RuneWarriors

by James Jennewein

  RuneWarriors

  James Jennewein and

  Tom S. Parker

  For Allison, Jake, and all those who believed

  —J.J.

  For Laura Noelle

  —T.P.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Wherein the Reader is Forewarned

  Chapter One

  A Lesson is Learned While Peeing in the Snow

  Chapter Two

  Tales of Gods and Monsters

  Chapter Three

  The Boy Discovers Girls

  Chapter Four

  Our Hero Goes to War with His Father

  Chapter Five

  Enter the Villain

  Chapter Six

  A Darkness Beclouds Dane’s Fate

  Chapter Seven

  Dane Receives a New Name

  Chapter Eight

  A Feast of Delicious Complications

  Chapter Nine

  Life is Torn Asunder

  Chapter Ten

  Where Things Go from Bad to Worse

  Chapter Eleven

  Lost in the Labyrinth

  Chapter Twelve

  Dane Matches Wits with the Wellmaster

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Mistress of the Blade Tries to Bury the Hatchet

  Chapter Fourteen

  Our Tale Takes a Stupidly Melodramatic Turn

  Chapter Fifteen

  Astrid Lights a Fire in Thidrek’s Icy Heart

  Chapter Sixteen

  Our Hero’s Moment of Truth Gets Him All Wet

  Chapter Seventeen

  A Heroic Rescue

  Chapter Eighteen

  Our Hero’s Life Hangs by a Thread

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Fair Maiden Meets Her Fate

  Chapter Twenty

  Hearts Grow Heated in a Prison of Ice

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dane Makes a Chilling Discovery

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Things Go Downhill

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Beginning of the End

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Situation Does Not Improve

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Thidrek Rules!

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Dane the Defiant Lives Up to His Name

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Courage, Blood, and Cabbages

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Thidrek’s Thrill for the Kill

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A Gigantic Turn of Events

  Chapter Thirty

  Many Happy Returns

  Chapter Last

  Happily Almost Ever After

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  NAME

  PRONUNCIATION

  Astrid

  “ASS-trith”

  Blek

  “BLECK” rhymes with “deck”

  Drott

  “DRAHT” rhymes with “hot”

  Fulnir

  “FULL-ner”

  Geldrun

  “GEL-drun”

  Grelf

  “GRELF” rhymes with “shelf”

  Hrolf

  “Huh-ROLF”

  Lut

  “LOOT” rhymes with “boot”

  Orm

  “OARM” rhymes with “dorm”

  Prasarr

  “PRASS-ahr” rhymes with “fast car”

  Skogul

  “SKOE-gull”

  Thidrek

  “THIGH-dreck” rhymes with “high tech”

  Ulf

  “OOLF”

  Voldar

  “VOLE-dahr” rhymes with “coal tar”

  PROLOGUE

  WHEREIN THE READER IS FOREWARNED

  ’T was long ago, in ancient times, when the mystical powers of heaven were one with the earth…when fantastic beasts strode o’er the land, swam the seas, and soared through the skies, inspiring fear, wonder, and nervous indigestion…a time when the voices of the gods could actually be heard by mortal men if one were to listen carefully enough to one’s heart or to the whispers on the great north wind….

  CHAPTER ONE

  A LESSON IS LEARNED WHILE PEEING IN THE SNOW

  The boy was alone in the woods and the snow was falling fast, big, fat flakes twirling down out of the darkening sky, drifting higher. The sun had sunk from view, and the towering trees had thrown deep shadows over the snow. Stopping to rest, he gazed upward into the spruces and pines, their great limbs moving in the wind like giant arms that might reach down and grab him. He caught some falling snowflakes on his tongue, and the fun of it made him feel less afraid.

  He had turned nine years old that day, and as was the custom, his father and other village eldermen had taken him on his first hunt. They’d been tracking a herd of elk when the boy, bored by the waiting and the watching, felt the call of nature and wandered off behind a tree to relieve himself. While watering the tree, he had spied a trail of fresh tracks in the snow, what looked to be paw prints of the rare white fox. Knowing this creature’s pelt to be highly prized, the boy had pulled up his trousers and followed the trail, bow and arrow in hand, eager to make his first kill. But the tracks had led to an icy stream, where he had soon lost his way. He had watched the fat snowflakes as they fell upon the water, amazed that they stayed so long there before melting. He had listened to the pocka-pocka of a woodpecker and peered up into the blue-shadowed tree limbs to find where it was perched. It wasn’t until the bird flew away that the boy looked round and realized he had wandered off too far, and his people were gone. He had hurried back to where he thought they were, but the winds and rising snow had covered their tracks and they were nowhere to be found. He had cried out for his father, but the empty whistling of the wind was all he heard in answer.

  The boy had wandered alone through the forest for what seemed a long time, and now he felt small, helpless, and alone. He was cold, scared, and—not wanting to believe it—utterly lost. He drew his coat tighter and began to walk on, the snowdrifts now nearly to his knees. He heard a sound. A huffing, snuffling sort of noise that seemed to be coming from a copse of trees just a few paces away. He listened. There it was again. Was it the fox? A wolf perhaps? No, the rustling branches were too high off the ground. It had to be something…bigger.

