“Let there be no disambiguation! Two plus two is four! Four plus four is eight! Eight hundred plus eight hundred is one thousand six hundred! Ha! I don’t believe it! The square root of sixty-four is eight. Euclidean postulate number four states that all right angles are equal. I love this! Wood floats because it has air inside it, stones sink because they don’t! And—oh my god—the earth revolves around the sun!”
“The earth what?” said Orm the Hairy One. “Around the sun? He’s daft, Dane! Did you hear what he said?”
Drott ran to Dane and wrapped him in a bear hug. “Dane! Thank you thank you thank you!”
“Drott! Is it really you?”
“Of course it’s me! Isn’t it wonderful! The wisdom water worked! I actually know stuff! My head is literally bursting with—I don’t know what to call it! Information! Insights! Ideas! Facts! Figures! Data! Knowledge! I’m smart, Dane, I’m actually smart! Did you know that a hummingbird beats his wings eighty times a second? And that geologically speaking our earth is over four thousand million years old? And that any theorem stated but left untested could be true in the Aristotelian sense but not in the Pythagorean? I’m speaking empirically, of course. Ad hoc ipso post facto erratum et cetera ad nauseum. That’s Latin, in case you guys were wondering.”
Now he really had the men scratching their heads.
“Does the earth really revolve around the sun?” asked Fulnir.
“Absolutely!” And now he really started laying it on thick, the men standing there agape as he cavorted about, describing how many million square miles of ocean covered the earth, exactly how many days it took the moon to orbit the earth each month, and why it was that some wildflowers bloomed in the spring and some in the fall, and why water flowed downhill and not up. Then the men began shouting questions at him, and Drott swelled with pride: Finally, for the first time in his life, he was the one they looked to for the answers.
“Where does the sun go at night?” asked Vik the Vicious.
“It doesn’t go anywhere. We just move round to where the sun can’t see us.”
“When’s the next ice age coming?”
“Not for another ten thousand years at least.”
“How come women change their mind so much?”
Drott wasn’t thrown in the least. “Because, like the swells of the sea, their moods are ever changing. You see, in the bearing of children—”
Then a hand grabbed him from behind and wrenched him around. It was Jarl.
“If you’re so smart,” said Jarl, “tell us where Thidrek is.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get to that in a minute,” said Drott, breezily waving him away. “But first I want to take you through the basics of Euclidean geometry. It’s really a beautiful system of—”
“TELL me!” cried Jarl, grabbing Drott by the shirtfront and pushing him up against the mast of the ship. The others gathered round now, anxious to know the answer too.
“Okay, okay, okay! Don’t be so pushy.” Drott put his finger to his temple and looked upward into the air, squinching his face, concentrating intently for a few moments. Then a sly smile appeared on his face, and his brilliance burst forth.
“Ah, yes, this is so simple, I’m surprised I hadn’t surmised this before. Thidrek, if you may recall, just happened to attack on the night of a full moon. Why? Coincidence? I think not. Because of the tides, my friends. He knew, as do all enlightened men, that tides are highest when the moon is fullest. And high tides meant his Berserker ships could roll in closer to shore, giving them the element of surprise. Okay. He attacks. He withdraws. Where does he go? If he doesn’t retreat to his castle, he only has two choices. Sail south along the coast or sail north? Yes, the south is nice this time of year. Warmer. Balmier breezes. Friendlier women. But—going south gives him fewer defenses. Seas are calmer there. Less fog. Nothing but clear sailing all the way south. Fewer sheltered fjords, hence fewer places for him to hide. But north, you say? He’d have to make it through the Extremely Narrow and Shallow Shoals of Peril and Almost Certain Death—which we all know is impossible. Unless—what?” He waited to see if anyone else knew the answer. No one did, and this gave him just the tiniest bit of satisfaction. He turned and cast a superior look at Jarl.
“Jarl? No idea at all?”
“No, ya nimrod, just tell us!”
“Uh, I believe you are the nimrod now.”
