The Sea of Trolls

“I can’t see them, but I know they’re out there. They’re smashing… and burning… and spreading death like a red tide.”

“Please, sir! Tell me what’s happening.”

The Bard turned over the box. Water dripped out of a small crack. “I hoped never to smell this again,” he said. He pressed the wood in various places until it made a small snap. The carving of the wolf/man slid out. Beneath was a mat of dark green leaves. The Bard drained off the seawater. “That, my lad, is bog myrtle.”

Jack was deeply disappointed. He had hoped for magic.

“And that”—the Bard tapped the lid—“is the fellow who owns it.”

“Is he a Jotun?” asked Jack.

“Jotuns aren’t our immediate problem. This fellow is a berserker, and from the condition of the box, I’d say he’s not far away.”

Jack followed the Bard into the house, wishing the old man would explain things more clearly. “Is a berserker a man or a wolf?”

“A very good question,” said the Bard. “Most of the time they’re men, but when they make a drink of this plant, they become as frenzied as mad dogs. They bite holes in their shields. They run barefooted over jagged rocks without feeling it. Neither fire nor steel can stop them. They believe themselves to be wolves or bears then. My observation is that they’re merely nasty, dim-witted thugs. They’re just as dangerous, though.

“Somewhere, not far from here, a pack of them has landed. Run and warn the village, lad. Tell the men I’m coming. Tell them to send their loved ones into the forest and to gather axes, hoes, whatever can be used for weapons. They will need them soon.”

Chapter Seven THE END OF DAYS

But Jack didn’t have to tell the villagers anything. He met the blacksmith’s son, Colin, running up the path. “Jack! Jack! Call the Bard. Something awful has happened!” Colin stopped to catch his breath.

“He’s on his way,” said Jack.

“Good old Bard,” said the blacksmith’s son. “Dad said he’d know what to do. He’ll throw those pirates back in the sea and let the fishies eat them.”

“Pirates? Already?” cried Jack.

Colin wiped his nose on his sleeve and then put the same arm around Jack’s shoulder. “You knew about them? Oh, of course. You’re an apprentice bard.”

Colin didn’t seem worried by the appearance of pirates. Jack noted his new friendliness and warmed to it. Jack was no longer a farmer’s brat to be bullied. He was an apprentice bard, soon to be a real one with powers to drive people mad or make them come up in boils if they displeased him.

“They haven’t arrived yet,” said the blacksmith’s son, removing his arm and wiping his nose again. Jack moved out of reach. “Dad says there’s going to be an awful fight. Aren’t we lucky? Years go by without the least excitement, and now we’ll go to war like heroes of old. Maybe the king will knight us.”

Jack knew there was a king far to the north. No one had ever seen him. There was also rumored to be a king to the south. Which one might show up and knight them was unclear, but Jack was just as thrilled as Colin by the possibility.

The two boys ran down to the village, where they found everyone gathered outside the chief’s house. The men had clubs and hoes. A few carried the bows they used to hunt deer, and all were armed with knives. Even Father carried a scythe. He swished it through the air to demonstrate what a fine weapon it was. Lucy cheered.

Jack suddenly felt cold. That scythe wasn’t going to cut down harmless grain. It was going to slash arms and legs. The same dizziness that came over him when the pigs were slaughtered made Jack’s senses reel. The air was full of cries. Horses whinnied. Crows croaked as they gathered over a battlefield.

“Jack, are you all right?” came Mother’s voice.

He looked up to find everyone staring at him. He was kneeling on the ground—how had he got there?—with his hands out to push away the evil vision. He scrambled to his feet. “I was looking for the pirates. It’s a bard thing.”

He was gratified to see everyone smile. “Are they coming soon?” cried Lucy, clapping her hands. “Oh, I do want to see one!”

“Tell us the direction, lad,” said the chief with more respect than even Father got. Jack was ashamed. He had no idea where the pirates were. He’d simply said the first thing that came into his head.

“We have to form a battle plan,” the chief said. “Are they on the old Roman road? Or in the marshes?”

Jack tried to sense where the pirates were and failed. He had a one-in-two chance of getting it right. If he guessed right, he would be a hero. If he got it wrong, the villagers might find the wolf-headed men waiting for them when they came home.

“How did you hear about them?” he said, to stall for time.

“John the Fletcher was searching for wood to make arrows,” said the chief. “He saw a ship just as darkness was falling. It was long with many oars. It ran before the wind like a bird flying to its nest, and it was coming our way. I haven’t seen a pirate ship, but I’ve heard descriptions.”

“It wasn’t a fishing vessel, that’s for sure,” said John the Fletcher, who was one of the men carrying a bow.

“Well? Where are they?” said the chief.

Jack knew then he would have to admit his ignorance. It would be too dangerous to make a mistake. He opened his mouth to speak.

“I’ve told you not to do magic without my permission,” said the Bard. Jack spun around. He felt limp with relief and gratitude. The old man wasn’t going to expose his foolishness. “The enemy is on the Roman road, O Chief. You won’t fight them, however. Your weapons are to be used only in direst need. Gather your families and whatever goods you can carry, and hide in the deep forest.”

“I do not like to hide,” said the chief.

“Me neither!” shouted the blacksmith.

“Nor I!” cried several other men.

“We Saxons don’t slink away like dogs,” the chief said. “We are the proud masters of this coast.”

“Once you were,” said the Bard. “Once. But you’ve forgotten your war skills. You’ve let your swords grow rusty and your spears fall into decay. You’ve grown fat along with the sheep.”

“If you weren’t our bard, I’d have your tongue for saying such vile things!” cried the chief.

“But I am your bard,” the old man said calmly. “The men you want to battle are not such as you and I. They are berserkers.” A murmur went through the gathering. Apparently, berserkers weren’t unheard of. The Bard held out the box Jack had found. The chief passed it around, and each man smelled it. The odor clearly did not cheer their hearts.

“Do they… really… have the heads of wolves?” said the chief. Jack could see he was trying to look bold, but the confidence had drained out of him.

“No one knows,” said the Bard. And Jack saw that uncertainty was worse than actually knowing your enemy was half beast. “What I understand is this: The berserkers feel neither fire nor blade. They live only to fall in battle. Any other death is shameful to them, and so they fight on and on, no matter how terrible their wounds are. They say you can cut off their heads and the heads still try to sink their teeth into your ankles. I don’t know if that’s true, but it gives you an idea of what they’re like.”

“Indeed,” said the chief, turning pale. “Indeed.”

“There’s no shame in retreating from such a foe,” the Bard said. “Your aim is to protect these women and children. A wise leader relies on strategy and leaves the empty heroics to the yokels in the next village.”

“They are yokels over there, aren’t they?” said the chief.

“Their chief is probably leading them into battle now—the idiots!” said the Bard.