Sword of Doom by James Jennewein

was sure to kill him.
    But Dane buried the sword no deeper. Instead, he withdrew it, and Bothvar collapsed to the ground.
    Dane heard a sound and whirled to face Bothvar’s seconds, expecting an attack—and would have gotten one if Godrek hadn’t barged through the door. Godrek’s eyes went from the wounded boy to the bloodied sword in Dane’s hand. “Perhaps your father’s sword is of some use,” he said dryly.
    The seconds rushed to attend to their friend, and Dane began to tell Godrek what had happened. “No need to explain,” Godrek said. “I know a duel when I see one. Lucky I heard the ruckus as I was passing. His seconds would’ve killed you if—” Godrek abruptly froze, his gaze fixed on Dane’s sword in amazement. “The blade!”
    His hands feeling suddenly hot, Dane looked at the broken sword—amazed too by what he saw. Along the surface of the blood-smeared blade, forming a mysterious inscription, a long row of rune figures had appeared, a dozen or more, each glowing a pale orange as if lit by a fire from within the blade itself. Awed by the sight of it, Dane knew not what to think. It had to be magic of some kind. Godrek touched a finger to the blade and smeared the blood down the rest of the sword—and on whichever part the blood touched, more glowing rune marks appeared. Dane saw a fevered look come into Godrek’s eyes as he stared transfixed at the blade. Under his breath, Godrek mumbled a few disjointed words, as if he were trying to decipher the runes.
    â€œCan you read it?” Dane asked. “What does it say?” Godrek appeared not to hear him, so lost he was in the glowing runes. He reached for the sword handle, but Dane pulled it back, alarmed by Godrek’s possessive manner.
    â€œMy friend Lut is a runemaster, m’lord,” Dane said firmly. “I shall take it to him in the morning.” The runic figures began to fade and disappear. And as they did, the fervid look in Godrek’s eyes faded too.
    â€œIndeed,” said Godrek, nodding. “It’s your sword—do as you wish with it.” He nodded at the wounded boy being attended to by his friends. “I’m guessing the duel was his idea, not yours. But this Bothvar comes from a powerful family. Give me time to talk with his father, to let him know his son was the instigator. I’ll come for you in themorning. Until then, stay out of sight and talk to no one.”
    Agreeing to do as Godrek said, Dane shoved the sword into its scabbard and left the stables, hurrying through the falling snow to his room in the royal lodge hall. Along the way he suddenly found that his hands were shaking, less from the cold, he realized, than from the fact that he had just narrowly escaped death. A broken sword bequeathed him by his father, a weapon Dane had thought worthless, had saved his life. Then blood—whether by godly magic or some darker curse—had revealed its runic message. This alone had been thrilling. And when Godrek had caught sight of the runic figures, he had taken on the look of a man possessed; clearly he must have some clue to their import. Dane was now determined that, until he learned its secrets, the blade was not leaving his sight.

9
T HE S ERPENT A WAKES
    I t wasn’t yet dawn when Dane found himself awake and unable to sleep. He lay in bed, adrift on thoughts of his father. He pictured a time in his youth when Voldar had first taught him how to “bring fire.” For that indeed was what his father had said as he struck his flint rock against his axe blade, sending sparks down into the tinder brush he had collected. “Man cannot make fire; only the gods do that.” The tallow candle near Dane’s bed was still aglow, and the candlelight shone on the sword that lay beside him on the bed. He watched it gleaming there in the light, its blade edge dulled and dented by time, yet still capable of