RuneWarriors

by James Jennewein

  Unnerved, Fulnir kept blasting odoriferous fumes—unfortunately for Lut, whose face was stuck inches from Fulnir’s rear. And Drott, having lost most of the wits he’d miraculously gained, now babbled on, repeating the names of all the girls he’d ever kissed or held hands with and the many ways to cook goat. It saddened Dane and the others to hear Drott’s dimness returning. All of them felt that something precious had been lost. So when Jarl told Drott to shut up, the others shouted him down, saying Drott should be allowed to say anything and everything he felt like saying. Everyone seemed anxious to have Drott’s precious light last as long as possible.

  Thus encouraged, Drott felt a final potency surge through him, and for some reason he found himself repeating over and over the words, “Fight with Thidrek, find the thunder…fight with Thidrek, find the thunder…fight with Thidrek, find Thor’s thunder,” as if the words held a key to their predicament.

  Jarl was about to again interrupt when Dane said, “That’s it!”

  “That’s what?” said Jarl.

  “Thor’s thunder! That’s what Thidrek’s after—Thor’s Hammer!” Perhaps it had fallen to earth, as the prophecy foretold. Dane realized Thidrek was intending to find the frost giant who’d stolen it and was going to trade Astrid for the Hammer. Once he possessed it, he would have the ultimate weapon in the land and would, indeed, be all-powerful—the dream of all tyrants.

  “Drotty, you must have some wits left,” said Dane. “How can we get out of this?”

  Drott thought real hard. “We need more wisdom water.”

  “Idiot!” screamed Jarl. “We haven’t any more wisdom water!”

  “Actually, we do. It’s in my pocket.” Drott explained that when they were on ship, he picked up the goatskin and saw there was just a tiny bit left. So he stowed the bag in his pocket in case of emergency.

  “You could’ve told us this before!” said Fulnir.

  Since Fulnir’s hands were closest to Drott’s pocket, he managed to locate the bag. There was just one swallow left. But who should take it? The men began to argue, each volunteering to drink what was left. But then, with the last bit of fading intelligence still within him, Drott spoke. “There is so little water, perhaps enough for one good idea. Since Dane is the smartest of us all, if he drinks it, his idea will be the greatest.” All save Jarl agreed, he being unable to concede that his intelligence was second-rate. The goatskin was passed hand to hand until it reached Drott, who squirted the last little bit of water into Dane’s mouth. Everyone waited for the one great idea that was going to save them.

  “Everyone take a whiz!”

  The men reacted. What? Go pee? Was he daft?

  Dane’s mind, suddenly alight with a vision he couldn’t find words to explain, said, “Yes, yes, take a leak! Now! The doomfish! Their acute sense of smell! If we all pee at once, the sudden concentration of uric acid in the water might be enough to temporarily drive them away!”

  “Uric what—?” said Jarl, perplexed. “He’s babbling nonsense!”

  “Don’t question him, Jarl! Just do it.”

  And sure enough, with the men having no other viable means of escape, ten streams of urine soon shot forth, arcing outward like a Roman fountain in all directions, hitting the water at the same time. And wouldn’t you know, just as Dane had predicted, the doomfish drew back in alarm and immediately swam away from the immense slick of pee, moving as far away from it as they could.

  “Well? What are you waiting for?” said Dane. “Let’s go!”

  Jarl dutifully sliced open the rope netting. The net gave way and Dane fell into the water with the others, splashing and thrashing around as they made a mad scramble for shore. One by one they reached land and climbed up on the muddy bank, relieved to be out of the pee-filled water and free of danger.

  All but Ulf. His rotundity being especially monumental, it took him longer to swim the distance. Gathered onshore, the men called for him to hurry—they could see the doomfish plowing across the lake straight for him. The sight of Ulf’s well-fattened rump in the water doubtless spurred the ravenous creatures on to what they could only imagine would be a smorgasbord of epic proportions.

  “Hurry, Ulf!” Dane shouted. But the doomfish were gaining. Twenty yards…ten…they were closing fast. It looked as if Ulf the Whale’s mother might be receiving a sympathy visit.

