RuneWarriors (17 page)

O
f all the deaths Dane had imagined possible, this was the worst. He'd always dreamed of dying on a battlefield somewhere, or being torn apart by wild animals while trying to protect his kin, or drowning at sea during a punishing storm. Once he'd even entertained the notion that it was possible to die from the suffocating stench of one of Fulnir's meat-pie farts. But to be locked away in a dark, damp dungeon, soon to be put on public display and summarily executed? To die without a fight? That was a death fit for a rat, not a man. And most rats were wily enough to claw their way free.

But this, it seemed, would be his fate, despite all that he had endured and all the confidence that had been placed in him by others. He had failed in his quest to save Astrid and retrieve the Shield of Odin. Failed miserably, in fact—and this knowledge weighed heavily upon him.
Now that Thidrek had the Hammer, he was more powerful than ever.

They were locked in the dungeon of Thidrek's castle, a dark cell built in the basement of the outer walls of the stone fortress. They'd received word of what Thidrek was planning, and it wasn't pretty. They were all to be executed at noon the following day, beheaded one by one, each forced to watch the deaths of the ones who went before. In front of a live audience, no less! Their deaths would be merely an appetizer for the wedding to follow, a mere sideshow for the Saturday matinee, the union of Thidrek and Astrid.

In one fell swoop Thidrek had increased his power ten thousandfold. Word had spread like wildfire through the villages that he was now in possession of a new kind of fearsome weapon. To further trumpet this fact, he had sent the ruthless Berserkers on horseback to the north, east and south through the farthest-flung villages, rousting commonfolk as they slept, informing them that Thidrek was their new ruler. If anyone resisted, their huts were burned and livestock slaughtered. If that didn't convince them, they were drawn and quartered.

Needless to say, before long, each of the outlying tribes that had once lain beyond the prince's official domain swore fealty to Thidrek. He and he alone now ruled all the northern fjordlands, nearly doubling the size of his realm in a matter of days, no doubt doubling the taxes he would receive as well. A darkness was descending over
the land, and Dane envisioned the horrors yet to come, hoping the death of his own dear mother would be swift and painless.

“'Tisn't your fault,” said a voice. Dane looked up to see Jarl crouched beside him, his handsome face dimly visible in the moonlight that shone through the one tiny barred window that looked out over a grove of trees growing on the rocky cliffs below.

“You did your best, mate. Even I could've done no better.” It was amusing, Dane thought, how even in giving what he thought was a compliment, Jarl was still paying tribute to himself. But Dane knew Jarl's heart was in the right place, and he nodded and knocked fists with his friend. They sat a time, listening to the snores of their brethren who lay asleep in the darkness beyond. Dane asked Jarl how he thought the others were doing.

“Well, Lut's on his last legs, poor spiker, Orm's been blubbering for his mother, and Ulf's so starved he's gobbling cockroaches. Twenty-nine at last count.” A silence passed between them.

“She forgives you too,” said Jarl, Dane knowing full well whom he meant.

“Strange, eh?” said Dane, who felt closer than ever before to the young man he'd once hated and hoped would die. “Us both loving the same girl.”

“She's worth it,” came the reply.

“That she is,” said Dane. He feared he'd never see her again. He had but one seed of hope: the weapon he'd
covertly slipped to Astrid while captive on the ship sailing to Thidrek's castle. If she could find a way to use it, perhaps all was not lost.

 

Astrid's place of confinement gave far more comfort than did Dane's dungeon. For a country girl who knew only the confines of smoky, dirt-floored huts, her opulent castle chamber was something from a fairy tale. There were plush carpets to walk on, a luxurious canopied bed to lie in, and artful tapestries on the walls to entertain and entice her. And though at first she resisted and tried to fight the servants sent to fuss over her, she eventually gave in and let them do their work.

They bathed her and scrubbed her clean. Then they brushed back her golden hair and trussed it atop her head in silver ribbons. They rouged her cheeks and painted her lips red. And at last, for the crowning touch, they dressed her in a gown of scarlet Oriental silk, long and flowing, its ruffled bodice bedecked with golden threadwork and a jeweled brooch.

