The Sea of Trolls

would have to gather shellfish in the morning. How long could they go on like this without food from the village? How would they know when the wolf-headed men had gone?

Jack set the cauldron simmering with dried peas, onions, and turnips. He added a chunk of bacon that was only slightly green with age. The smell of food drove him mad with hunger, but it wouldn’t be ready for hours. Jack found a rock-hard chunk of bread and soaked it in cider. When he had a soft mush, he fed it to the Bard.

Jack was so tired, he kept tripping over things. His eyes blurred. His hands fumbled as he went about his chores. Yet he found time to light a bundle of coltsfoot and leave it smoldering on a stone shelf near the Bard’s bed. The smoke would ease the old man’s lungs.

Jack had no memory of lying down. He hadn’t meant to until he’d fetched more wood. But somehow his body sat down, and then it was only a short distance to the floor. At any rate, Jack was sound asleep with a sack of beans for a pillow when the Nightmare arrived.

Chapter Nine THE RIDER ON THE NIGHTMARE

The first thing Jack heard was the wind. It drove out of the sea and howled past the house, making the roof shake. It burrowed under the door. Cold air spread along the floor, and the fire sprang to life. Behind this was a rattling like pebbles rolling on a beach, except that it grew louder and louder until it burst upon Jack’s sleep like thunder.

He jumped up. Coals were being blown out of the fire pit by the wind gusting under the door. He ran to sweep them back. The roof groaned, and a huge chunk of thatch lifted up and was torn away. Four or five crows that had been sheltering there tumbled into the room and fluttered to the safety of the Bard’s bed. From a distance came the hideous pounding of hooves coming closer until the whole sky rang with it.

Jack could see the sky. It stretched over the gaping roof, cold and black and filled with heartless winking stars where there had been protecting fog before. He had to do something, but what? He couldn’t think. The pounding drove everything out of his brain. He wanted only to flee. He stepped back, and his foot came down on a live coal. The pain cleared his wits enough for him to realize what was happening.

It was the Nightmare. She’d returned under cover of darkness. She’d discovered the Bard’s weakness and had come to destroy him. Jack grasped the rune of protection around his neck. It was strangely warm—no, hot. It poured its heat into his body like a noonday sun.

Jack heard the Bard give a long, terrified wail. It was a dreadful sound, like a rabbit caught in the talons of a hawk. The old man thrashed, and the crows clung to the sheepskin over him. “Move! You’re scaring him!” shouted the boy, but the crows only clacked their beaks and held on grimly.

The thundering was almost overhead. It was worse than the worst winter storm. It was more violent than the sea dashing against a cliff. Jack had never heard such a loud noise before, and it dazed him. He clung to the bed and stared up at the hole in the roof. He was no more capable of moving than the crows.

Suddenly, out of the deep sky came a figure so large and so terrifying that Jack shouted and the birds shrieked in fear. It was a horse draped in shrouds of icicles that broke off and clattered into the room. Its body was gray, its mane was ragged and cobwebby, and it had too many legs! Jack didn’t count them, but he knew there were far more than there should have been.

On the horse’s back was a rider even darker than the sky, so black that it sucked the light out of the stars. Its thorny legs clasped the belly of the horse, drawing blood—white, oozing blood that was more like pus than anything. The horse screamed. Jack fell to the floor, all thought gone, all consciousness of anything gone but the pulsing warmth of the pendant nestled over his heart.

He woke in darkness. The fire was out. The hole in the roof showed stars but no Nightmare, thank goodness. The air was still, as though the storm had never happened.

Jack felt his way to the truckle bed. The Bard was breathing peacefully, and he appeared to be asleep. Jack’s heart turned over with relief. He reached for the sheepskin cover, touched one of the crows, and got a nip.

“Go away!” he yelled, slapping at the bird. He heard several low grumbles in the dark. “Nobody asked you to come,” Jack cried. He thought about sweeping the creatures out with a broom, but it occurred to him that it was nice to have company, even bad-tempered crows. He wasn’t sure he could have stood solitude after seeing whatever that was on the Nightmare’s back.

I mustn’t dwell on it, he told himself. The Bard said it was wrong to brood about evil. It was better to think of good things like sunlight and green trees. There was no telling what drove the Nightmare off, but at least she was gone and the old man had come to no harm. Tomorrow they would make a plan to defeat her.

Jack searched until he found flint and iron. He gathered the dead coals and relit them. The pot of soup was ice-cold. Either he’d been out longer than he thought or the Nightmare’s rider had sucked the warmth out of it.

Mustn’t think of that. Mustn’t think of that, Jack told himself.

He lit as many rushlights as he could find. They made a huge difference. They even cheered up the crows, who hopped out of the truckle bed and approached the fire pit. The birds eyed the cauldron thoughtfully. “Don’t even think of eating that,” Jack said. The crows clacked their beaks as if to say, We’ll see.

Jack stayed awake until the hole in the roof turned gray. Must gather thatching grass, he thought, adding the chore to an already overwhelming list. When he looked again, the sky was bright blue and it was clear he’d taken a nap.

“I know we should make fog, sir,” Jack said in the Bard’s direction as he rubbed the stiffness out of his arms and legs. “But you need to rest, and I need to find food. I’ll go down to the beach after breakfast.” He stirred the cauldron. The peas had melted into a satisfying mush. The smell of onions and bacon made his stomach rumble. One crow, bolder than the rest, hopped closer.

“Go away,” Jack said, waving the spoon. A dollop of stew flew off and was pounced on. “Shoo! This food’s for people, not you. You can gather whelks if you’re hungry.” Jack filled a bowl and placed a heavy iron lid on the cauldron. He kicked at the birds as he walked to the truckle bed. He’d never seen such bold creatures.

The Bard lay with his eyes open. “Would you mind sitting up?” the boy said politely. “It’ll make it a lot easier to feed you.” The Bard blinked and sniffed. A line of drool appeared at the edge of his beard.

“Let me help you,” Jack said. He wedged the bowl between his knees to keep the birds away from it. He reached for the Bard’s arms.

“Wud-duh,” said the old man.

“What did you say? Water?” said Jack. “Do you want water?”

“Wud-duh.”

“I don’t understand,” the boy said, suddenly frightened.

“Gaaw,” said the Bard. Only the line of drool on his beard showed his interest in the stew.

“Are you sick? If you’re too sick to talk, nod your head.”

“Wud-duh!” The Bard appeared to be getting angry. His eyes flashed and his mouth puckered. Jack was thunderstruck. What had happened to the man? This was an illness far beyond Jack’s ability to understand. Had the Nightmare stolen the Bard’s wits? Or his soul?

“Please, sir, you’re frightening me. If you’d only try to sit up, I could help you.” But the old man continued to make strange noises, and presently, he grew so enraged that his face turned red and he roared like a baby having a temper tantrum.

Jack tried to spoon food into the Bard’s mouth. The old man turned his head and sprayed stew all over the truckle bed. “Gaaw!” he screamed.

“It’s good, it’s really good. See, I’ll taste it first,” said Jack frantically. The stew was good. Jack’s stomach clamored for more, and he had to be strict with himself not to empty the bowl. He tried to feed the Bard again and was rewarded with a gobbet of food spat in his face. The crows exploded with caws.

“Laugh at me, will you?” Jack shouted, beside himself with frustration. He hurled the bowl at the birds, which