Sword of Doom by James Jennewein Page A

ear to the ground. Faintly he could hear a creaking, cracking sound coming, it seemed, from deep within the glacier, traveling up through the fissure in the ice. He crawled forward on his belly, inching closer to Drott. The cracking sound grew louder. Dane knew he was right at the fissure’s edge but not nearly within reach of his friend. Any farther, and his added weight might collapse the bridge, and then he, too, would never be found until the earth warmed and the glaciers melted. Like that could ever happen.
    There was only one thing for Dane to do—he took off his pants. Grasping the end of one pant leg, he tossed the other one over to Drott, who grabbed it. “Hold tight, Drotty.” Slowly Dane pulled Drott forward.
    Then the snow bridge collapsed.
    Drott disappeared, nearly pulling Dane down with him.But Dane held tight to the ice cliff, keeping a firm grip on his end of the pants as Drott dangled over the chasm, holding tight to the other leg.
    â€œHold on, Drotty!”
    Dane pulled with everything he had. Drott rose a bit—until the deerskin pants began to rip at the crotch, the threads giving way. Dane made a wild grab for the scruff of Drott’s coat. The pants fell into the chasm. With a final heave, Dane pulled his pal up and over the edge to safety.
    They scrambled away a short distance and slumped down, exhausted, Dane’s bare buttocks freezing as they touched the snow.
    â€œYou’re a fool, boy!” Godrek’s voice rang out as he pulled up his horse, having raced down the glacier to Dane’s aid. “You!” he said, angrily stabbing a finger at Drott. “You are a half-wit! But you,” he said, glaring at Dane, “ you are the son of Voldar the Vile and should have more sense!”
    The others rode up, and when Dane saw Astrid, he sheep-ishly cupped his hands in front of his privates. Jarl let out a guffaw. “Well, won’t you be em- bare-assed when you meet the king.” Godrek’s men laughed heartily.
    â€œI’m just wondering how he’s going to wave to the crowd,” Astrid said.
    â€œAll right, all right, I guess I deserve that,” Dane said.
    â€œYou deserve a good birching, that’s what you deserve,” Geldrun scolded.
    â€œI have a spare skirt if you need it,” Astrid said. Her senseof humor was often as sharp as her axes. Right now, as he stood freezing, this was not one of the qualities Dane loved most about her.
    â€œThank you, Mistress of the Jest , but I packed another pair of pants. Why don’t you all ride on and I’ll catch up.”
    â€œMaybe you could point us in the right direction,” she added.
    Dane gave her a scowl.
    After the others had ridden ahead, Dane went to his horse to retrieve his pack. He untied it and found an undershirt, a tunic, two pairs of leggings…but no trousers. Frantically he dug through the pack, tossing his things willy-nilly trying to find the missing garment…but with no luck. Sickened, he realized that in the excitement of leaving for the trek, he must have forgotten to pack his deerskin dress trousers.
    Now what was he to do?
    Alone on the freezing glacier, his bared buttocks turning to ice, Dane spied his loyal raven, Klint, circling overhead.
    â€œKlinty!” Dane called. “At least y ou won’t abandon me, eh, boy?” But as soon as the cry had left his lips, the bird took wing toward the fortress, letting out a scrawk! that to Dane sounded every bit like mocking laughter.

6
A F OREBODING IN THE F ORTRESS
    A t the far end of his cavernous lodge hall, King Eldred the Moody sat brooding on his oaken throne, his brow creased in worry. His long, unruly gray hair fell about his shoulders, and his face bore a most fretful scowl. He cast suspicious looks at the many servants and mead maids scurrying about, making ready for the grand banquet to honor Dane the Defiant, the young man who he hoped would prove himself worthy to inherit