cannot write or read.”

“Why do you keep it a secret?”

“Do you want me to gag you? I'd like to get some sleep.” Ragnar settled into his blankets. It was cold, and he wished he hadn't given her his heaviest one. This mercy business was getting out of hand. It was vexing him plenty, and more so now that she had another arrow aimed at his head. She knew his secret.

It had begun two seasons ago, when he and the rest of Godrek's troop were raiding and burning a Saxon town. Mid plunder, he happened to look down and see a leather-covered rectangular item lying there. He knew the name of this thing—men called it a “book.” He opened its pages and was stunned by the lifelike drawings, beside which were figures he knew to be “writing.” He wanted to know the meaning of these figures, so over the following winter he asked a Saxon thrall to teach him how to read and write.

For his entire adult life he had been an illiterate warrior, but now a more exciting and fascinating world stretched before him. This was not the world of a mindless, duty-bound warrior, of course. Reading made a person think, and thinking led one to ask questions. And a liegeman who questioned his lord's orders was dangerous and subversive. For his own safety, he kept silent about his newfound abilities.

“Do you pen poetry, Ragnar?” she whispered.

“I
will
gag you if you continue to speak,” he hissed. From then on she lay still. His mind then wandered to his death poem, and he started his revisions.

 

Dane felt his stomach lurch as he looked down the sheer rock face of the mountain. He and Jarl were suspended on ropes slung like a necklace round Thrym's neck as the giant climbed upward, using his massive hands to grab purchase on the mountain's rocky crags. Dane looked over at the
grinning Jarl, who seemed to be enjoying the experience.

“I bet no one's
ever
been this high!” Jarl marveled. “They look like ants down there!”

Dane fought the urge to spew. The rest of their party was waiting below, and he was quite sure they wouldn't want bits of vomit raining down upon them. That kind of thing could ruin someone's day and even break up friendships.

They had been journeying two days since Dane had thought he heard his mother call his name. The trek had carried them deeper into the frigid abyss of Jotunheim, with no sign of Godrek's party. Without even a horse's hoofprint seen on the frozen ground, Dane began to doubt they
were
on Godrek's trail.

“Is it possible,” Dane asked Thrym, “Godrek has taken a different route?”

Thrym gently shook his giant head and said, “No, if he's going to Utgard, this is the only way there from the south.”

During the journey, as they drew closer to the frost giant fortress, Dane had detected a growing apprehension in Thrym. He knew about Thrym's crime—that he had accidentally caused a female frost giant, his beloved, to go below the snow line. She had died, and he was convicted of involuntary death by melting. Since then the exiled giant had lived alone, far from his kind, doomed to forever be without love. Well, until Astrid had shown up, that is, but that hadn't worked out too well either, for obvious reasons.

Thrym reached the crest of the cliff and pointed north.
They gazed across a thickly wooded valley to see a sheer wall of white rock, gleaming in the sun, curved and rising up out of the trees, the sides of it so smooth and sheer, they seemed impossible to climb. And the top of it rose so high that the peaks disappeared into the very clouds themselves.

Dane and Jarl stared for a moment, too entranced to speak. Thrym explained that what they were seeing was but the outer wall of the frost giant realm, that Utgard, the fortress itself, lay inside this mountain crater.

For once Jarl was silenced, greatly humbled by the sight.

“It's a fortress within a fortress,” Thrym said.

“So how do we get in?” Dane asked.

Thrym pointed to a spot at the base of the cliffs just above the far edge of the woods.

“Entrance is through a cleft in the wall. But it's hard to reach, for first you must go through there.” Thrym gestured to the thickly wooded, snow-frosted valley below.

“Where?
There?
” said Jarl, believing a pine forest no barrier at all. “All I see are trees.”

“It's what you don't see,” Thrym said. “Trolls. Thousands of them.”

“Trolls?”
Jarl exploded, nearly falling out of the rope harness. “You never said there'd be trolls! I
hate
trolls! Despise the very sight of them! They're hairy and smelly and—and, well, they're just plain disgusting!” Dane too grew sick at the thought. Months before, he and Jarl had had a very nasty encounter with one of the malicious little monsters down in
the Well of Knowledge, and neither wanted to come face-to-face with another, much less a whole slew of them, ever again.

“There must be an alternate route,” Dane said.

“There isn't,” Thrym replied. “You either go through the valley or go home.”

From Jarl's anxious expression, it looked like he was leaning toward home. Usually he was not one to shy from danger or deadly beast, but ever since the Well of Knowledge incident the previous spring, he had developed a fear—or
phobia
, as Ulf had called it, using a Greek word he had gleaned from his readings—of the noisy, noxious beings.