  His heart thumping, he tried to run but fell facedown in a snowdrift. When he sat up, brushing ice flakes from his face, the thing came out of the trees—a giant brown bear, with steam gusting from its jaws and bits of glistening ice visible on its dark, shaggy fur. For a terrible moment the bear just stood there on all fours, eyeing the boy. Clearly ravenous, having just awakened from a winter-long hibernation, it reared up on its hind legs and let out a roar, a sound that chilled the boy’s blood.

  The boy took off, scrambling and falling in the snow, moving with everything he had, when all at once another great furred creature came out of the trees in front of him—and the boy ran straight into its arms.

  He let out a scream, and behind him the roar of the bear grew louder. At any moment his head and limbs would be torn from his body, and he braced himself for the certain death he knew was upon him. But then the furred creature that held him pushed him aside. He saw the creature’s sparkling blue eyes, red beard, and long iron-tipped spear, and the boy realized he had run into the arms of his father.

  Dressed in a long, thick coat of gray wolf fur, his father bravely stood his ground as the great beast charged. And when his father reared back with his spear and gave a war cry, the bear, too, stopped running and reared up on its haunches and let out a sickening roar of its own, as if to say, You’re mine, old man. The boy cried out,
fearing his father would be devoured. But then, with one sure, swift thrust, the bearded man hurled the spear through the air—and there was silence. The spear had gone straight through the bear’s heart, and with one whining groan, the great beast fell over dead and its roar was heard no more.

  Other men of the hunting party, all very hairy and scary looking, with their spears and knives and other implements of destruction, now came out of the trees to attend to the bear and to congratulate Voldar the Vile, the man who had killed it.

  In truth, the boy knew Voldar wasn’t really vile; testy would better describe him. At times, his mother called him Voldar the Vile and Irascible and Peevish and Cranky, but never to his face. He was a broad-shouldered, bushy-bearded man with a flinty gaze that could strike fear into the bravest of men. And when he spoke, his voice had the ring of steel in it. The fact that he also had the breath of a rotting walrus carcass may have further explained his powers of intimidation.

  The boy blinked in awe at his father, crying tears of joy, astonished that they both still lived. The great man turned and glared at his son. For a moment it seemed Voldar might erupt in anger, as he often did, exploding in colorful oaths such as, “What in Thor’s befouling backside!” or the ever-popular “I’ll be dipped in weasel spit!” But instead, he turned to the men and said with a good-natured growl, “Somebody grog me! My throat’s afire!”

  A man rushed over with a goatskin bag filled with barley ale. Voldar held it aloft and hungrily squirted the home brew straight down his throat. He thrust a fist into the air and let out a loud, ripping belch.

  “Vikings, one; bears, nothing!” he said, and the men burst into laughter, drawing out more goatskins of home brew and drinking them down in great gulping drafts. Soon they were in high spirits, gathered around Voldar, their chieftain, laughing at his ribald jokes. His son, too, gazed up in wonder at the great man, marveling at his courage and capacity for drink.

  It seemed to the boy that all knowledge of how to survive in this world flowed from his father. “Self-reliance,” the old man often told him, “is the greatest gift a father can give to his son.” So he’d taught the boy how to build fires and hunt with a bow and arrow, how to track game by following prints in the snow, and how being downwind from your prey would let you smell them without their scenting you.

  In winter, Voldar had shown him how to fish by hacking holes in iced-over lakes. And in spring, when snows were melting and the rivers were full and wide, his father had taught him how to spear and gut the silver-pink fish and smoke them over fires of oak and alder, the smoky-sweet tang of the fish on his tongue of particular pleasure to the boy. By daylight and by firelight, the son had sat beside his father, taking in his stories and his bladework, whether it was the skinning of badger and fox pelts or the carving of reindeer antlers into hair combs and eating utensils.

  “Life tries to kill you,” his father had always warned him, referring to the many perilous forces of nature and the wild beasts of the forest that could end a life with a swipe of a paw. This is why village rule number one was “Never hunt alone,” and why men usually went hunting in groups. And why, if a man ever did go out alone and never came back, he was forever referred to as “that idiot.”

  The boy now quivered as his father approached, bracing himself for the punishment to come and hoping he wouldn’t be called an idiot.

  But all Voldar said was, “Don’t run off.” And he gave his son an axe and together they cut down a tree, helping the men to build a wooden pallet upon which they could carry the bear back to the village, where food was scarce this season. The boy worked hard, chopping and splitting and helping to bind the planks with cords of leathered sealskin to form a sturdy platform. The men then heaved the bear with some difficulty onto the pallet and carried it off through the forest toward home, singing as they went.

