The Sea of Trolls

into the water.

“You’re the brjostabarn?” Jack said.

For answer, the boy kicked Jack in the stomach and followed up with another blow to the head. “You’re a dirty thrall. I can kill you whenever I want.”

The blow opened up the cut on Jack’s head. He wanted to fight back, but he was too weak. All he could manage was to hold his stomach and try to keep from vomiting.

“You monster!” shrieked Lucy. “You—you brjostabarn!” She scrambled under the forest of arms and legs to the giant and climbed onto his lap by pulling on his braids.

“No… no…” moaned Jack. He expected the giant to hurl Lucy into the sea.

“You’ve got to do something!” Lucy was screaming. “You’re my knights, and you’re supposed to be taking me to my castle. Get off that box and beat that brjostabarn!”

Instead of getting angry, the giant gave another of his barking laughs. He put Lucy down and made his way to the stern of the boat. It swayed sickeningly under his weight. “Hann er ?r?llinn minn, Thorgil,” he said, slapping the boy so hard, his head snapped back. “?u matt ekki drepa hann.” Then he trudged back to his box.

Thorgil ground his teeth, but he didn’t utter a sound. He glared at Jack with a hatred so intense, Jack could almost feel it. Meanwhile, Lucy had returned. She squatted in the dirty water and patted Jack’s arm. “I’ll protect you,” she said. “After all, I’m a princess.”

Gradually, the bleeding stopped, and Jack was able to recover from the vicious blow to his stomach. He couldn’t think of a thing to do, other than stay alive for Lucy’s sake. She had no idea of their extreme danger. To her, this was merely an uncomfortable adventure.

After a long while Thorgil turned to Jack and once again spoke in perfect Saxon. “I will not kill you because you belong to Olaf One-Brow. It is his privilege to do so. However, the girl is my thrall.” He smiled coldly. “I will kill her whenever I wish, if you displease me.” And he turned again to ply his single oar.

Chapter Eleven THE SHIELD MAIDEN

They traveled all day, with breaks to let the oarsmen rest. The sky remained gray, but the clouds lifted enough for Jack to see land far to the left. At one point they passed an island that trailed plumes of smoke. Was that the Holy Isle? It was too hazy to tell.

At one point the rowers halted, and Olaf One-Brow passed out smoked fish, cheese, and a kind of flatbread Jack had never seen before. He thought it delicious until he realized it had been stolen from some poor village. Olaf found a pot of honey and smeared it on the bread for Lucy. No one else got this treat.

“Litla valkyrja,” the giant rumbled, tousling Lucy’s hair.

“Princess,” corrected Lucy. They smiled at each other.

“Pest,” said the boy at the oar.

Jack studied him. Thorgil was handsome, in a sullen way. His eyes were blue, and his hair would have been as golden as Lucy’s if it hadn’t been so dirty. The berserkers were all filthy, Jack realized. Their boots smelled like carrion, and their sheepskins reeked of sweat. Lucy, in her sky blue dress, looked like a flower dropped into a pigsty.

What was he to do about her? Jack might try swimming to shore by himself, but he couldn’t leave her behind. Olaf One-Brow might possibly be talked into setting her free, but Lucy didn’t belong to him. The berserkers set great store by ownership. Once Thorgil had pinched her, to see Jack’s reaction, and Olaf had done nothing about it.

They slid north on the gray ocean until the sun broke out in late afternoon. It hovered, red and swollen, over the horizon as they turned toward land. Jack saw a dense forest and fires along the shore. Two other boats had been drawn up. Shouts greeted their arrival.

Altogether the warriors numbered about forty men and seven boys. The ones on shore were showing off the booty they had taken—embroidered shawls, necklaces, even pairs of dainty ladies’ shoes draped about their necks like trophies. They pranced around, guffawing and pointing at one another. Other loot was displayed on the sand: metal work, pottery, spoons, swags of richly colored cloth, and a jeweled cross that might have come from the Holy Isle. Huddled next to the forest were the captives, with their legs hobbled.

Jack was hustled to this group, but Lucy was presented like a rare prize to the assembled warriors. Olaf lifted her over his head and boomed “Litla valkyrja!” before he put her down. Everyone admired her. Lucy bowed. They bowed back. She clapped her hands and they laughed. She was caught up in her princess fantasy, but Jack was desperately worried about the berserkers’ true motives.

“She’s a little charmer, isn’t she?” a woman said. She was thin, her eyes full of grief. “I had a daughter. She wasn’t as beautiful as your sister.” She fell silent, and Jack thought he knew what had happened. The woman’s daughter had not been pretty enough to keep.

“The girl’s a slave like the rest of us,” said a man in a torn monk’s robe. “They’ll raise her like a prize pig and then sell her.”

“At least she’s alive,” Jack said.

“Sometimes death is better.”

“No, it isn’t.”

The monk laughed harshly. “Hark at him! The child presumes to lecture his elders. Listen, boy. Long life is but a chance to commit more sins. The longer you live, the more Satan whispers in your ear. Your soul grows so heavy, it gets dragged down to Hell. It’s better to die young, preferably right after baptism, and be taken into Heaven.”

“My daughter is in Heaven,” said the sad-eyed woman.

“Yes, well, you don’t know that,” the monk said. “Even quite small children are capable of evil.”

“I know she is,” the woman said fiercely.

“And I believe you,” said Jack. “I think it depends on whether someone means to be bad. My sister Lucy can drive you crazy, but she hasn’t an evil bone in her body.”

“Man is born corrupt,” the monk said in a hollow voice. Jack made no answer. That was the sort of thing Father said all the time.

The warriors gorged themselves on roast meat until their bellies bulged and their beards shone with grease. They drank mead until they fell over. Fights broke out. More than one man went to bed with a cut lip or a bloody nose, but it seemed to be in good fun. Jack noticed, however, that some did not take part.

Olaf One-Brow’s group camped by themselves. No one playfully punched them or threw sand in their hair. No one uttered a catcall in their direction. It seemed that Olaf’s men were too important to indulge in horseplay.

The exception was Thorgil. Another lad with chopped-off hair ran past the group and threw a pebble at the boy. Thorgil sprang to his feet with a shout and took off after the offender. Round and round they went until Thorgil caught up with his tormentor.

“H?ttu!” cried the short-haired lad.

“Aldrei! Nei!” shouted Thorgil.

The others danced around, singing, “Dreptu hann! Dreptu hann!”

“They’re saying, ‘Kill him! Kill him!’” the monk said quietly.

“You know their language?” said Jack. Thorgil was getting the best of the fight because he was so much more frenzied.

“Oh, yes. I have had occasion to preach to these… animals.”

By now the short-haired lad was trying to escape, but Thorgil pulled him back and proceeded to pound and kick him in a sickening way. The cries of the watchers changed to “Nog! H?ttu!”

“They’re saying, ‘Enough! Stop!’ But she won’t,” said the monk.

“She?” Jack was startled from his fascination with the fight. It was getting nasty, with Thorgil pulling the boy’s head back in an attempt to break his neck.

“Oh, yes. That’s a girl.”

“Nog,” growled Olaf One-Brow, plucking Thorgil from the fray as easily as picking