Now, alone in her locked chamber, she gazed in wonder at herself in a large mirror made of beaten and polished silver. She looked so…
beautiful
. Before, she'd seen her face and figure reflected only in the still waters of a pond. In her brief life she'd pursued only the rough-and-tumble activities of men: hunting, fighting, flinging her axes. But now, admiring her image in the mirror, resplendent in her finery, she saw a wholly different Astrid.
Is this indeed the
look of a queen
? she wondered, utterly enchanted. And for a moment the thought of a whole new life stretched before her. One of leisure and refinement, of power and privilege and—

She caught sight of her smile in the mirror. Pompous, smug, imperious—all the things she hated.
No, no, no!
she told herself, disgusted. This wasn't her at all. No, she would either slit Thidrek's throat or take less direct means to bring him down.

 

Thidrek rose from the table as Astrid was led into his chamber. “Ah, Astrid, my sweet! You look ravishing!”

She did a girlish twirl, presenting herself.

“You,” he oozed, “are the fairest in all my domain.”

“Truly? You're sure? It's a big domain.”

“And getting bigger all the time!” Thidrek gave her a caught-little-boy look. “I hope you've forgiven me for leaving you with that ugly frosted fellow. An unfortunate lapse of judgment, I'm afraid.”

“That
was
rather rude,” Astrid purred, caressing his cheek with the back of her hand. She shot him a pouty, playful look.

Thidrek felt his blood begin to boil. His plan was working! He knew if she got a taste of the lavish life he could provide, she'd be his. What woman wouldn't be? He had wealth and, most of all,
power.
Women loved power. They couldn't resist it. She'd hated him before because he hadn't proven himself. He'd been but a man grasping for control
and authority. Unworthy. But now—
now
he possessed the ultimate power of the land, and she was helplessly drawn to it. To
him
. In her eyes, he'd become a kind of magnetic force, pulling her closer, ever closer into his web of dominion. Aah, women. Such simple creatures. So easy to control when you got right down to it. Thidrek moved closer, gently entwining his arm in hers.

“I suppose you know why I summoned you.”

“…a girl does get ideas.”

“It would greatly gladden my heart if you'd agree”—here he lowered his voice to a suggestive whisper—“to
marry
me.”

Astrid batted her eyelashes and gave him her most bewitching smile.
Her
plan was working. Thidrek was proposing! She had him on the hook. “I'd certainly consider it,” she purred, “but let's be honest, you
are
Thidrek the Terrifying. Known for acts of cruelty and, some might say, crimes against humanity….”

His face abruptly darkened. Oops. She tried to recover.

“On the other hand,” she continued coyly, “you're rich, handsome, and so very,
very
virile. Certain aspects of your character could be overlooked.” This made him brighten, and Astrid, feeling back in control of things, in full command of her charms, stretched languorously, affecting a kind of feline self-absorption. “And I imagine marriage to a man of your position would come with certain…fringe benefits?”

“Why of course!” Thidrek crowed. She'd have unlimited
visits to the castle physicians, he explained. Her own private sauna, imported from Finland. And, if so desired, she could get all the beauty treatments she wished without ever having to make an appointment.

She cooed in response, and his head began to spin. She
wanted
him! Being a bloodthirsty barbarian at heart, he'd usually never think to ask. He'd merely take the girl by force. And once he'd had his fun, he'd keep her in servitude forever, as a serving wench or foot masseuse or some other minimum-wage employee. But this—
this
stirred him even more. A queenly lass who'd actually consent to wed! Her perfume had him dizzy with desire. He bent to kiss her—but she abruptly pulled away, and he nearly fell over.

“Wine!” she cried. “We must have wine to toast our union!” Hiding his annoyance with a smile, Thidrek snapped his fingers, and in came a servant with two goblets and a pitcher of wine.

“No, allow
me
, m'lord,” she said, taking the wine from the servant and beginning to pour it herself into the goblets. “If I'm to be your wife, I must learn to serve you myself. As only befits a
king
.” Ah, Thidrek thought, alluring
and
submissive. How could he resist? Eager to be alone now with his intended, he shooed away the servant, turning his back on Astrid to usher the lowly one to the door.

