RuneWarriors (7 page)

T
he feast was a grand event. There were goats and wild boar and game birds roasting on open spits, a long buffet table laden with dish after dish of great hearty fare, such as elk steaks and rabbit stews and smoked fish, and platters piled high with various breads, nuts and cheeses. There were sauces aplenty, sugared plums, and mounds of fresh elderberries for dessert, and, as always, lots of freshly churned butter.

Inside a great circle of torches, the athletes and their families sat at long, roughhewn tables having a raucously good time, guzzling mead made of fermented honey, stuffing their faces, and pinching the bottoms of the womenfolk who served up the food.

At the head of the main table sat Thidrek and his retinue, along with Voldar, Geldrun, Blek the Boatman, and other village dignitaries. Astrid sat to Thidrek's left, as his
guest of honor, or “dinner companion” as he insisted on calling her. And Jarl, as winner of the games, sat to his right.

Much to Astrid's surprise, Thidrek was thoroughly charming, engaging in witty repartee, complimenting the athletes, taking his drink in moderation—acting in every way the perfect gentleman, not at all the imperious, over-bearing boor she'd heard he could be. At times he actually paused to listen to what others had to say, chuckling at jibes that proved unamusing, not once interrupting or disagreeing. And when Blek lamely blurted out that the taxes on their village were too high, instead of ordering that the man's tongue be cut out, Thidrek calmly explained that, yes, perhaps they were a bit steep, but it was all to build new roads to encourage trade between the villages, which would thus improve the economy and hasten in a highly desirable thing called “progress.”

“Bah! Bring back the old days,” said Jarl, with a mouthful of food and a head full of drink. “Pillage and plunder. That's what real Norsemen were made for. ‘Live off the land'? Pisspots! We'll have peace in death. We, the living, should spill blood!” He gobbled another portion of boar meat, chewing with his mouth wide open, and as its juices dribbled down his chin, he thoughtlessly wiped his mouth on his sleeve, leaving a long, unsightly smear of grease.

What happened next was a revelation to Astrid and other women at the table. Thidrek drew from his pocket a
soft, square piece of cloth, wiped his lips and mustache clean of gravy, and then returned it to his pocket. Astrid and the other ladies looked upon this in wonder. A man had actually cared enough to remove the unsightly food particles from his mouth! Thidrek noticed their interest.

“It's a
lommetørklæde
,” he explained patiently. “A handkerchief. What a true gentleman uses at table. Part of a new idea called ‘personal etiquette' that's all the rage on the continent.” Not wanting Jarl to feel bad, he added, “No way for you to have known, boy—just one of the perks of upper-class life, I suppose.”

Jarl issued a loud belch and laughed, unaware that the older man had just insulted his utter lack of sophistication. “Whatever,” Jarl muttered, and refilled his mead cup.

Thidrek then paid a compliment to the table centerpiece, a handmade ice sculpture of a flower, its open petals aglow from the lighted candle inside. With obvious pride, Blek said his own daughter, the Mistress of the Blade, had carved it.

“I've never seen a woman so artful with an axe,” Thidrek said, flashing Astrid a grin, “or so deadly with a smile.” And then the sound of music filled the air. Musicians—three pipers, two lyre strummers, and a drummer—had arrived and begun to play. Stirred by the music, one by one everyone began to join in a chain dance.

“Ah, music,” said Thidrek, and he turned expectantly to Astrid. But Jarl was already on his feet and saying, “Honor me, dear lady?”

She hesitated, not wanting to breach princely protocol. But Thidrek, ever the gentleman, nodded his approval, knowing that the winner of the games always had first pick of the ladies.

She rose, bowing once to the prince, and went off to join Jarl at the end of the chain of dancers.

 

Dane fumed. Stuck at the far end of the table, twenty seats away, he could barely eat, having to watch both Thidrek and Jarl seated beside
his
girl! They looked too cozy up there, the three of them smiling and chatting away like the best of mates. It sickened him to see it, and the longer the night went on, the worse he felt. And then seeing Astrid get up to dance next to Jarl—well, that just tore it. Taking a flagon of mead, Dane stood to walk out, but caught a reproachful look from his father at the far end of the table. Obediently, he first went to Prince Thidrek and, with all the decorum he could muster, bowed in courtly fashion and bade his lord good night.

“Turning in early, I take it?” asked Voldar.

Dane gave a sullen nod.

“Well, good job in the games, son.”

Dane produced a shrug and a half smile, turned, and walked off.

“Good lad,” said Thidrek to Voldar.

“Yes, my lord. Still too young to show proper respect to his elders, I fear.”

