Ship of the Dead

by James Jennewein

  The sand became harder packed the deeper Grelf dug. Thidrek had lent him his knife to loosen the soil. Grelf stabbed at the earth, wishing it was Thidrek’s face. His nails broken, his fingertips rubbed raw, he scooped out the loosened soil until he had exposed most of the monstrous figurehead on the ship’s prow.

  All Viking ships bore carved prow heads—often a dog, a dragon, or a wolf—to ward off attackers and to beseech the gods for protection. But this head was unlike anything Grelf had ever seen. It seemed a cross between a serpent and a cat, with a long curved neck and a scaly hide. Although it was ancient, the burial in the sand seemed to have preserved each finely carved detail. The beastly thing had two ears that lay back flat on its head, a long snout, and, protruding from its half-opened jaws, two tusklike fangs. Its eyes, deep set beneath its brow, were shut tight under heavy lids—but though both eyes were closed, Grelf had the eerie feeling that they might pop open at any moment. Just under its lower jaw, clutched in its two taloned paws, was an ornate horn, and the detail of this too seemed carved by an unearthly hand.

  Thidrek cried, “Stop!” and Grelf immediately collapsed in the hole he’d made, too drained to climb out, part of him wishing that Thidrek would heap the disturbed soil back on top of him and let him die in peace. He waited. When nothing happened, he turned his head and saw his master was standing above him on the edge of the hole, peering intently at the prow beast. “I suggest you vacate the dig, Grelf—she may be hungry.”

  Hungry? Grelf did not hesitate to ask what Thidrek meant. He scrambled out of the hole and a good distance away from it. Thidrek stared into the eyes of the prow beast and intoned an incantation.

  Sound the horn!

  Awake the dead!

  Bring foulness forth

  And to the living dread!

  For slaughter and havoc

  O’er the earth shall spread!

  There was the sound of wood creaking, like that of a ship at sea. Grelf watched in horror and fascination as the prow beast’s brow began to twitch, awakened from her centuries of slumber. The creature’s eyes shot open, glowing red. Her head came alive, growling and hissing. Her clawed paws brought the horn to the beast’s mouth, and from the horn’s bell came a thunderous bellow, a sound of such force it knocked Grelf back and made him cover his ears.

  The earth behind the prow creature started to churn. A rusted sword blade thrust up from the sand like an insect’s antenna, testing the air. A shrieking figure exploded from out of the sand as if catapulted. The thing sprang up and landed on its feet, facing them. It held the sword in its skeletal hand, a shield in the other, and from its death’s-head mouth came a horrifying war cry. More draugrs shot from the earth in rapid succession and within moments had formed a shield wall as if preparing to defend their buried ship against a score of warriors. Grelf, huddling in terror behind the seemingly unruffled Thidrek, saw that their round wooden shields were rotted, some only half intact, and their weapons and armor were corroded and decayed with rust.

  The largest of the draugr warriors, wearing a tarnished bronze helmet topped with the figure of an eagle’s head, stepped forward and thrust his sword in the air, quieting the chorus of war cries. Grelf suspected this was the undeads’ chieftain, since it was apparent that his helmet and armor had once been of superior workmanship.

  “Who dares attack my ship?” the chieftain bellowed.

  Thidrek regarded the fearsome creature with his usual haughty air. “I am Lord Thidrek the Terrifying. You will address me as such.”

  “Well, Lord Thidrek,” the chieftain said mockingly, “if you are here to fight, bring your men and they shall die.”

  Thidrek reached behind him and pulled the quivering Grelf into view. “He’s not much of a man, but here he is.”

  “That’s what you bring to fight me?” the chieftain roared.

  “I’m not here to fight,” Thidrek said, “but to make an offer.”

  “You will offer me blood,” the chieftain growled. He grabbed a spear from a draugr warrior and let it fly at Thidrek’s chest. It passed straight through him without leaving a mark, as if Thidrek’s flesh were but misty illusion. The chieftain and his warriors gaped in surprise.