  For a while, the boy walked beside his father, listening to the songs of the men, the smell of the dead bear adrift on the chill night air. When the boy tired of walking, his father lifted him onto his shoulders, and the boy rode that way, holding on to his father’s furred hat, dangling his legs down onto the great man’s chest, feeling safe and on top of the world. And later, when they finally reached the edge of the forest and the boy saw the warm welcome of the village torchlights twinkling in the distance, the baying hounds announcing his return, he knew that he was home.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TALES OF GODS AND MONSTERS

  The boy was hailed a fine hunter. “Dane! Dane! Dane! Dane!” the villagers chanted as he waved from atop his father’s shoulders.

  In honor of his first hunt, Dane’s father presented him with a string of bear claws to wear as a charm round his neck. Her eyes ashine with pride, his mother, Geldrun, gave him a beaver coat she had sewn, with a wide belt and a rabbit-fur collar. Then the hooded figure of Lut the Bent—the village sannsigerske, or soothsayer—came forward. An ancient stick of a man with nut-brown eyes and worn, leathery skin, Lut was one hundred three winters old and still active with the ladies. His face crinkling into a smile, Lut laid a bony hand upon the boy’s forehead and in his croaking voice declared him now worthy of being called “warrior.” Dane beamed. Me? A warrior? His heart soared.

  Dane felt a special kinship with the old one. For years, Lut had taken him aside and treated Dane as his own private pupil, teaching him about the gods who ruled their lives, and the healing properties of various flowers and plants, and the storied history of their people. Dane treasured these talks and sometimes felt that Lut had selected him for a purpose, that he was watching him, preparing him for something. “Learn to read your own dreams,” Lut had often said, explaining that the gods spoke to men in dreams. Once Dane had even been allowed to watch Lut cast the runes, divining the future as writ by the gods, something no other child in the village had seen. Yes, Lut was both teacher and friend, and it felt good to receive his blessing.

  That night, amid a large circle of stones, a heroic fire was built, and Dane, son of Voldar the Vile, grandson of Vlar the Courageous, was allowed to sit beside the council of elders as they gave thanks to the gods. They stripped the bear of its hide and divided its meat among the families.

  The snow had stopped falling, and the fire’s warmth felt good after so long in the cold. Dane watched as skewers of sizzling bear meat were passed round, the women and children feasting first and then the men. He’d dreamed of this moment for years, and now it was here. His first hunt. At last, he was a warrior!

  Other boys were soon ushered over and allowed to sit by the fire, among them the snotty Jarl the Fair, Orm the Hairy One, and Dane’s good friends Drott the Dim and Fulnir the Stinking. No one cared where Drott sat; he was a good-natured sort, always good for a laugh, and he bathed regularly. Fulnir, however, was made to sit downwind, the elders all too aware that even a whiff of the boy’s feculent fumes would foul the festivities.

  Seated beside Voldar under the starlit sky, Dane listened to the elders tell stories—brave tales of their fathers’ fathers and their fathers’ fathers’ fathers and their fathers’ fathers’ fathers’ fathers and—well, they told a lot of stories. Tales of yore being the way wisdom was passed on to succeeding generations—and a fine way to brag to the womenfolk as well. Fathers told tales of magic trolls who dwelled in marshy bogs and fed on children, of fire-breathing elves who rode serpents, of wolves that walked upright, and other creatures large and small that did the bidding of the gods. Lut spoke of other mysteries, like the Ægirdóttir—the Nine Daughters of Ægir—god-spirits who were said to dwell beneath the sea, preying on sailors and schools of wayward herring, and the legendary Well of Knowledge, a secret spring whose waters would greatly expand a man’s mental capacities, though knowledge of its location had long been lost.

  Finally it was their chieftain’s turn to speak.

  “We Norsemen,” said Voldar, “are a proud, courageous people, bound by family and honor, protected by the gods, enriched by the plunder of our forefathers.”

&n
bsp; “Plunder,” said Dane, a question forming. “You mean ‘kill,’ Father?”

  “Yes, Son,” said Voldar, sharing a look with the other men. “To survive, at times, a Norseman must kill. To feed his family. To fight to defend them. But ’tis my fondest wish that you never have to follow the path of the sword.”

  Dane had oft heard of his father’s exploits, of the blood spilled with spear and broadsword, of the screams, sobs, whimpers, and whines even the bravest of his enemies made as they met their ends. He had memorized the locations of his father’s many battle scars, and in his dreams had seen vivid scenes of the violence he might one day do. For countless generations, he knew, his forebears had survived by invading and raiding foreign lands, breaking men’s spirits by forcing them to wear their undergarments backward while barking like dogs and other such humiliations. It was conquer or be conquered, as Voldar liked to say, and Norsemen weren’t keen on being on the losing end of anything, much less a good fight. But one day, after years of warring, Voldar had been persuaded at last to lay down his broadsword. It was Geldrun, his common-sense wife, who had convinced him.

  “Face it, Volie,” she’d said, “your fighting days are done. Your eyesight’s gone, your knees shot. There’s no future in raiding and pillaging. It’s time to put down roots, live off the land, be sensible.”