Sword of Doom
Authors: James Jennewein
Sword of Doom
For Margery B.
âT.P.
For my brother Augie, the kindest soul I know
âJ.J.
A Vigil Over the Village
A Downpour of Insults
A Deadly Arrival
A Royal Summons
Hunger Ends and A Journey Begins
Daylight Brings New Dangers
A Foreboding in the Fortress
Roasts, Toasts, and Boasts
A Door to the Past Is Opened at Last
The Serpent Awakes
Boy and Bird in Limbo
The Curse of Draupnir
A Mystical Misunderstanding
A Spirited Debate with the Fates
Godrek Uncloaked
A Light at the End of Darkness
The Runestone Revealed
A Ghostly Attack
Tall, Frosty, and Handsome
A Secret Discovered
Whitecloak's Revenge
A Gruesome Warning
A Pitiful Situation
Friend or Foe?
The Rune Sword Sings
Trapped in Utgard
A Horrible Confrontation
Giants 34, Trolls 3
Northward to Parts Unknown
A Beastly Sacrifice
Into the Jaws of Fate
Halfway to Courageous
The Eternal Hunger of Jörmungandr
The Long Trek Homeward
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Young Readers Beware!
Please think twice before letting your parents read this book. If they are easily frightened by gruesome and hair-raising acts of Viking violence, or are offended by graphic, gross-out humor, then this book is not for them. After all, if young people don't protect the delicate sensibilities of grown-ups, who will? Enjoy!
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“The problem with humankind is it's not very kind.”
âLut the Bent
“The headaches I get from thinking are always worse than any I get from drinking.”
â
Drott the Dim
NAME Â Â Â PRONUNCIATION
Astrid    AZ-trith
Bothvar   BOTH-vahr
Drott     DRAHT (rhymes with “hot”)
Dvalin    duh-VALL-in
Eldred    ELL-dread
Fulnir     FULL-ner
Geldrun   GEL-drun
Godrek   GOD-reck
Gudlaf    GOOD-lawf
Hrut      Huh-ROOT
Kára     CAIR-uh
Lut      LOOT (rhymes with “boot”)
Prasarr   PRASS-ahr
Ragnar   RAG-nahr
Rognvald  RHONE-vald
Skrellborg SKRELL-boorg
Svein     Suh-VINE
Thidrek   THIGH-dreck
Ulf       OOLF
Vidarr    VIGH-dahr
Voldar    VOLE-dahr
Voldarstad VOLE-dahr-stahd
A V
IGIL
O
VER THE
V
ILLAGE
T
hough they called her a Goddess of Slaughter or Chooser of the Slain, the name she answered to most was Mist, and it seemed to befit her airy personality. And though she looked resplendentâriding astride her pearly steed, her coal-black hair spilling from her golden helmet down over a breastplate of bronze armor, her cloak of swan feathers aflutter in the rush of windâshe was anything but confident. Indeed, although she looked every bit the part of one of Odin's corpse maidens, she did not feel as though she was ready to perform her duty. Her job, she knew, was not only to transport the fallen dead to Valhalla but to choose only the bravest warriors, for there were very high standards among the dead in Viking heaven. The worst mistake Mist could make was to choose a cowardly soul instead of a courageous one. If she erred, if she ferried the chicken-hearted through the gates of Valhalla, she would be stripped of rank and forever made to serve
as a lowly galley wench, lugging buckets of mead in Odin's hall of heroes, a fate nearly as demeaning as being bound in wedlock to a one-legged troll.
So Mist had to be careful. As she was new to the sisterhood, this was her first solo assignment. Today, in this very village, it would be up to her and her alone to choose whom to ferry to the afterlife. She peered down upon the simple thatched-roof huts, watching the carefree children at play in the rain and the older folk going about their business. Though it was the very picture of a village at peace, Mist knew it would not last. Soon innocents would be killed and the blood would run.
A D
OWNPOUR OF
I
NSULTS
“W
e're doomed!”
“We're dead!”
“The gods are against us, thanks to the defiant one!”
“It's
his
heroics that got us into this messâ”
“âand thus his duty to fix it!”
“Perhaps we should banish himâbefore it gets worse!”
