Ship of the Dead by James Jennewein

way.”
    â€œYou’ll draw us a map,” Dane said.
    â€œA map? Hah! You’ll need more than directions. You’ll need wisdom,” Lut said. “And I have more of it in my left buttock than both your brains combined!”
    â€œHe has a point,” Jarl said.
    Lut’s wisdom had saved their skins more than a few times. But there was something worrisome about the old man’s insistence on coming—like he had some other motive for being on the journey. “All right, Lut. But the first time you slow us up, you’re going home.”
    Lut told Dane and Jarl not to tell their fellow villagers the reason for their impending trip. Everyone in the village hated Thidrek, which meant they all would like a crack at killing him again. The elders would insist on a special meeting to elect who would go—and by the time the nominations and speeches and votes were finished, Déttmárr the Smith would probably be dead.
    So it was kept secret, sort of. Two more men were needed to round out the party. The towering twins Rik and Vik Vicious were ideal candidates, but they were off representing the village at the semiannual bear-wrestling matches. Ulf the Whale was also unavailable, still sick from eating a vat of spoiled pickled herring. Although they weren’t the first choice, Drott the Dim and Fulnir the Stinking eagerly agreed to come along. Dane figured that if Lut faltered along the way—which Dane thought highly likely—either Drott or Fulnir could make sure the old man returned home safely.
    Thus, it would be a party of five, with Dane’s pet raven, Klint, scouting the skies. Next morning the horses were saddled and they were set to leave when William appeared on foot, his bow and quiver of arrows slung over his back. Somehow he had discovered their plans. “Thidrek killed my parents and made me a slave. Of all of you, I’m the one who’s suffered most at his hands. I’m coming—and if you don’t agree, I’ll steal a horse and follow you anyway.”
    Knowing that the boy would make good on his threat, Dane gave in.
    Right from the start, Lut knew they were in for trouble. He suggested they take the safer trail north that hugged the coast over flat terrain, then veered inland. Dane disagreed, saying, “Skuld insisted we not delay. We’ll take the more direct route into the mountains.” Lut’s warnings about the mountain route proved accurate. The trail was full of hard climbs and steep descents, yet Dane pushed the party on relentlessly.
    Each morning he roused everyone before dawn to break camp and take to the trail, where he set a fast pace all day, refusing to stop and make camp until long after the sun had disappeared from view. Jarl did not challenge Dane to slacken the pace. Indeed, he was more insistent to quicken it to reach Déttmárr before the smith expired. And as the trek wore on and Dane drove everyone to the point of exhaustion, tempers began to fray. Even Dane’s best friends, Fulnir and Drott, began to question his decisions, and at noon on the sixth day it all came to a head.
    They stopped in the shelter of tall pines to water the tired horses and Lut dismounted, saying he felt the call of nature. Though perfectly true—the old man’s bladder wasn’t what it used to be—it was the burning sensation in his chest that had him worried, and he needed a private place in which to take his potion of powdered willow bark.
    His chest pains had been growing ever more acute for days, and now his potion offered only limited relief. On the morning prior, Fulnir had spied Lut taking the bitter powder and out of curiosity asked what it was. “Oh, just something for the usual aches and pains,” Lut had assured him nonchalantly. Had Fulnir believed the lie? Lut didn’t know. He hoped he had. With so much uncertainty now fraying their group, the last thing they needed was news of Lut’s