RuneWarriors (5 page)

A
t last the day came for the Festival of Greatness, gray blustery dawn skies turning sunny and warm. Dane rose early, meeting his friends in town, as he always did, to watch the festivities unfold.

The games being a great source of entertainment, Norsefolk came from miles around to watch, and to snack. That morning, Dane watched as a dozen longships from outlying villages came ashore, bringing scores of onlookers both young and old. Gathering then in the village, the women shared gossip and recipes for pickled herring, while the men drank copious amounts of home-brewed ale, told raucous stories, and headbutted each other senseless. A few laid wagers on who could vomit the farthest. And all this by nine in the morning.

Being spirited young men, Dane, Drott, and Fulnir eyed the women in their foxtail furs and feathered finery,
bowing politely to the older, already-married ones and acting even friendlier to the younger yet-to-be wed ones. It was customary to marry in one's middle-teen years, life being so short and there being no reason to wait on starting a family. (Average life expectancy was so brief, a man of thirty was considered all washed up.)

Male elders sat by themselves on the north side of the field, it being expected that the sexes sit apart during high ceremonies such as sporting games and divorce proceedings to keep fighting and hair pulling to a minimum. And as the females filled the rows of benches on the far side, Fulnir went from girl to girl, chatting them up and asking the prettiest ones if they'd dance with him at the feast that evening, Dane all the while marveling at his boldness.

Drott, ever bashful in the presence of the fairer sex, took a slightly different approach. When he saw a girl he liked, he threw stones at her to get her attention. If she scowled and ran, he knew she wasn't for him; but if she picked up the stone and threw it
back
at him? Well, then he'd really found a girl worth knowing. On this particular morning, as the ladies paraded past, one of Drott's stones found the rump of a rather hefty girl. She whirled and, spotting Drott as the culprit, spat an oath and threw a stone right back. A look of joy spread across Drott's face. Then, to his surprise, she gave an animal growl and charged like a wild boar, yowling and running straight at Drott, intent on doing him bodily harm. Drott gleefully ran off, the girl in hot pursuit, leaving Dane smiling and shaking his head as
the two disappeared into the crowd.

And Dane? Though he pretended otherwise to his pals, he thought only of Astrid. He scanned the crowd for a glimpse of her, hoping to have a moment together before the games began. He had something to say to her. Something important. And he yearned to be alone with her, away from the prying eyes of his parents. Like Lut, he too had had a dream the night before, a troubling dream in which he and Astrid were afloat on a cloud, blissful and free. But when he went to kiss her, he accidentally knocked her off the cloud and she fell screaming earthward. Dane was unable to save her from a death he feared he'd caused.

Dane had awoken early and left before his parents arose. He hadn't spoken to his father about his name since the day they'd fought. He hadn't wanted to think about it, or to face him; something in him still refused to give in or to grow up. His mind in turmoil, Dane couldn't quite make sense of it all. And then he spied Lut the Bent. His old friend had been avoiding him, it seemed to Dane, but now there he was, rounding a corner, shuffling along at what, for Lut, was a rather high speed. And Dane felt the urgent need to get the old man's counsel.

“Lut!” Dane called, raising his voice above the raucous din. But Lut didn't stop. Dane fought his way through the throngs. “Lut, it's me!” he said as he caught up and took Lut's arm. “I need to talk! I had a dream—”

Lut dropped his eyes, darting them this way and that, not wanting to meet Dane's gaze. “Not now, son, I—” Lut
fell silent, unable to give voice to his thoughts. “I—I have to go!” And with that he sped off.

Dane felt stung. Rebuffed by his closest confidant when he most needed to talk? Why? What had he done? What had spooked Lut so? Dane had seen something in the old one's eye, and it disturbed him. What made Lut run off?

Dane's mood would have darkened further, but the sudden blare of a horn struck all thought of Lut from his mind. He sensed a tension in the air, a murmur of fear amid the commonfolk. The horn announced the arrival of Thidrek the Terrifying, lord and ruler of their northern fjordlands.