  “You fool, can’t you see I am of your ilk?” Thidrek said.

  The chieftain squinted at Thidrek, sniffing the air. “You don’t smell like the undead.”

  Thidrek patted Grelf’s head. “Courtesy of my bootlick and perfumer extraordinaire. What name did we arrive at for your concoction, Grelfie?”

  “My lord, we were down to either ‘eau de living’ or ‘rot-not.’”

  “Hah!” the chieftain spat. “We are warriors and care not if our odor offends. State your business, one known as Thidrek.”

  “I represent the goddess Hel,” Thidrek announced. “Her orders are that we sail this ship to the underworld. There, the horn that awoke you will summon Hel’s army.”

  The chieftain pondered this, rubbing his exposed chin bone in interest. “For what purpose do we raise the army?”

  “What else?” Thidrek sniffed. “So that I may command it to conquer the land of the living.”

  “So that you may command?” roared the chieftain. “This is my ship! I am commander of it!”

  “And the goddess Hel commands you to turn this ship over to me!” Thidrek roared back.

  “Well, I don’t think so,” said the chieftain, crossing his arms on his chest.

  “You dare defy the goddess?”

  “I don’t hand my command to the first undead lord who happens by.” The chieftain smirked. “If you even are a lord. Bring me Hel’s orders in writing—on her official stationery and affixed with her personal seal—perhaps then I’ll think about it.”

  Grelf squelched a cheer. His festering lordship’s plan was hitting a brick wall!

  Thidrek’s eyes bulged in rage. “Has the rot eaten your brain? Hel does not issue commands like a lowly village functionary. She is the patron goddess of all that is evil!”

  The chieftain was not budging. Feet firmly planted, arms still crossed across his chest, he replied, “I am aware of Hel’s evil omnipotence. Which makes me doubt she would send a blustering blowhard as her envoy.”

  This brought snickers from the chieftain’s troops. Thidrek, who like all despots hated ridicule above all, glared at them. “You dare to laugh at me? You—who burrow like worms in the ground? Your shields and weapons are as decayed as your valor. I offer you new life! As my liege men you will sail to glory once more. You will have strong shields and weapons of hard steel. You will know again what it is to be brave and feared—for you will cut a wide swath through the living and eat their flesh and drink their blood to your everlasting content!”

  To Grelf’s fear it appeared that Thidrek’s rousing call to arms had piqued the warriors’ interest. But he wasn’t sure, since it’s hard to read the expression of someone whose face is pretty much rotted away.

  “You waste your words,” the draugr chief barked. “My warriors are bound to me—and I am bound to no one. Go now before I lose patience.” The chieftain ordered his warriors back to their graves. As they had sprung from the sand, they all dived back in as if the ground were water. Soon all had disappeared beneath the surface.

  “Well, I guess that’s that, my lord,” Grelf chirped. “You tried your best, you really did, but perhaps this whole raise-an-army-of-the-dead thing wasn’t meant to be.”

  “I never had trouble enlisting henchmen before,” Thidrek said in contemplation. “Why, every cutthroat and brigand in the land was more than eager to serve Lord Thidrek the Terrifying. Have I lost my touch?”

  “Perish the thought, my lord! You are as terrifying as ever—now even more so in your, um, draugr personage.”

  “Then why would they rather return to their graves than serve me?”

  “The reason for that, my lord, is summed up in one word. Leverage. Before, you had gold to pay men. And you had the threat of death over them if they failed to perform to their r
uthless best.”

  “Of course, the undead have less desire for riches. And since they’re not living—”

  “You have no leverage over their souls,” Grelf said.

  “You have summed up the problem quite nicely, my friend,” Thidrek said, placing his hand on Grelf’s shoulder. “What would I ever do without you?”

  “You are most kind, my lord.” Now go lie in a ditch. I’ll cover you with dirt and be on my way.