  And then, with two of the giant man-eaters mere feet away from mealtime, two arrows came whizzing through the air—ffffttt! ffffttt!—and made direct hits, killing the doomfish in an instant. This gave three other men time to rush into the water and pull Ulf up onto shore. And once he caught his breath, he pumped Jarl’s hand and thanked him for saving his life. For indeed it had been Jarl who’d shot the arrows; while everyone else had been yelling, he’d found the bow and arrow he’d stashed and shot the dreaded predators with ease.

  Dane noticed Lut looking weak and haggard and, knowing the ordeal that lay before them, suggested that it might be best if he returned to their ship and stay aboard, if only to guard it from interlopers. Lut protested, saying he was certainly up to the task, and if there was any chance of seeing a frost giant, he was certainly going to do it. But then he was seized with another coughing fit, and seeing a firmness in Dane’s demeanor he hadn’t seen before, he agreed it might be best. Dane embraced the old one, realizing how parchment thin Lut was, and it sent a new worry through the young man.

  “The thunder,” Lut said, putting his leathered hand on Dane’s shoulder, “is just within your grasp. Take it, son.” Dane bade him good-bye and watched as Blek and Orm the Hairy One guided Lut through the woods toward the ship. Dane had a notion this might be the last he’d ever see of the old one, but he banished the thought from his mind, turning it toward making preparations for the arduous journey ahead.

  Blek and Orm soon returned. Keen on revenge, the men gathered round Dane, looking to him for guidance. Dane gazed up at the snow-capped peaks of Mount Neverest far in the distance. Then he gazed at his men and said, “We know now what we must do to defeat Thidrek. We must journey to Mount Neverest. It is there in the Land of the Frost Giants that we shall find the thunder we seek. Thor’s Hammer.”

  A sober resolve settled over the men.

  “And if we can’t find it before he does, all hope for our lands—and Astrid—is lost.” That said, Dane began to trudge up the snowy slope toward the impossibly high mountain. One by one, his men silently followed, the snow falling heavier about them as they plodded on, each step drawing them closer to their fate.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE FAIR MAIDEN MEETS HER FATE

  Astrid was numb. For the first time in her life, she felt too cold to be afraid. They’d been toiling for hours in a blinding blizzard up the side of Mount Neverest, the snowfall so heavy at times, she could barely see a foot in front of her. The blistering winds had blown so bone-chillingly cold that she could no longer feel her hands or feet. Her mind was crowded with visions of giant bears and ice wolves and other ravenous beasts that they would no doubt soon encounter. Tethered to a pair of Thidrek’s guardsmen, she’d dragged herself onward despite the despair in her heart and growing certainty that something bad was about to befall her. She’d lost hope of living much longer.

  Now the howl of the wind subsided and the daylight darkened. She lifted her eyes from the ground to see that they were entering an ice cave, a narrow crevasse of blue glacial ice that soon opened into a large cavernous chamber. It was Thidrek’s plan to take shelter here until the storm lifted and then to move on to higher elevations.

  Grateful to be out of the freezing wind, Astrid sank to her knees and fell back against a wall, weak and aching with hunger. The flickering light from the Berserker guards’ torches seemed to waver and go blurry. She closed her eyes for what seemed only a moment and sank into a dream of a big, silvery moon spilling out stars onto a black velvet sky. The stars began falling, turning into snowflakes, each flake uniquely crystalline and perfect. And then the snowflakes sprouted wi
ngs and turned into lovely white birds that flew toward the sun and—

  She awoke to the clamor of voices.

  “We’ve found it, sire!” said Grelf, his eyes alight with excitement. “The Hammer! Just up the mountain on the next ridge. It had been buried in snow, but the winds must have uncovered it. It’s there for the taking, sir. It’s…magnificent!”

  Thidrek’s face took on a look of such rare intensity that, to a passing stranger, he would have appeared to be in a state of religious ecstasy or the rapture of true love. But Astrid saw it was merely his raw lust for power, unmasked.

  “This is good,” said Thidrek. “This is very, very good. You’ve done well, Grelf. And you’ll be rewarded.”

