RuneWarriors (8 page)

S
ometime later Dane awoke to see stars. In the sky, that is. So big and bright, it seemed he could just reach up and grab them. His body throbbed in pain from too many places to count. How long had he been out? Minutes? Hours? He didn't know. He was cold and wet. A shiver shook through him. Rolling over in the snow, he felt something hard against his cheek. Groping around, his fingers found it: the locket, caked with mud but unbroken. He squeezed it tightly in his hand, the touch of it reminding him of Astrid, the sweetness of her smile shimmering before him again. A rage rose up inside him, remembering how he'd failed her and the horror of having Thidrek steal her away.

And then something else crystallized in his head: the sound of people screaming. Cries in the distance. And all at once it hit him: the village! It must be under attack!
Pocketing the locket in his coat, he hobbled to his feet with some difficulty and stumbled through the woods, the cries growing louder as he ran.

 

At first he couldn't believe what he was seeing. His village was on fire. The rye-straw roofs on many homes were ablaze, the smoke and flames licking high into the sky. He staggered into the village to find that all was chaos. Homes had been looted; clothing, furniture, and personal effects lay strewn on the ground, many of them on fire too. Men lay bleeding, groaning—even dying—on the ground, Drott's grandfather Horkel and Orm's older brother, Sten, among them. Mothers ran past him in fright, bawling babies in their arms, as the hiss and crackle of the fires mixed with the wailing cries of the women and children to form a sickening, otherworldly sound. The whole of it like a bad dream from which he couldn't awake, the sight of so many dying or crying in pain too much for Dane to bear.

Then, as he rounded a corner, the nightmare got even worse: He saw on the shore that their longships were ablaze. The attackers, a horde of bloody Berserkers, were setting fire to all the warships, the sails exploding in streaks of yellow and orange, the hulls of many of the boats already engulfed in flame.

Desperate to find a weapon to help in the fight, Dane knelt beside a slain village elder and began to pry a sword from the dead man's hand. He saw it was Klunter the Good, a kindhearted sheep herder who'd never hurt a soul.
And now there he lay, his belly gory with stab wounds, stilled forever. Filled with fury and armed with the man's broadsword, Dane rose and ran with all swiftness to the water's edge, plunging in after the fleeing attackers; but, alas, he was too late. Twenty men strong, they had already reached their longship and were swiftly rowing away. The cloaked figure of Thidrek and the ship's carved dragonhead prow disappeared back into the thick fog like seaborne phantoms.

Drott then splashed up beside him, yelling and firing arrows in vain at the receding ship. Relieved to see his friend unharmed, and knowing it pointless to pursue, Dane pulled Drott over to one of their own burning longships. Gathering other men, they tipped it sideways. The seawater extinguished the burning sails, but when the hull took on water, too, the ship sank. Silently, Dane watched the burning ships of his people sink one by one into the sea. The moment seemed to him one of insurmountable sadness and loss. He was roused from his daze by Fulnir, who ran up and said, “Dane! Quick, it's your father!”

 

A clutch of villagers stood in a circle as Dane approached. They parted. Dane saw his mother crouched beside a figure on the ground: his father. Voldar lay mortally wounded, an arrow through his chest. Dane hurried to his father's side. His father's breath was labored, his eyes' light dimming. Dane held his father in his arms. Geldrun knelt there too, stroking her husband's hand. The
villagers looked on in silence, waiting for Voldar to speak.

“The Shield, son…,” said Voldar in a whisper. “Where is the Shield?”

Dane could barely bring himself to look into his father's eyes now. The truth was too shameful to admit.

“It's lost, Father,” Dane finally managed to say. “Lost to the invaders. And Astrid, too, has been taken.” The villagers gasped, aghast at this news. Fair Astrid
and
the Shield of Odin? Now all was lost. With the magic that had protected them gone, there could be but three things in their future:
hungersnød, drepsótt,
and
mørke
(otherwise known as famine, pestilence, and darkness).

Dane knew his father was dying. There was nothing he could do to save him. Fighting back tears, Dane said, “What are we to do, Father?”