Thidrek waved it off. “Shows spirit. Guts. He's his own
man.” Then he added, “Could be worse. You could have
him
for a son.” Thidrek nodded toward Drott the Dim, who at that very moment was crawling across the ground with a leg of roast lamb clenched in his jaws, grunting and growling like a deranged dog at no one in particular, looking every bit the village idiot.

“Yes,” Voldar agreed. “Much worse.”

 

Out on the dance floor, Astrid wasn't giving Jarl an inch. She hadn't wanted to dally with him at all, having agreed only so as to avoid dancing next to Thidrek. She felt uncomfortable under the prince's penetrating gaze. Yes, he was handsome; yes, he was charming; and, yes, he had a certain rakish appeal. But her intuition told her that his intentions were anything but honorable. Flush with the exaggerated emotions often found in girls her age, she felt a sudden hand on her shoulder. A chill shot through her when she heard Thidrek's voice, all velvet. “I believe it's my turn,” he oozed.

Jarl bowed and went away wordlessly. Steeling herself, Astrid turned to Thidrek, put her hand in his, and allowed him to join in the dance next to her.

As she nervously made small talk, Thidrek's gaze never wavered. He kept his eyes fastened only on her. As she danced beside him, she felt the cold hard cut of his leather coat against her side, his steady gaze drilling into hers. The image of a scaly reptile suddenly leaped to mind. A snake, perhaps. Or one of those green four-legged crawly things
with the long tail her father had brought back from one of his long sea voyages to the south. What was it called? A lizard? Yes, that was it! Thidrek reminded her of a lizard. A sly creature with cold, rough skin and eyes that seemed to pierce right through her. The words of her father came back to her now as she recalled what he'd often said while gazing at the prince's distant castle: “There is nothing colder than the heart of a tyrant.”

Absorbed in this reverie, she was surprised to find Thidrek moving closer, pulling her into the shadows and putting his mouth on hers, or trying to, at least. Astrid stepped away before he could successfully complete his maneuver, careful to keep the smile on her face and conceal her revulsion.

“I'm feeling poorly, m'lord,” she said quickly, clutching her belly as if ill. “Something I ate disagrees with me. I should take my leave.”

“By all means,” Thidrek purred. “Tend to thy health, dear girl. So that one day we may dance again.”

“It shall be an honor, sire,” she said, and then excused herself with a curtsy, turned, and walked off, relieved to be free of him.

 

Moments later, having watched this last with some concern, Grelf arrived at Thidrek's side and asked if they should save a slice of elderberry pie for him, though he really only wanted to be sure his master hadn't been rattled by the girl's rudeness. His nostrils flaring, Thidrek said
nothing, fixing his gaze on the girl as she disappeared past the torchlit line of dancers and into the shadows of the village beyond. Noticing the possessiveness in Thidrek's stare, a look he'd too often seen before, Grelf issued a naughty smile.

“Caught your eye, has she, m'lord?” Grelf asked airily.

The look Thidrek gave him in return suggested that she might have caught more than that.

D
ane couldn't sleep. He lay in his bed-straw, tossing and turning, his mind astir. No matter how hard he tried to think of other things, images of Jarl and Thidrek whirled through his head, making sleep impossible. Worse, he cursed the gods for having let him down. Odin? Thor? How foolish he'd been to have ever believed in their powers. And how dare his father force him to honor them? If they were truly powerful, they'd have helped him win that day, but clearly they cared little for him or his dreams. No one understood him, it seemed—his own father least of all.

His confidence shaken by the loss to Jarl and driven by a rebellious impulse to strike back at his father—to steal his power—Dane rose and went to take the one thing his father most revered. And, slipping it beneath his coat, Dane crept from the house, moving through the village in
the moonlight, careful not to wake the sheep and goats in their pens, nor the dogs that lay asleep. The air was thick with the smell of wood smoke that rose from each of the homes' hearth fires. Soon he stood outside Astrid's home, a modest log hut built into the side of a hill.
Flik, flik, flik.
He tossed pebbles against the shutters, hoping to wake her without raising the ire of her father. As fortune would have it, Blek had drunk too much mead at the feast and was snoring soundly. But Astrid had been very much awake and heard the
tip-tap
of the stones. In a trice she slipped out the door, a fur wrapped over her underthings, and joined him in the moonlight, her pack of axes on her back. Wordlessly, he took her hand in his and disappeared with her into the woods.

 

A tingle ran through her as she moved under the towering firs, Dane at her side, leading her by the hand, their bodies casting moon-shadow shapes along the ground. There was a special kind of excitement in meeting him like this, away from the prying eyes of the elders.