From out of the trees he came, the twin red flags bearing his black wolf's-head emblem. The flag bearers themselves rode horses draped in the royal colors. Next came a marching phalanx of some twenty guardsmen, in leather and coats of mail, their heads helmeted in iron, their long spears held at their sides and pointed skyward in warrior fashion, sunlight glinting off the tips. Then, astride a shiny black stallion, his long black satin cloak rippling, Prince Thidrek himself rode into the village, quieting the raucous crowd.

To Dane he looked ever so lordly and imperious atop his horse, and even more imposing walking among the commoners. He stood six foot four, with long, black hair, finely combed and worn in a ponytail. His piercing gaze was said to be so penetrating that it made men's bowels squiggle in disquietude. People bowed and averted their eyes as he
passed, fearing that to meet his gaze would incur Thidrek's displeasure, a thing to be avoided at all costs.

Dane stood at the rear of the hushed crowd, watching. Growing up within sight of the castle, Dane and his friends had heard tales of Thidrek's cruelties: Far to the south he had terrorized entire villages, making men dance while wearing their wives' clothing before he had them executed. And he took special pleasure in watching things die: Men, women, horses—even children and their pets, if the mood struck him. It was said that, just for entertainment's sake, he would force doddering old folk to fight to the death with nothing but knives, and even wager on which one would win.

They'd also heard tell of his own terrifying skill with weaponry. A master archer, Thidrek was rumored to be so skilled, he could shoot an arrow straight through a man's heart at a hundred paces. Even more daunting was his swordsmanship. As a youth, Thidrek was so deft, he'd lopped off the heads of two men with one lightning-quick swipe of his broadsword. Knowing of his athletic prowess, Voldar had once invited Thidrek to compete in the games, but the prince had graciously declined, citing a schedule conflict.

Dane had heard talk among the villages that something was afoot, whisperings to the effect that Thidrek had plans to expand his empire. He was hungry for more land, more taxes, more power. Recent comings and goings at the castle had set tongues a-wagging but, as yet, no one really knew
what Thidrek was after. All the village elders, even Dane's own father, were careful to say nothing against Thidrek. And though Dane knew full well why fear had silenced them, he couldn't help recalling that it hadn't always been this way. There'd been a time in Dane's boyhood, soon after Thidrek had launched his reign of terror on the northlands, when Voldar had spoken ill of Thidrek without fear. Dane remembered the night he had awoken in his bed-straw to hear the voices of Voldar and other elders of the village, gathered round a fire outside his home, drinking and discussing Thidrek's doings.

“Bloody dung eater,” he'd heard his father mutter. “I'd sooner piss down his throat than bow to his wishes.” Dane had been shocked to hear these words come from his father, but had been excited by them all the same. Voldar had continued fuming and fulminating against Thidrek's oppressive reign, bemoaning the loss of Mirvik the Mild and the lost days of his own reckless youth, when no man who dared disrespect him would live to see the dawn of another day.

Unaware his boy was listening, Voldar had gone on to vividly describe the many ways he'd like to bring discomfort to Thidrek, something about having him trampled by horses and thrown into a pit aswarm with poisonous vipers and then having his fingers chopped off, one knuckle at a time, then his toes, and maybe each of his ears, and then when Thidrek lay bleeding and pleading to be put out of his misery, Voldar would lash him to a tree and smear him
with honey and leave him for the bears to finish off one limb at a time. And when it was all over, he'd remove Thidrek's head and have it mounted on a spike outside his hut with his eyes propped open, and every time he went in or out, he would smile and say hello and then spit in Thidrek's face and ask how he was feeling.

There'd been more uproarious laughter, until Dane's mother had discovered him listening in. She'd scolded the elders and bidden them go home to their wives. She'd upbraided Voldar for having used such foul language in front of the boy, and Voldar had then explained to Dane that it had all been in fun and that it was something men did when they wished to impress one another and that he hadn't meant a word of it. But Dane knew the truth, and had been proud of his father for speaking out so fearlessly.

Now, as Dane stood with his father and mother alongside the council of elders, welcoming the self-proclaimed prince, Dane was saddened to see what his father had become: a servile supplicant. He saw the dark pleasure Thidrek took in seeing these grown men—men Dane had looked up to his whole life—bow to him and touch their forelocks in fealty. Dane, his insides aboil with fear and shame, in turn bowed in obeisance before his liege lord, the prankster in him fighting the urge to make light of it all.