Surrounded by the many angry faces of the elders, Dane the Defiant stood in anguish in the center of the room, wishing they would all just stop talking and leave him alone. All right, so things in his village had gone terribly, horribly wrong. But why heap all the blame on him? It wasn't fair! Outside, it was pouring rain, and inside, it was pouring insults, and Dane had had enough. He stood listening to their grumbles, gripes, and personal attacks,
trying to avoid the accusing stares of the graybeards, and all he wanted to do was run. Run away and hide from all the trouble and turmoil. Hide from his failures and his responsibilities. Hide from everything and everyone. Life had become a nightmare from which he could not escape. And it had only been a few short months since they had hailed him a hero.
He heard a
crawk!
and, looking up, saw Klint, his black-feathered raven, perched on a crossbeam high off the floor. Ah, his friend understood him! Dane watched as the bird hopped along the beam, drawing nearer the smoke hole in the center of the roof. Fixing Dane with a look, the raven flapped his wings and gave a scrawk, as if to say, C'mon, let's fly. And out the hole he flew, disappearing into the great outdoors to spend his time and enjoy his freedom as he pleased, leaving Dane bitterly wishing that he could do the same.
Just the past spring he had defeated the tyrant Thidrek the Terrifying and freed the people from his evil rule. Did that not count for anything? Thidrek had taken possession of Thor's Hammer, the earth's most powerful weapon of mass destruction, and threatened to use it to crush all his foes and conquer the world. But when Dane defeated him in combat, Thor sent down a mighty whirlwind to scoop up the hammer and return it to the heavens, where it belonged.
And, oh, how they had cheered him. “Huzzah for Dane the Defiant!” they had shouted as they carried him on their shoulders. Dane had tried to explain that he hadn't been the only brave one. All his friends had helped, tooâJarl the Fair, Fulnir the Stinking, Drott the Dim, and others. But since Dane had personally dispatched Thidrek in front of the whole village, it was he who was decreed a hero. This, of course, had pained Jarl no end, for he hated when others received more praise than he did, especially when they actually deserved it.
During the week of celebrations, Dane had felt on top of the world. Kingly, in fact. Children came from leagues around to hear him speak and to touch a real live hero. Women, too, had found him especially desirable. But the skies had darkened, and it had begun to rain. Not a light drizzle, either. A downpour. The black sky burst open and down came a deluge. Night after night, day after day, the rain fell. Relentless torrents for weeks. The village became a river of mud.
Instead of letting up, it got worse. Winds blew. Lightning tore open the sky, soon followed by ear-shattering booms of thunderâThor's anger hurled earth-ward, or so the people believed. And then came hail, balls of ice as big as a baby's fist. Crops were flattened, thatched roofs caved in. Panicked villagers took cover under the overturned hulls of their boats. Frightened cows and goats
stopped giving milk and hens stopped laying. Even the fish in the sea sought to escape the fury and went deeper, beyond the villagers' nets.
And still it rained.
Thor, the people said, seemed to be making up for all the time his hammer had been lost to him. Like a child who had found his favorite toy again, it seemed that now the god could do nothing
but
play with it, banging away until humans below begged for him to stop. And when he didn'tâwhen Thor's storms continued unabated and the village had begun to go without foodâthe people did the only thing that made sense to them: They pointed accusing fingers at a scapegoat. Dane the Defiant.
And now he stood there inside the village meetinghouse, watching silently as they railed against him. The elders sat on benches in a wide circle round the fire in the center of the lodge as the younger members of the community stood shoulder to shoulder behind them. Though smoke from the fire wafted up through the roof hole, the room was still thick with haze and abuzz with conversation.
“If not for you, Thor wouldn't have his blasted hammer back!” spat Gorm the Grumpy, shaking his fist.
“You just
had
to be the hero, didn't you?” stormed Hakon Large Nose. “And now look at us. Ruined crops! No milk! No eggs! No fish to catch!”
“And not
one
hour of sleep thanks to ceaseless thunder and lightning!” lamented Prasarr the Quarreler, always
one to complain. “If only Voldar the Vile were still among us. He'd know what to do.”