  “In all the years you have served me, do you know what I appreciate most about you, Grelf? When times are at their toughest, you always show me how to find the light behind the darkest cloud.”

  “Light, sire?”

  “You know—the times I wanted to give up, but you always managed to talk me out of it?”

  “Uh . . . I don’t think this is one of those times. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

  “You’re . . . sure of it?” Thidrek’s grip tightened on Grelf’s shoulder blade, bony fingers digging deeper into his flesh, and Grelf felt the hot gush of his blood under his shirt.

  “My lord—please! What are you doing?” Grelf wailed.

  “Applying leverage, my dear man. We will find a way to prevail, won’t we?”

  “Yes!” Grelf cried through the excruciating pain. “We will prevail, my liege!”

  Thidrek released him and the whimpering Grelf fell to the ground. “I’m so grateful for your support, Grelfie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Chapter 7

  A Young Stranger

  Running alongside the rain-swollen creek, Dane heard Klint, his raven, call to him as the bird flew overhead, searching for any traces of Lut. Dane knew the plateau was soon to end, plunging to the valley floor—which meant that if they didn’t find Lut soon, chances were he had been swept over.

  He heard a loud crawk! ahead and rushed forward. The rain had stopped and a trace of moonlight shone through the thinning clouds. There! Just before the plateau ended he spotted Lut the Bent lying still, Klint hopping up and down on a rock beside the body. “He’s here!” Dane called to the others, who were on foot behind him upstream. Dane scrambled over the rocks to where Lut lay motionless, his body so thin and frail he looked like little more than a pile of wet rags. Fearing him dead, Dane drew near and tentatively touched Lut’s cheek. It was warm! “He’s alive!” he cried.

  Lut snapped open his watery blue eyes and scowled at Dane as if he’d been awakened from a blissful dream. “What’re you doing in my hut?”

  “You’re not exactly in your hut, Lut.”

  The old man raised his head and saw his predicament. “I was dreaming that my roof was leaking.” Drott and Fulnir arrived in a rush, happy to see Lut among the living.

  “Really cut it close, Lut,” said Drott. “Another blink and you’d have gone over.”

  “It was Death who blinked,” Lut croaked as Fulnir and Drott helped him up. “Just when he was cocksure he had me, I slipped from his grasp like a wise old trout.”

  “Good we still have your wisdom to guide us. It seems to be in short supply.” As Fulnir said this, Dane caught a sharp look from him. Fulnir and Drott took Lut away and Dane did not move to help. It was clear they did not want his assistance and blamed him for everything that had gone wrong.

  The storm having now passed and the skies cleared, a bright moon lit the way as they rejoined the others and continued down the main trail across the plateau. Dane rode in the lead, feeling the growing animosity at his back. The notion of apologizing to them crept into his thoughts. Perhaps he was wrong about pressing on across the plateau. But then again, was it really his fault they had been caught in the storm?

  Was their faith so thin that one mishap had turned them against him? Had they forgotten all the previous times Dane had led them successfully through all manner of danger? What should he do? Take a vote every time a difficult decision had to be made? If so, they’d never get to Déttmárr’s. It was they who should apologize, Dane realized. Would their whining help them reach the old smith any quicker with the apple? No! If there was hardship along the way, so be it. Bringing Astrid back was worth any suffering.

  The trail descended gently into a valley, and they found a cave where they could shelter for the remainder of the night. After feeding and watering the horses, Drott and William picketed them inside the cave to keep them safe from roving bears and wolves. Jarl built a healthy fire and they all hung their wet clothes to dry on ropes above it. Fulnir passed out portions of dried fish, flatbread, and hard cheese, and the weary travelers sat by the fire eating in grim silence, the air thick with unspoken recriminations.

  Dane was off by himself, brooding, wishing someone would start in with accusations about his poor leadership. Then he would show them. He would tell them they could all go spit in their hats and that he would take the golden apple and find Déttmárr on his own. One man could move faster than a group anyway. If they wanted to rest their backsides for a couple of days, then fine, they could catch up with him later.

