RuneWarriors
Sword of Doom
James Jennewein and Tom S. Parker
For Margery B.
—T.P.
For my brother Augie, the kindest soul I know
—J.J.
Contents
Prologue
A Vigil Over the Village
1
A Downpour of Insults
2
A Deadly Arrival
3
A Royal Summons
4
Hunger Ends and A Journey Begins
5
Daylight Brings New Dangers
6
A Foreboding in the Fortress
7
Roasts, Toasts, and Boasts
8
A Door to the Past Is Opened at Last
9
The Serpent Awakes
10
Boy and Bird in Limbo
11
The Curse of Draupnir
12
A Mystical Misunderstanding
13
A Spirited Debate with the Fates
14
Godrek Uncloaked
15
A Light at the End of Darkness
16
The Runestone Revealed
17
A Ghostly Attack
18
Tall, Frosty, and Handsome
19
A Secret Discovered
20
Whitecloak’s Revenge
21
A Gruesome Warning
22
A Pitiful Situation
23
Friend or Foe?
24
The Rune Sword Sings
25
Trapped in Utgard
26
A Horrible Confrontation
27
Giants 34, Trolls 3
28
Northward to Parts Unknown
29
A Beastly Sacrifice
30
Into the Jaws of Fate
31
Halfway to Courageous
32
The Eternal Hunger of Jörmungandr
33
The Long Trek Homeward
About the Authors
Other Books by James Jennewein and Tom S. Parker
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
AUTHORS’ WARNING
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!
“The problem with humankind is it’s not very kind.”
—Lut the Bent
“The headaches I get from thinking are always worse than any I get from drinking.”
—Drott the Dim
NAME 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
PROLOGUE
A VIGIL OVER THE VILLAGE
Though 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 resplendent—riding 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 wind—she 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.
1
A DOWNPOUR OF INSULTS
“We’re doomed!”
“We’re dead!”
“The gods are against us, thanks to the defiant one!”
“It’s his heroics that got us into this mess—”
“—and thus his duty to fix it!”
“Perhaps we should banish him—before 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, too—Jarl 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 thunder—Thor’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’t—when Thor’s storms continued unabated and the village had begun to go without food—the 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 ‘A Gathering to Blame Dane.’”
“Wait! Wait!” Drott blurted. “I just remembered my point—”
“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”—only 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 nodded—this 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,” sai
d 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 and—”
“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 presumption—I know you’re in charge, but perhaps it’s unwise to go north. It’s nearly winter, so the storms could be fierce and—”
“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 attack…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?”
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