Dane sat there enduring their ire. He knew Prasarr was right. If Dane's father, Voldar the Vile,
were
alive, they wouldn't be in such a fix. It was only when Dane tried to fill his father's shoes that events had spiraled out of control.
Dane's two best friends, Drott and Fulnir, rose to speak. “Now listen!” Drott began with authority. “There's something you're all forgetting here.” They waited for Drott to continue, but he'd forgotten his point and gave Fulnir a panicked look. “Uh, you first.”
“What Drott means,” Fulnir said, addressing the room, “is you can't blame Dane for all our misfortune.”
“Oh, no?” asked Hakon. Holding up a slab of wood, he pointed to the runic inscription carved on it. “The invitation to today's meeting says âA Gathering to Blame Dane.'”
“Wait! Wait!” Drott blurted. “I just remembered my pointâ”
“Sit down!” Gorm spat. “You're wasting our time!”
Astrid, daughter of Blek the Boatman, stepped inside the circle of men. Tall and blond, she was a young woman of rare and dangerous beauty whose deadly skill at axe throwing had given her the nickname Mistress of the Blade. She hefted one of her razor-sharp weapons and said, “Let them speak.”
To which Gorm snorted, “We'll listen to whomever we like, young lady”âonly to scream in fright an instant later as Astrid's axe came flying past his ear, slicing off a hank of his white hair as it buried itself in a beam just behind him.
“Oh, did
I
do that?” said Astrid innocently. “How clumsy of me.” Dane, of course, knew that, had she wished, she could have lopped off Gorm's whole ear. It amused him to see the other elders suddenly cease complaint as she retrieved the axe and turned back to her friends.
“Go on,” she told Drott and Fulnir.
“I know times are hard,” Fulnir said, continuing, “but think how bad things would be if we
hadn't
defeated Thidrek the Terrifying.”
“Exactly!” said Drott, regaining his faculties. “Have you forgotten what Thidrek had in store for us? Beheadings? Floggings? Being forced to dance with farm animals? Not
my
idea of a good time.”
The one known as Jarl the Fair thrust himself forward. “No one disputes that ridding ourselves of Thidrek was a good thing. A deed for which, I might add,” he said, cocking an eye toward Dane, “we
all
deserve plaudits for taking part in. But winter nears and our food stocks are low. This calls for action, not words! And being Norsemen of pride and thunder, I say we raid and plunder!” A year older than Dane and half a hand taller, Jarl cut quite a fair figure, his gleaming white teeth and jutting jaw made all the more
striking by his mane of long golden hair, which he kept well glossed with frequent applications of bear fat. And much to Dane's chagrin, Jarl's godlike looks were further complemented by an expertise in archery and swordsmanship that Jarl never tired of telling others about.
“We must strike now,” continued Jarl, strutting before the gathering, “lay waste to our enemies and seize what we need before the winter snows!” Hooting in loudest approval were Jarl's pals, the massive twins Rik and Vik the Vicious Brothers. Always keen for a fight, the twins' favorite contact sports were bloodletting and advanced bloodletting.
“So it's agreed,” Jarl proclaimed. “We will take up the sword and shield and show no mercy!”
Rik and Vik began a war chant, banging their ale cups together as they cried,
“No mercy! No mercy!”
Dane knew it was madness. For even if a raid was successful, many villagers would die in the doing. He remembered what his father had once told him: that if you steal a man's bread, he and all his kin will be your enemy forever. “But help a man feed his family, and you not only have a friend for life, but also many invitations to dinner,” Voldar had also quipped.
Now more council members, Gorm among them, took up the chant. Dane wanted to jump to his feet and tell everyone how foolish and reckless and dangerous it was. But since the elders had already blamed him for all that
had gone wrong, he knew few would be eager to take his advice. No, the only one who could talk sense into these people would be the village soothsayer, the
eldest
of the elders, Lut the Bent.
Dane's eyes found Lut seated across the room. The ancient one was leaning against a post, eyes shut, mouth wide open, and snoring. Dane picked up a pebble from the earthen floor and covertly tossed it Lut's way, meaning to bounce it off his bald head and rouse him. The pebble flew straight into Lut's open mouth and down his throat. Suddenly the old man began to choke and gag, and Dane rushed over and pounded him on the back with the flat of his hand. The pebble shot from Lut's mouth and flew across the room, hitting Gorm in the face, drawing cries of pain from the grumpy one.
