Ship of the Dead by James Jennewein Page B

Dane’s arms and planted a big wet kiss on his cheek. He then jumped to the floor and went scrambling down the stairs.
    â€œWhere’s he going?” Jarl asked.
    â€œProbably out to find a younger wife,” Lut said.

Chapter 9
A Burning Desire
    D éttmárr was itching to get to work again. Leaving Drott, Fulnir, and William behind with the she-dwarf, Dane, Lut, and Jarl followed Déttmárr down a passageway deeper into the subterranean depths until at last it opened into a vast, cavernous pit spanned by a crude suspension bridge. On the edge of the precipice was a sign that ominously read pit of no return .
    â€œUm, Déttmárr? What’s this sign mean?” Jarl asked.
    The dwarf pointed down into the seemingly bottomless chasm. “ That’s the pit. And if you fall into it—”
    â€œThere’s ‘ no return ’?” asked Jarl, grimacing.
    The dwarf nodded and continued across the bridge. With this frightening thought in mind, Dane and his friends now followed him, stepping carefully on the wobbly wooden planks, edging around the gaps where some were missing. Adding to Dane’s anxiety was the fact that the suspension ropes holding up the whole thing seemed to be frayed in places. It wasn’t until they were halfway across it that he dared to look down.
    His insides went cold. He was staring into a bottomless abyss, a blackness so dark and limitless, it made him feel dizzy. Don’t look down—you’ll be all right, he told himself. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and continued on.
    Crossing the chasm seemed to take forever, but when at last they reached the far side and were on solid footing again, Dane found himself breathing easily once more.
    â€œGlad that’s over with,” he heard Jarl say.
    Déttmárr then led them to a gigantic iron door that he quickly unlatched and pushed open. “Behold,” said Déttmárr, “the Smithy of Yore.”
    The spacious three-sided room had a smoke hole in the ceiling, and rising from the center of a stone floor was a round forge pit. On the walls hung various tools of the smith’s trade—hammers, pokers, pincers, tongs—all blackened with soot and showing centuries of use. Shelves were jammed with jars and lidded pots filled with various clays, powders, and brightly colored metallic nuggets. Three anvils sat atop small stone platforms, and the air was thick with the smell of leather and smoke and exotic odors both pleasing and unpleasant. On the far wall was the stoking furnace itself, its large iron doors darkened with age.
    The little man found a piece of chalk and squatted in front of them. “A draugr-killing blade must be of special design,” he said as he began drawing on the floor. “The undead are a unique breed of hellion. They’re no easy prey. They’re fast and ferociously strong. You’ll need something with a long handle and a good-size killing surface. Something like this.” He pointed to the chalk drawing he’d finished..
    â€œWhat is it?” asked Jarl.
    â€œA double-sided crescent axe,” said Déttmárr. “Heavier than the usual war axes, but far deadlier if you know how to use it. The long handle lets you swing it around like this so you can put the power of your whole body behind it. And the elongated blade increases the chances for decapitation in just one stroke. Remember, a draugr is wicked quick. You’ll have one chance to cut off his head. Miss him and you’re likely to lose your own head in the bargain.”
    Lut and Jarl swung the mold stone out of the now hot furnace and down onto the floor beside the forge pit. The mold was in the shape of a large, double-bladed crescent axe, and there within it lay the liquefied steel, gleaming bright orange, still a-bubble and smoking and destined to deliver death to the undead.
    Déttmárr stood over the molten metal, dropping items one by one