  “Thank you, sire, thank you!” said Grelf, his eyes shining with avarice. Grelf bowed to Thidrek, more obsequiously than ever before, and then turned to escort him out of the passage. Abruptly they stopped, Thidrek, Grelf, the dozen or so Berserkers who accompanied them all frozen in their footsteps. It seemed that something, or someone, was blocking their path. Instead of moving forward, they began to backpedal, their heads tilting upward, eyes bulging. And then Astrid saw what the men all saw as the creature moved into the cave: An enormous frostkjempe, a frost giant!

  So the legends were true! Amazing! She’d heard the stories as a child, tales of giant men made of ice who strode the tops of mountains, their thunderous footsteps causing deadly avalanches that often wiped out whole villages, fearsome creatures who could gobble up a child in one bite. As a girl she’d loved the stories and believed in them wholeheartedly. But as she’d grown older, she’d stopped believing the fantastic tales her father told. While other girls of the village talked of jewelry and makeup and boys, Astrid had happily busied herself learning to hunt and fish with her father. She grew into a levelheaded, practical-minded girl who had stopped believing in giants.

  Now the frost giant stood before her, very much alive. He was so huge—well over twenty feet tall—that he had to bend over to enter the cave. And he was made entirely of ice! His shape was every bit that of a man’s—he had arms, legs, feet, and hands; but instead of flesh and bone his entire body was formed of tiny frozen crystals and covered in a thick, bluish-white frost. His limbs creaked when he walked, and when his arm brushed against his side, tiny flakes of ice were scraped off and fell to the floor. His face Astrid found particularly striking. He had a broad, flat forehead and a large frosted ridge of a brow above his tiny ice-blue eyes—eyes, Astrid saw, that missed nothing. From his chin hung a beard of frosted icicles, and each time he exhaled, he puffed out a cloud of cold air that iced over his beard, making his beard icicles grow longer. He was a breathtaking sight to behold, otherworldly and magnificent.

  The men shrank away, cowering in fear. The giant bent over them, peering curiously at their gleaming armor. And as he did so, a guardsman lashed out with a sword and hacked off the first two fingers of the giant’s left hand. The ice fingers fell and shattered on the floor. Instead of reacting in pain, the giant merely stared blankly at his missing fingers. Astrid was still too numb to feel anything but fascination.

  “I implore your forgiveness,” said Thidrek, stepping forward to address the giant. “His rashness will be severely punished.” He glared at the offending guardsman, then raised the Shield of Odin to his chest in caution. “We come in peace. I am Prince Thidrek, son of Mirvik the Mild, ruler of the northern fjordlands. I am deeply honored to make your acquaintance.” He gave a low bow, a gesture of respect he’d never shown anyone.

  A small, encouraging smile formed on the giant’s face, and Thidrek continued.

  “I believe you’re in possession of an item I desire. Thor’s Hammer. I would like to buy it from you.”

  The frost giant’s face clouded with concern. He gave a frosty snort and lowered his gaze to the floor. Noting the great creature’s dismay, Thidrek took a new tack.

  “I’m prepared to pay handsomely.”

  Still the giant frowned.

  “Try to see it my way,” Thidrek said in a honeyed tone. “I’m a benevolent ruler who wants to keep peace. With the Hammer in my possession, all the tribes would cease their stupid warring, and the killing would end.” The giant was silent, unswayed by Thidrek’s words, his simple mind sensing them to be untrue. Feeling he was losing control, Thidrek shot a look at Grelf. “This was your idea, Grelf! A little help here?” And then, whispered so that only Grelf could hear: “If I don’t get the Hammer, I’ll have your head!”

  Grelf gulped and approached the creature, feeling dwarfed by his vast size. Weeks earlier, when he’d learned from his spies that the Hammer had indeed fallen to earth and was believed to be in the possession of a frost giant, Thidrek had wanted to employ his usual method: to forcibly destroy the creature and simply steal the Hammer. But Grelf had counseled that they try a less violent, more cunning strategy, and he’d immediately begun to hatch a plan. The only way to beat a force you could never overpower, he reasoned, was not to fight it, but to give it exactly what it wanted. To find its greatest weakness. To feed its deepest need. And so he read. He called in experts. He even interviewed a troll or two. Finally he hit on the answer: Frost giants, he learned, had been formed by the very tears of the gods. This made them extraordinarily sensitive and caring creatures, easily prone to tears themselves, great appreciators of poetry, song, and, most of all, beauty, in all its manifold forms. Therefore, he would appeal not to the giant’s head but to his heart. Ah, emotional vulnerability! How Grelf enjoyed taking advantage of it in others!