  But no one said a word to him, all acting as if he weren’t even there. Dane finally gave up waiting for their criticism, took his blankets, and found a place to bed down. When they awoke, he wouldn’t be here, he vowed. He’d be far away with no one to worry about but himself. The last things he heard before slipping off to sleep were the faint little mouse farts that Fulnir often made while lying in his bedroll, and Dane was quick to add these to his growing list of things he wouldn’t miss.

  When Dane awoke later, the others were still snoring away in their blankets, all fast asleep. From the dying embers of the fire, he judged it was perhaps an hour before dawn. He quietly gathered his dried clothes and blankets and stuffed them into his pack. Carrying pack and saddle, he led his bridled horse out of the cave. As Dane saddled his mount under the cold night sky, the horse became suddenly skittish, snorting and pricking its ears as if catching the scent of carnivores. Dane’s hand went to the handle of his sword, and then he heard her voice.

  “Will you never stop?” Dane whirled and saw Astrid upon her celestial mount descending from above. As soon as the horse’s hooves touched ground, Astrid leaped off and stood before Dane, hands on hips, looking very put out. “Can you go one week without risking your life or someone else’s? Lut almost died!”

  “So you’ve been watching us,” Dane said with a grin. “You just can’t keep away, can you?”

  Her lips pursed in dismay. “What lame scheme are you up to now?”

  “It’s not my scheme, it’s Skuld’s,” Dane said, and he proceeded to tell her the whole story of why they were traveling to Déttmárr’s with one of Idunn’s apples, and how, once revived, the smith would make a special blade, and lastly, how Dane would use it to kill the draugr Thidrek and thereupon release Astrid from her oath to Odin. Fully expecting Astrid to be so overjoyed by the prospect of rejoining him that she’d leap ecstatically into his arms and cover him with kisses, he was therefore startled to find her staring at him with cold fury.

  “I thought I had made it clear to you. I don’t want you to risk lives for my sake. Take everyone and go home.”

  “Home? I have no home if you’re not there.”

  “Oh, stop,” she said. “You still think I want to return? I don’t. I like being a Valkyrie—I like everything about it. I have shared drink with the gods, have seen places your narrow, boyish mind couldn’t even imagine. Do you think I’d be satisfied now with a boring life in Voldarstad with you?” And then she laughed—laughed!—at his shocked expression of hurt.

  “You’re not Astrid. Astrid wouldn’t say those things!”

  Her face hardened. “You’re right, Dane. I am no longer the girl you knew. When will you get that through your thick head?”

  Dane lunged forward and grabbed her wrist. “Is it you, Skuld? Come to test me again?” Astrid threw off Dane’s grasp with such force that he flew backward and landed in the dirt. For a moment he lay there and saw that her hard, mocking expression had changed to one of surprise, as
if she too were appalled by her sudden violence against him.

  Her hand clutched the Thor’s Hammer locket at her neck and ripped the chain free, letting it fall to the ground. “It is over between us,” she said tonelessly, “now and forever.” She leaped onto her horse and took to the skies. With an overpowering sadness he watched her until her image vanished among the stars.

  Next thing he knew, someone was shaking him awake. Dane’s eyes snapped open, and he saw before him a very worried-looking William the Brave. “It’s Lut!” the boy whispered. “He’s gone!” Dane sat up in his bedroll, gathering his senses. The cave was lit with the first rays of morning, and everyone save for William and Lut was still warm in their blankets. Dane realized with welcome relief that the vivid scene with Astrid had merely been a dream. “Dane! We have to find Lut. He went out to pee hours ago.”

  “Old men take a long time to empty.”

  “Not this long. I think something’s happened.”

  “All right, all right,” Dane said gruffly. He pulled on his boots and strapped on his sword, wondering what kind of new fix Lut had gotten himself into. He knew that the old man was too frail for such an arduous journey and never should have come along. He was like a small child now who had to be watched constantly.