“I think we're alone now,” she heard Dane say.

They stood at the edge of the woods, the smell of the pine needles like perfume in the air, the night sky above them a dome of glittering stars. The moon, rising just over the trees, shone clear and bright. Below them lay the silver oval of a frozen lake blanketed in new-fallen snow. They watched in silence as a mother deer and her young fawns made their way across the lake, leaving a line of
tiny hoofprints in the snow.

“It's beautiful,” said Astrid in a hushed whisper.

“You're beautiful,” he told her, squeezing her hand and drawing her closer.

“And you're a fool who'd say anything for a kiss.”

“I can't deny it. I do dream of a kiss…and more.”

They fell silent. The only sound was their breathing, which came in icy wisps of steam that gleamed in the moonlight and then were gone. Dane opened his coat and brought out the Shield of Odin, the violet-colored stone in its center—the magic Eye of Odin himself—agleam in the moonlight.

“The Shield—?” Astrid gasped. To be in the presence of such a precious object took her breath away. But Dane, eager to make an impression, held the Shield up in a sudden show of bravado, slashing left and right at imaginary foes.

“They say the Eye of Odin sees every attack and wards off every blow,” Dane said, “making him who possesses it invincible.”

“Can the Eye see us now?” Astrid asked. Dane laid the shield in the snow, its “eye” side down on the ground.

“No, not now,” he said. Dane drew closer, near enough to kiss. And pulling his hand from his pocket, he held it out to her, his fingers closed around something inside it. “With this I thee pledge…” he said, and opened his hand. In his palm lay a locket, in the shape of Thor's Hammer, made of silver and turquoise. It glowed there
like a drop of liquid starlight.

Astrid felt her heart stop. This was serious. A Thor's Hammer locket held a promise within it. When a boy gave it to a girl, it meant he loved her and no other. It meant he was pledging himself, for life, to her and her only. For her to take it and wear it would mean that she had accepted his pledge and returned the same love. It was the precursor to marriage and children. It was what every Viking girl dreamed of someday receiving from a young man like Dane.

She lifted it from his palm, and with Dane anxiously watching, she gently fingered open the locket. Her eyes went wide: It contained a tiny portrait of Astrid herself that Dane had asked a village artisan to etch into the silver. It took her breath away—but then she pushed the locket back into his hand, saying, “I cannot accept it.”

“Why not?”

“You steal the Shield of Odin and think you're worthy to carry it. But you're not. I cannot promise myself to one who pretends to be a man.”

“Pretends?” said Dane hotly. “Am I not as
strong
as any man in the village?”

“Don't you see? If I wanted only strength, Dane, I'd marry an ox.”

“But as son of Voldar, someday I'll inherit the Shield and then be able to protect you from harm better than anyone.”

“The Shield isn't inherited,” Astrid said in rising irritation.
“Like all great things, it's something that must be
earned
. Just as one earns respect. Or love.” Astrid saw that he didn't understand. She gathered her words, about to tell him that she believed Dane had the strength and skill to be a great man, and that she loved him and wished for them to be together someday as man and wife, but that she had to make sure he loved her enough to be everything she needed him to be—but then a shadow fell over them and the words caught in her throat.

Prince Thidrek stood before them, flanked by five menacing guardsmen. The iron-helmeted men brandished long, metal-tipped spears, and each had a dagger in his belt. Thidrek's only weapon was a poisonous smile.

Dane tried to pull Astrid away and dive for the Shield. But two men seized her and the Shield as the three others fell upon Dane. He fought bravely, but the guardsmen landed many more blows than he could, and soon they had him pinned to the ground, half conscious, his face bloodied and bruised.

“You call yourself Terrifying, yet you aren't man enough to fight your own battles!” Dane shouted as he fought in vain to free himself. “Lay a finger on her and I swear I'll—”

Ooof!
Dane received another kick in the belly and lay there coughing, barely able to breathe.

“You'll what?” said Thidrek lightly. “
Kill
me?” Thidrek and his men laughed, voices thick with scorn. “Now
that
is amusing. The boy is jesting.
Ha!
His japery knows no bounds.” The men laughed again, and Thidrek gave Dane
a final look. “I'll do with her
what
I wish
when
I wish. And you? You'll never lay eyes on her again. And
that
, my ‘defiant' friend, is the most amusing thing of all.”

And the last thing Dane saw was the tip of Thidrek's boot as it swiftly swung down and crushed his face. The sudden pain was so sharp, it blurred his vision and rendered him helpless, and all he could do in his last few moments of consciousness was lie there, listening to the sudden galloping of horses' hooves and Astrid's cries for help dying away in the distance.