Jarl made a threatening move toward him and Drott quickly spat out the answer:
“Again—the tides! The only way to safely navigate over the Shallow Shoals of Peril is to go at the highest of high tides. Given the fact that they lie roughly twelve hours north of our village, if he left our shores at high tide, he could have easily reached the deadly shoals in question precisely a half day later, just in time for another unseasonably high tide to carry him safely over the rocks and on to any inlet of his choosing, knowing, of course, that as the tides receded, anyone trying to follow him would be dashed upon the rocks and destroyed. The tides gave him the perfect entry and exit, and thus concluding, I rest my case.”
Drott crossed his arms and looked back at the men, rather satisfied with his explanation. Dane and Jarl traded looks, all the others knowing that they were in charge and waiting for them to decide whether what Drott had just said was bunk or worth believing.
“But why?” Jarl asked. “To what purpose? What’s he after?”
“I don’t know why he’s going north, I just instinctively know that he is. Plus, I kinda heard one of his guardsmen say it last night in the attack.”
“Why didn’t you say so before, then?”
“’Cause I just thought of it now. The wisdom water made me remember!”
The men traded questioning looks and then looked to Lut for his opinion. The Bent One merely smiled and raised his drinking horn in salute.
“Well, Drott,” said Dane. “How’s it feel to be the wisest man on this ship?” Dane broke into a grin and knocked fists with Drott. The other men clapped Drott on the back and thanked him for risking his life for the good of all on board. “Set a course due north northeast!” Dane called out to Blek the Boatman, who was manning the rudder. “That bastard Thidrek’s gonna get his just rewards after all!” A cheer went up. Then Fulnir began pouring grog for the men and proposed a toast.
“To the man what brought us wisdom!” The men cheered Huzzah! and drank to Dane. It felt good to have been right, to have the men with him at last. Drott began lecturing the Vicious Brothers about the differences among mead, ale, and grog…mead being a drink of fermented honey, made mostly for special occasions, ale a hearty beer brewed from malted grain, and grog being just a gallimaufry of alcoholic beverages all thrown together. Rik and Vik the Vicious brothers looked confused by this new information.
“But mead, ale, and grog,” said Vik, trying to comprehend what Drott was saying, “they all have the same kick, right?”
“Yes,” said Drott, “all produce the same state of euphoria.”
“And last just as long?” asked Rik, now getting what his brother was driving at.
“Yes, yes,” answered Drott, finding this line of questioning tiresome. “All will make you equally drunk.”
The brothers beamed and turned to each other.
“Grog me!” said Vik.
“Ale me!” said Rik.
They bumped chests and began guzzling from their goatskins, chugging their inebriant of choice, racing each other to the comforting arms of drunken euphoria.
Jarl stood there uncomfortably, holding his wineskin of idiot water, feeling every bit the twit. He felt the eyes of the men upon him.
“Whaddaya keeping that for?” he heard Fulnir ask. “To make you smarter?” This made the men guffaw and Jarl feel worse. That he’d been wrong, that he’d chosen the idiot water, was bad enough. But to be bested by his rival and made a fool by the others, this was sheer humiliation. Suddenly wanting to be rid of all that had shamed him, he moved to empty the goatskin over the port side bow. But Dane grabbed hi
s arm and stopped him.
“’Tis nothing to those who know of its danger,” said Dane, “but perhaps a weapon against those who don’t.” The sullen Jarl thrust the bag at Dane and walked off, though still in the range of their laughter, which further darkened his mood. Perhaps the gods weren’t on his side after all, he mused morosely. Perhaps he was doomed to die, and the best he could hope for would be to die bravely and heroically in battle. As he watched the others busily prepare to set sail on their new course, the men gave Jarl not a single look. The ship was now clearly under Dane’s command.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ASTRID LIGHTS A FIRE IN THIDREK’S ICY HEART
The girl lay asleep in the moonlight at the rear of the longship, tied at the wrists and ankles and secured to the bulwark to prevent her escape. Thidrek sat on a cask nearby and gazed upon her lovely form, the sight of her bare shoulder and the wisps of her golden hair taken by the breeze awaking in him some long-buried tenderness. The Mistress of the Blade, they called her; the sound of this pleased Thidrek still more. He might have to torture the poor girl if she chose not to accede to his wishes, and for the first time in his life, he felt something akin to—what was it? Discomfort? Regret? He wasn’t sure. This must be what others talk of, he mused, when they speak of having “feelings of affection.” But oh, how weak he felt! Horribly, horridly weak! And visions of grisly torture again flooded his mind, comforting him, and soon his moment of weakness passed.