Voldar gazed up at his son, knowing this would be the last moment they shared upon this earth. The old man was seized by a fit of coughing, and Dane gripped his father's hand to give him strength. The last of his heart fire then spent, Voldar lifted his eyes to Dane and in a faint whisper said, “You must redeem yourself, my son…regain the Shield and the girl….” Then, gasping for breath, he said, “If you fail…all is lost.” These were the last words the great man spoke. He died in his son's arms, Dane and his beloved mother overcome with grief.

Voldar the Vile was no more.

Valhalla surely would be receiving him soon.

 

The villagers gathered around Dane, pointing fingers and spitting in disgust.

“It's all Dane's fault! He's to blame here!”

“Got that right.”

Their voices grew louder and more threatening.

“Poor judgment is what it was.”

“Stupid kid!”

“You had no business taking the Shield like that!”

“And my daughter! You let them take my daughter!” cried Blek the Boatman, who'd never thought Dane a good match for Astrid, and had only let her dally with the lad in the hopes she'd learn enough about him to see that Jarl the Fair was the wiser choice.

Jarl, for his part, just stood there, biding his time, letting the others speak.

Dane felt numb. That morning, after the funerals honoring the other dead villagers, the elders had burned his father's body, floating it out to sea on a traditional funeral pyre boat, as the crackling flames and smoke sent a signal to the gods that a great one had fallen. Lut the Bent solemnly presided over the ceremony as villagers paid their respects. Grown men wept as they spoke of their fallen friend. The elders recounted how bravely Voldar the Vile had fought the Berserkers who'd come ashore unseen in the fog, and how Thidrek himself had dealt the fatal blow.

For a moment, Dane had thought he'd seen a strange shape shoot upward amid the plumes of smoke over the water. A Valkyrie, perhaps, transporting his father to
Valhalla? It thrilled him to think it, but his sight was too blurred by tears for him to be sure it was anything at all.

Later, after Voldar's smoking remains had sunk into the sea, things had descended into chaos. With their chieftain gone and the village in ruins, their food supply pillaged and hope for the future in tatters, the villagers had turned on Dane. Despite his mother's pleas to the contrary, they blamed him for the destruction of the village, the death of Voldar, and the kidnaping of Astrid.

Then Drott spoke, his voice quivering with uncertainty.

“Correct me if I'm wrong, but—”

“You're wrong!” Jarl said, drawing snickers from some of the others. But Drott continued.

“But wasn't Prince Thidrek really to blame?
He
had the Berserkers attack and burn down our huts and chase down our women and—”

“But it was Dane who made us vulnerable.”

“Yeah!”

“Those Berserkers would've never felled your father if he'd had the Shield! He'd have been invincible!” This gave way then to an even louder cacophony of threats and accusations; the rising tide of acrimony was so sharp that Dane began to feel that he, too, would soon join his father as one of the dear departed.

Then Lut the Bent raised his staff high over his head, signaling for silence. Everyone stopped speaking, and for a time the only sound heard was the rustle of leaves in the
trees from a light wind that blew in off the bay.

“It is time for the gods to speak,” croaked Lut, his voice dry as parchment. From his cloak Lut pulled out his runebag and uncinched its leather drawstring. Dane watched intently as Lut drew out the sacred runes and held them in his palm.

Dane watched Lut bow his head and begin to chant an invocation to the gods. Suddenly, Lut stopped praying and tossed the runes into the air. All held their breath as the runes arced upward and fell to the ground. Lut opened his eyes and peered down at the runes in deep concentration, reading what was written there. He leaned his head left. He leaned it right. No one spoke. They watched as Lut began to scratch his chin. Then the top of his head. He dug a finger in his ear and pulled out a bug. There were doubting looks now among the villagers, Dane noticed, people beginning to wonder whether Lut the Bent had finally snapped his twig. Then Lut's eyes suddenly shot open, as if electrified by an inner vision, and the old man again raised his staff to make his pronouncement.

“The gods decree that we must gain three things in this order: First, wind! Second, wisdom! And third, thunder!”

The villagers looked perplexed.

“What's it mean, Lut?” said Blek. “Wind, wisdom, and thunder?” As they were simple folk who preferred having things spelled out for them, all eyes went to Lut to await his answer. But Lut's gaze was steady and unblinking. “What do
you
think it means?” he said. His question
turned the group dead quiet.

A fart rang out from Fulnir's direction. Jarl said he didn't think
that
was the kind of wind they needed. There were a few chuckles.