Lut recovered, getting his bearings. “What in Odin's name just happened?”
“You swallowed a pebble,” Dane said.
“How did a pebble get in my mouth?”
“I aimed higher. Listen, Jarl is calling for a raiding party. You have to speak.”
Lut noddedâthis was serious indeed. He cleared his throat and the room quieted, for every villager valued the wisdom of him who had endured one hundred and three winters, not to mention six wives.
“So Jarl wants to go raiding, eh?” Lut said. “A fine idea!” Dane shot Lut a look of surprise, having expected
an argument
against
Jarl's plan. “What do
you
think, Dane?”
Dane hesitated, not knowing what to say.
“We know too well what he thinks,” Jarl said. “That
he
should lead us. Be the
hero
like always. But this time this is my idea and
I'm
leading.” The Vicious Brothers hooted approval, waving their swords about, nearly wounding a couple of elders.
“Very well,” said Lut decisively, “so you shall lead us.” Again Dane gawked at Lut. Had the old man finally succumbed to senility? But Lut beamed an insincere smile and said, “Tell us your
plan
, Jarl.” And it was then Dane realized Lut's stratagem.
“Yes, Jarl,” said Dane, eagerly turning back to face the pompous one. “We're only too glad to follow
if
you tell us your plan of attack.”
“Well,” said Jarl, taken aback, not expecting Dane to give in so easily, “it's like I said. We're Norsemen! We should pillage andâ”
“Plunder, right,” Dane interrupted. “Can't do one without the other. But if we're to follow you, we need specifics. Exactly
who
and
where
do we strike?”
Jarl's face went blank. He turned to Rik and Vik, who just gave him shrugs in return.
Dane made a suggestion. “Forgive my presumptionâI know you're in charge, but perhaps it's unwise to go north. It's nearly winter, so the storms could be fierce andâ”
“That was my thinking,” interjected Jarl. “We'll go south.”
“Right,” said Dane. “But of the two villages we'll pass, which should we attack?”
Again Jarl looked at Rik and Vik for help. The Vicious Brothers were blunt instruments not known for strategic thinking or, for that matter,
any
kind of thinking. Their puzzled looks told Jarl he was on his own. “We'll attackâ¦the first village?”
“The first village is well fortified on all sides and has over eighty men in its guard,” said Dane. “The second village is larger, better fortified, with one
hundred
men. Both villages will see us coming and will fight and die to the last man, woman, and child to save their food.
What
is your plan of attack, Jarl?”
Jarl was clearly flummoxed. Silence settled over the room. The elders who had been earlier so roused by the prospect of mindless violence wore furrowed brows, now seeing the foolishness of the endeavor.
As support for his attack drifted away like the smoke through the roof hole, Jarl did the only thing a good Viking could do when logic and good sense were against him. He swept his sword heavenward, struck a heroic pose, and shouted, “Who will follow me to the gates of Valhalla?”
The only ones stupid enough to fall for this ploy were Rik and Vik, who raised swords and cried in unison,
“Valhalla!” Everyone else either quietly eyed the floor or worked on hangnails. As the embarrassing silence grew, even Dane pitied Jarl. Finally, mercifully, Fulnir the Stinking emitted a roof-raising thunderclap of flatulence that cleared the room quite handily. Preferring to stand in the pouring rain rather than stay inside breathing in Fulnir's stench bomb, everyone including Dane rushed for the exits. Everyone except Fulnir, that is. He alone stayed behind, relaxed and relieved, giving truth to the old Norse proverb: “Every man loves the smell of his own wind.”
Â
Later on that gray morning, in the hut he shared with his mother, Dane sat morosely by the fire, picking out the same mournful tune on his wooden pipe. His mood was dark, for he knew that although he and Lut had stayed the cries to go a-viking, soon his hand would be forced. If the village food stores continued to dwindle, the elders would side with Jarl, and then everyone would have to strap on swords, take to their boats, and go steal grain from their neighbors.