Thidrek turned his gaze to his clothier, Hrolf the Finicky, who had finished taking the girl’s measurements and now sat nearby, sketching designs on sheets of vellum with a stick of charcoal. Though barrel-chested and balding, he cut quite a stylish figure in his silver-studded black-leather vest and matching boots. In his youth, when known as Hrolf the Ripper, he had dutifully burned, looted, and maimed, all the while secretly harboring a desire to work with fabric. At last he gave in to his urge to create and, working nights, fashioned a line of smart warrior attire, ensembles of chain mail, dyed leather, and ermine that won him wide acclaim. When the designs caught Thidrek’s eye, Hrolf was put on retainer as his personal clothier and ever after known as Hrolf the Finicky.
“May I see it now?” Thidrek asked, eager to see what Hrolf was dreaming up for him.
“When I finish!” Hrolf snapped, his voice a reed-thin rasp due to an old knife wound on his throat. Thidrek said nothing, knowing it best not to push the man. He was a temperamental artist, rumored to have killed a former patron for daring to criticize his color scheme.
With the girl asleep, Thidrek turned his gaze to the Shield of Odin that lay gleaming in his lap. He stared in distraction, mesmerized by its opalescent Eye, lost in the glints of starlight it reflected. It was funny. He felt most alive when taking life. The power he felt when killing things—the swell of strength that swept through him—these were the moments he lived for, taking him to heights of pleasure his weak-willed father hadn’t had the character to grasp, much less emulate. Yes, Thidrek had far outstripped his father’s own pathetic accomplishments, and now the prince was on the verge of possessing the ultimate prize. When he thought of the exalted powers that might soon be his, the possibilities were so thrilling, he could scarce contain himself.
“Did you know, Hrolf,” Thidrek intoned, “that some men are fated to rise above mere mortal status? To stand eye to eye with”—he drew in a breath and eyed the heavens—“the gods themselves?”
“I shan’t be surprised,” Hrolf rasped, “to someday see you in that vaunted company.” Then, finally finished, he presented his drawing to His Lordship, who eyed it with interest.
“Snow white and teal,” said Hrolf, “that’s the color scheme I recommend, m’lord. With ruffles here, here, and here.” He then handed Thidrek something he called a “fabric swatch.”
Taking the swatch, Thidrek gave it a brief glance and began buffing the Shield with it, polishing it to a high sheen. “You’re my clothier—I leave that to you,” he said distractedly. “So long as it says ‘Ice Queen,’ Hrolf. That’s all that matters.”
“She’ll be the picture of icy reserve,” Hrolf said.
Only feigning sleep, Astrid had lain awake the whole time and heard it all. They’d roughed her up a bit after her capture and lashed her again to the aft deck, this time tightly binding her wrists and ankles with long straps of sealskin leather. Though the ties had cut into her flesh, she’d borne the discomfort with stoic strength. This was made all the more difficult as the fur she lay beneath was infested with fleas, and she had to lie still and not scratch at the beastly little things.
She’d heard Thidrek’s footsteps recede and after a few moments of silence had cracked open an eye to see that she was now alone. Her mind sharpened by the pain in her leg and her primal need to escape, her thoughts raced, piecing things together.
They were fitting her for a garment of some kind. But what was it? What kind of sick scheme did he have? A nuptial dress? No, it couldn’t be. But she’d heard him say “queen.” He must be thinking of a royal wedding. But how could he? After the way he’d treated her? She was so steamed that when Thidrek returned, kneeling over her, offering a plate of food, she blew up in anger, blowing off all pretense of being cooperative.
“Are you that deluded to think that after all you’ve done—the kidnaping, the poison, the hard bed—I’d actually agree to marry you? Of all the colossal gall! I’d rather die by my own hand than have you touch me!”