“I think I know,” said Dane, now feeling their eyes upon him. “Wind. It means we must set sail. Follow Thidrek and his Berserkers by ship across the sea before they get too far away.”

There was a silence. Then Jarl spoke.

“By sea? Have you forgotten? We haven't any ships! They've all been burned!”

They had seen that Thidrek had sailed out of the bay, away from his castle. He had vanished, but to where? If given too much time to escape, they knew, he could all too easily hide amid the many hundreds of islands and finger-ling bays along the coastline.

Then other elders spoke up to say they had seen Dane sink one of the boats himself. This drew even more derision.

Dane said, Yes, it was true, he'd sunk a ship to save it from burning, for he knew that at low tide the villagers would easily be able to haul it ashore and salvage it.

“Even if that's true,” said Jarl with outthrust chest, “do we propose to let
you
lead us? The very man responsible for this ruin?” There were grumbles of agreement. Jarl had a point. “I say it's time to let real men come forth. I shall lead a quest of able men to hunt down and kill Thidrek the Terrifying—”

“Uh, what's a ‘quest'?” interrupted Drott. “I forget exactly—”

“I shall retrieve the sacred Shield of Odin,” Jarl continued, ignoring Drott. “I shall safely return Astrid to our village, where she will be my wife and give me many children and, if the gods decree it, I shall become the leader our people now lack! I shall find this wind, wisdom, and thunder, and my blade shall taste my enemy's blood!” He said this in a loud voice, flinging his golden locks back and forth over his enviably well-shaped shoulders. A cheer went up.

Dane's heart sank. Would he lose all chance of saving his family honor? Then his mother stepped out and spoke in his defense.

“My son has a duty to right his wrongs!”
Uh-oh.
Sensing things going from bad to worse, Dane tried to speak up, but Geldrun shushed him and continued. “It was my Voldar's dying wish that his boy make good. Does that mean nothing to you?”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Lut the Bent looked up from the runebones that still lay on the ground, eyeing both Jarl and Dane.

“The runes say,” croaked Lut, “that two shall lead. There is strength in unity, weakness in division. You both shall join together to defeat this foe. Agreed?”

Dane held out his arm. After a moment, Jarl locked his arm in Dane's in a show of solidarity. It was agreed. They would join in a quest to avenge Voldar's death and
make things right again. The villagers crowded around them, patting the two young men on the back, shouting encouragement, saying “Kill the invaders!” and “Death to Berserkers!” Amid these rallying cries, the cold thought occurred to Dane that though he might have correctly guessed what
wind
meant, he had no clue whatsoever as to the
wisdom
and
thunder
parts. Oh, well. He hoped he'd have plenty of time to figure out the other two later.

With most of the village elders injured in the attack, nursing broken bones, many unable to walk, much less hold a sword, it was soon agreed and deemed necessary that eight of the younger men of the village would join our two heroes on this voyage. Dane's friends Drott the Dim and Fulnir the Stinking both quickly volunteered, as did Dane's other friends Orm the Hairy One and Ulf the Whale. Their fathers readily gave their blessings, for this was an ideal chance for their sons to prove themselves men of stature and good standing.

There was some discussion as to whether it would actually be a good idea for Ulf the Whale to go along, he being so monumentally large that he'd take up twice as much space on the boat and consume twice as much food (not to mention four times the drink). But Dane came to his defense, making the exceedingly good point that Ulf, though oversize, was also doubly strong and could row twice as hard as anyone else, and everyone agreed this was true. Plus he had committed to memory
a vast number of really good jokes.

Orm, as his name suggested, was awesomely haired. The human furball, they called him. His head and face, his chest and back, his arms and legs—even the palms of his hands! Every place there could possibly
be
hair there
was
hair, and lots of it. Long and thick and black it was, and very popular with the womenfolk, too, for though he was short and squat and given to mumbling, he was a frequent bather and would allow girls to comb and braid his hair in whatever fashion they wished, giving them countless hours of hair care practice. Oddly enough, Orm's father, Gorm the Round, was completely bald, his face and head as hairless as a stone, and many of the village wondered how this was possible, asking Lut the Bent how father and son could look so unalike. Lut had wisely shrugged and said nothing, knowing that every family had its secrets and that this one might be bigger than most.