With Thidrek's back momentarily turned, Astrid made her move. She quickly drew out the goatskin of idiot water from the folds of her gown, the item Dane had slipped her
back on the ship—and poured a prodigious amount into Thidrek's goblet. Was it enough, she worried? It would have to be! She frantically slid the bag back into her gown, and just as Thidrek turned round and returned to the table, he found her filling his goblet with burgundy. He took it up and held it aloft.

“To love everlasting,” he said, eyes filled with desire.

Astrid returned his smile and raised her own glass. She watched the prince lift the goblet to his lips. He tilted it up. The liquid touched his tongue—and then just as quickly he lowered the drink.

“How silly of me,” he said, shaking his head. “My taster! Nothing against you, m'love, but a king-to-be mustn't take chances.” He tinkled a bell at his right hand, and in trundled a porcine, broad-bellied ball of corpulence with a look of utter terror on his face. “This is Bodvir the Unlucky,” Thidrek explained, “my personal food taster. We men of power are prone to be poisoned, you know, and I must take every precaution. The eleventh taster this year, I'm afraid.” He glanced up at Bodvir, completely oblivious to his taster's discomfort. “Not to worry, eh, Bodvir? A stomach of iron, they say.”

“Y-yes, sire,” said Bodvir, nodding and wiping the sweat from his brow. Astrid blanched. She couldn't let
him
drink the idiot water! It wasn't right. But how? How could she stop him without drawing Thidrek's suspicion? Bodvir raised the goblet to his lips. He shut his eyes, about to drink.

“No!” cried Astrid.

Bodvir lowered the goblet, relieved to have some reason not to drink.

Thidrek frowned. “What
is
it?”

Astrid searched for the right thing to say. “Uh, the wine! It's corked!”

“Corked?” Thidrek said, looking perturbed.

“Gone bad. Can't you smell that?” She put the wine to her nose and made a face. And then, seeing Thidrek staring in suspicion, she took a large gulp of the burgundy wine, swirling it round her mouth—as if having a tasting expertise of her own—and then, eyes bulging in sudden disgust, she spat the wine to floor, spraying some on the table. “Can't you
taste
that? It's pisswater!”

Thidrek drew back as if slapped by her words. She poured the rest of her drink out on the floor, hoping he would do the same. He didn't. He reached up and grabbed the goblet from Bodvir, putting it under his nose to smell it himself. He crinkled his nostrils. He flicked his gaze to Astrid, giving her a long, searching look. And then, flashing a conciliatory smile, Thidrek rose from his chair, goblet in hand, and told Bodvir he was excused.

“Yes, sire! Thank you!” Never had Astrid seen a look of such relief on a person's face as Bodvir showed as he bowed and backed out of the room, acting as if he'd just escaped the executioner's axe.

Thidrek grinned and set his goblet in front of her. “Astrid,
you
seem to know a lot more about wine than I do.
Tell me, is mine corked too? I can't tell.” He stared down at her and gave a chilling grin.

Uh-oh. He was going to
make
her drink it. Astrid fiddled nervously with her brooch, stalling for time. “Well, of course it must be, sire,” she said, thinking quickly. “Both goblets were poured from the same bottle. Here, let's throw this out and open a new one—”

But as she reached for the goblet to empty its contents, Thidrek suddenly thrust his hand down onto the base of the goblet, holding it firm, fixing his eyes then on hers, and saying, “
Drink
it. I really want your opinion.” Astrid paled. There was no way to avoid it. With Thidrek's fingers held fast to the stem of the goblet, she took his hand in hers and slowly drew the glass halfway up toward her lips. Her eyes met his, where she saw a mixture of contempt and regret burning in his gaze. She looked down into the goblet itself, eyeing the red liquid, knowing all too well what lay therein. And then, in one smooth movement she pulled the goblet to her chin, making sure to scrape Thidrek's forearm against her brooch pin. Thidrek yowled in sudden pain and jerked his arm away, upturning the goblet and splashing wine all down her gown.

“By the gods—!” Thidrek cried, grabbing his arm.

“Oh, sire! My brooch pin must've come loose and stabbed you. I'm so sorry—”