  Now Grelf looked up at the ice-crusted thing, praying that his words would not be his last, knowing it was either the Hammer or his head.

  “Sir…I mean, Your Frostship,” Grelf sputtered, “surely the Hammer is a possession to be prized. But mightn’t there be something of even greater value?” The giant furrowed his brow. Grelf forged on. “What I mean is, you dwell here alone, I see. No friends. No fellow giants. No pets. Nothing but freezing cold winds and a wasteland of ice to keep you company. The only voice you hear…is your own. That must be unspeakably hard.” The giant’s face fell, and Grelf saw he’d struck just the nerve he’d been hoping for.

  “You deserve more, don’t you?” asked Grelf, and the giant nodded, seeming about to burst into tears. “Well, of course you do,” said Grelf. “That’s why we’ve brought her”—Astrid felt herself pushed from the shadows into the center of the cave—“a lovely lady to be your bride. To brighten your days and give you the companionship you’ve so sorely missed.”

  The frost giant took one look and his face lit up. Beaming rapturously, he bent toward her in charmed fascination. The soft blue-and-white frills of her dress made her look gift wrapped in ribbons and bows, just the effect Grelf had sought Hrolf to conjure.

  “Uh, I don’t think so,” said Astrid, who wanted no part of this trade, trying to hide behind Thidrek. But Thidrek, seeing the giant so smitten, quickly clamped a hand over her mouth, anxious to seal the deal.

  “So it’s settled. You take the girl and, and—” He looked to Grelf for help.

  “An uplifted heart e’er after,” cooed Grelf.

  “Right, all that. And in exchange, I take the Hammer. Oh, and if you don’t mind, could you sign for it? Just to make it legal?” Thidrek nodded to Grelf, who then unrolled on the floor a small scroll of vellum marked BILL OF SALE. Grelf handed the giant a stick of charcoal and indicated where to sign. The giant took the stick and went to sign, but then stopped. And in a voice remarkably soft, the frost giant spoke.

  “You promise peace?” the frost giant said. The force of his icy exhalation was so strong, it frosted Thidrek’s face and hair. But the prince didn’t flinch.

  “Peace forever,” he said. “You have my word.”

  Satisfied, the giant scrawled an X on the bill of sale and swung his gaze back to Astrid. With a single finger, he gently stroked the top of her head. An icy chill ran through her, giving her such violent shivers, she couldn’t speak.

  She s
aw Thidrek and his men begin to back out of the cave and heard the prince bid good-bye to the giant. “Don’t bother showing us out,” Thidrek said. “We know the way.”

  In a moment the men were gone and Astrid was alone with the brutish thing. She felt too weak to run, too scared to scream. With escape unlikely, faced with who knew what horrors, she did the only thing she possibly could in these impossible circumstances. She fainted.

  The storm on Mount Neverest had spread downward to where the mountain met the sea, and now it had enveloped the ship. Lut lay on deck beneath a bundle of furs, dimly aware of his own heartbeat and the patter of raindrops on his furs. The distant howl of the wind was high and shrill, like the spirits of long-dead ancestors calling to him in song. Though he felt the heat of his own heart fire fading, his mind was alive with pictures. The flinty grin of Voldar the Vile, his lost chieftain. The boyish laugh of Dane the Defiant, the son he’d gained. And the new face that had invaded his dreams. Some kind of bearded, ice-crusted creature that seemed to Lut no mere man but something far more…threatening. He prayed for the safety of Dane and the others, knowing that the higher up the mountain they went, the closer they’d come to the thing that could kill them all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  HEARTS GROW HEATED IN A PRISON OF ICE

  Astrid awoke to the sound of someone happily humming. She lay on a soft bed of fir twigs, the flickering glow of a nearby fire for a moment making her feel warm and safe. But again she heard the humming, and remembering she’d been sold to a brutish beast whose breath alone was enough to give a girl serious frostbite, she realized her prospects looked none too promising.