The prince was presented with gifts: casks of mead, doeskin slippers, and a long ermine coat with the name
THIDREK
stitched across the back. But as Thidrek's gaze fell upon his name, his smile withered. His eyes went cold
and, drilling Voldar with a look, he said gravely, “Where's ‘The Terrifying'?”

The crowd went silent, all fearing Voldar's blood would soon be spilled. Dane feared it too as he saw his father's face go pale. It angered him to see this once-great man, his own father, forced to cower like a child.

“Well, my lord…” choked Voldar, fumbling for an answer that would keep him alive, but not having one. “It's—it's—”

And Dane was as shocked as everyone else when he found himself stepping forth and blurting, “It's only a lounging jacket, sire.”

Oops. Too late. The words were out.

“A
lounging
jacket?” intoned the prince, eyes narrowing.

“Yes!” said Dane with an innocent grin, realizing he now had to explain his idiotic remark. “You know, casual attire to be worn round the house. Or, in your case, castle, sire. When you're lounging alone, smoking a pipe, or having a brandy before bed, or whatever it is that great men such as yourself do in the privacy of your rooms. Because let's face it, you are great and, uh, you do have rooms. Many, many rooms.”

Thidrek stared at the boy for a painfully long moment. Then, with the barest hint of a smile, he said, “I was only joking.”

His royal guardsmen guffawed in laughter. What a jest! Voldar laughed as well, profoundly relieved to still have his head. Dane, too, was feeling lucky—until he
caught Thidrek's baleful stare.

“So,” said Thidrek, “pray who
is
this young pup?”

“Begging your lordship's pardon, sir, he meant no disrespect,” said Voldar proudly. “This is my son, Dane. Dane the…uh…Defiant.” Dane shot his father a look, but then caught himself and bowed to the prince in obeisance.

“Defiant, eh?” Thidrek said, eyeing Dane appraisingly. “Well, I like a boy with nerve. So long as he knows his place.” He then turned to Grelf the Gratuitous, his right-hand man, who for some inexplicable reason stood to Thidrek's left. “Isn't that right, Grelf?”

“Oh, yes, sire,” said Grelf, “a place for everyone and everyone in their place, I always say. Best way to run a fiefdom. And speaking of running, shan't we be moving along, sir? The games await.” Thidrek agreed, and without further ado, Grelf led Thidrek away.

Voldar moved to join them, but Dane held his father back. “Dane the
Defiant
? Father, how could you? That's not the name I wanted!”

“Well, it's the name I've given you,” said Voldar, “and a fine name it is. Even the prince was struck by it. It's the nature of your character, too, if you must know. Defiant, rebellious, willful, headstrong. If you're lucky, someday you might live up to all the promise it holds.”

“But Father—”

“I'll hear nothing further. I bid you luck in the games, Son. Give it your all. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a
tyrant to appease.” Voldar turned and strode away from the scowl on his son's face.

 

Voldar led Prince Thidrek and his retinue to the most honored place on the field, a great wooden throne carved of oak and set atop a viewing platform. There with great fanfare Thidrek waved to the crowd and took his seat, Voldar sitting to his left and Grelf—being the right-hand man—this time sat, correctly, to his right. Thidrek again waved to those assembled and, having a fine eye for the ladies, gazed with keen interest over the girls in the fourteen-and-older section.

“I like blondes,” he told Voldar. “Buxom and blond, that's how I like 'em.”

Voldar nodded noncommittally. All too aware of Thidrek's mercurial moods, he knew no argument could arise from his silence.

“And redheads, if the mood strikes me,” Thidrek continued.

“Yes, m'lord,” said Voldar, “
rødhåres
are nice.”

“I once had a beastly maggot of a woman who shaved her head and bit the heads off rabbits for fun. Hideously foul smelling she was, stank like an odious cheese, but, oh, how she danced!”

Not knowing what to say, Voldar just nodded and grinned, as if this were the most fascinating thing he'd ever been told. This upstart had the gall to call himself a prince? The barbarian in him wanted to take a knife to Thidrek's throat right then and there. But this, he knew,
would only lead to more killing and, his love for family being greater than his need for blood, he stifled the urge. For now, survival for his kinsmen lay in his appeasing Thidrek's every wish and whim, and this he would do 'til such time as things were different.