A light of desire came into Thidrek’s eyes. “I so like your fire,” he said with an oily smile. “But who said we’re to be wed?”
“Oh, so I’m just a gutter wench, is that it?” Astrid shot back. “I’m fine for a good time but nowhere near worthy to be a queen?”
Thidrek grinned, further aroused by her outburst. “Woman, you stir me!” Enflamed, he bent to kiss her—and Astrid used the only means of self-defense at her disposal. She spat a gob of spit in his eye.
His cheeks flamed red. He quietly drew out his handkerchief and wiped away the saliva. His voice went cold.
“This time tomorrow,” he said, “you’ll wish you hadn’t done that.” And he swept away, leaving Astrid lying there alone, shivering in the chill wind, further pained by the knowledge she had only one more sundown to effect an escape.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
OUR HERO’S MOMENT OF TRUTH GETS HIM ALL WET
Strutting back and forth before the men at the aft end of the ship, the wisdom water still firing his mind, Drott was alive with insights. Enthralling his friends, Drott pontificated on matters great and small, enjoying each moment of his newfound brilliance, telling Rik and Vik and Orm and the others he wanted to explain as much as he could before its magical effects faded once and for all and he went back to being Drott the Dim again.
The men asked why the effects of the wisdom water had to fade at all. Why couldn’t they last forever, like the effects of the idiot water did? Drott admitted that, on the face of it, it did seem unfair. Since there was already a seemingly endless supply of idiocy in the world, you’d think the gods would be a bit more generous with the wisdom. But, no, he said, wisdom had to remain a rare and precious thing or else men wouldn’t value it as much—which would make life a lot harder than it already was—and so it was only fitting that the gods would dole out wisdom in such minuscule amounts, if only for our own good. Some of the men, slow to accept Drott’s mental superiority, threw searching looks to Lut to see what he thought of this explanation. Lut just nodded and smiled, and the men eagerly returned to peppering Drott with questions.
Orm wanted to know why it was that in their land both snow and rain fell from the sky, whereas in other lands his father had visited there was only rain. Drott explained that snow was merely frozen rain and that in warmer climes it rained all the time and never snowed and people were always wet and miserable and never able go sledding or throw snowballs and that’s why the Norsefolk were lucky to live where they did. Orm seemed satisfied by this answer.
Ulf t
he Whale wanted to know if the Romans had really thrown people to the lions. Drott said, yes, they had. Ulf then wondered aloud how many people a lion would have to eat before it was full, and Drott said he wasn’t sure but guessed a dozen at least, maybe more, and Ulf the Whale observed that once his grandsire Zander the Remarkably Tall had eaten an entire ox at one sitting, with dipping sauce, and Blek said, “Yeah, and fell over dead the following day.”
After the laughter died, Rik and Vik had an astonishing array of questions on the many intoxicating aspects of ale and grog and other alcoholic potions and which drink would keep you drunk the longest and which would make you pee the farthest. Drott described how grapes were used to make wine and how to get rid of hiccups, deftly avoiding having to answer the urination-distance question at all.
Asked about the origin of the runes, Drott said it was the god Odin himself who, in ancient times, had given their ancestors the original runic alphabet carved on a magic staff. Using this “language of the gods,” men had learned to communicate with the deities, carving runic symbols on bones and pieces of tree bark, which they then read to know the future.
Years later, he said, men made the language their own, using runes to communicate with each other, inscribing in wood men’s names, dreams, and, at times, grocery lists. And to preserve for future generations the exploits of the most heroic among them, they carved tales of their selfless deeds on giant slabs of granite they called rune stones. And these rarest of heroes so memorialized came to be known as Rune Warriors, men who would live on, in stone, for ages. “And thus it was,” Drott said, “that men used language to stop time.”
Fulnir showed great interest in the causes of body odor, and Drott had patiently explained that “we are what we eat,” and that perhaps a modified diet would change the odors his body expelled. Blek had asked about the many moods of the sea and the faces of the moon, and Drott answered his questions as best he could.
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