When they finished this song (and it had many verses), they switched to another. Their loud, clear voices rang over the sea:
The last words were hurled at the bright blue sky. Jack shivered. For the first time he understood what drove these violent men. Their lives were short, but every moment burned with intensity. These men knew they were doomed. Someday Odin, who smiled on them now, would cast upon them the mind-fetter. Olaf had said as much. Odin was a tricky god. He supported his champions, but his real aim was to choose the best for his hall. One day the swords would drop from their hands. They would be helpless before their enemies, and then they would be called to Valhalla to fight and die in an endless round.
Knowing this, the Northmen still fought. It was brave and crazy and supremely stupid. But it was noble, too.
As if in response to the rousing song, the wind filled the red-and-cream-striped sail. The Northmen cheered. Aegir and his wife, Ran, had answered them. They thanked the gods loudly and rested on their oars.
“If this is reality, I don’t think much of it,” Jack said to the crow. Bold Heart cocked his head. “You can stretch your wings now,” Jack told him. “I wish the rest of this stuff was as easy to dry.”
His heart sank as he saw how wet the grain bags were. They’d been protected from above by oiled cloth, but water from below had ruined them. Stacks of bread had disintegrated. Dried fish was limp and soggy. Beans were already beginning to swell. When Jack thought of how hard the villagers had worked to make this food—and how the Northmen had killed them to get it—he wanted to break an oar over Olaf One-Brow’s head.
It was all gone. All that cruelty had been for nothing.
Jack found a slab of cheese to tempt Lucy. The Northmen gnawed on limp fish, no doubt trying to use it up before it turned rotten. In late afternoon Eric Pretty-Face, on watch at the prow, bellowed that he saw land. Jack squinted at the watery east. He saw a hump of white cloud rising from the sea. As they drew nearer it appeared to flow upward like a slow, milky river. Jack was entranced. It was fog moving up over a tree-covered mountain. He heard surf breaking in the distance.
“Where are we?” said Olaf.
“I’d say, by the shape of that mountain, we’re in Magnus the Mauler’s territory,” said a warrior.
“No, no. The currents are forming an S-pattern from that fjord,” argued another. “We’re in Gizur Thumb- Crusher’s land.”
“
“Let’s send out the expert,” said Sven the Vengeful. From the end of the oars rose a man Jack had scarcely noticed, except to wonder what he was doing on the ship. He was so old, he seemed hardly capable of rowing, let alone swinging a sword in battle. His hair hung in untidy wisps from under a leather cap. His hands were mottled with age spots, and his body had no more fat on it than a dry twig. He crept from his place with difficulty, having frozen into position at the oar.
“Will you help us, Rune?” said Olaf politely. Jack was surprised. The giant never asked anyone’s cooperation. He gave orders, usually along with threats.
“I will,” said Rune in such a whispery voice that Jack had to strain his ears to hear. Then he saw that the old man had a terrible scar on one side of his neck. It was amazing Rune could breathe, let alone speak.
The warriors helped the old man out of his clothes. If he was pitiful dressed, he was worse naked. His whole body was seamed with old cuts and gouges. He was as wrinkled as a dried apple, and his knees and elbows were swollen with the bone-ache that afflicted the old.
The men tied a rope under his arms and lowered him over the side. Jack heard a splash as he hit the water. “Slowly,” roared Olaf. “We’re not fishing for whales here.” Jack heard Rune’s arms swishing. He heard him splutter as he got a mouthful of water. Everyone stood perfectly still, waiting. A few curious gulls soared over the ship. It was late, and they circled briefly and went back to land.
“Are you finished, old friend?” called Olaf.
Rune must have said no because the Northmen didn’t react. Finally, the old man was pulled, dripping and shivering, over the side. Olaf quickly wrapped him in furs and gave him a skin of wine. “The sea isn’t as warm as it was in our youth, eh?” he said.
“It was always as cold as a troll’s buttocks,” said Rune in his whispery voice.
Olaf laughed. “What can you tell us?”
“The sea tastes of pine and spruce. It is fed by a swift-flowing river from high in the mountains. The current curves like an adder crossing the sand. It is black while the sea is green, and it sinks because it comes from the snow. The air smells of smoked venison and fresh-cut peat. A breeze comes from a valley not far to the north and swings up the river.” On and on Rune went, recording amazing detail. He finished with, “We’re in Gizur Thumb- Crusher’s land. His village lies an hour’s sailing to the north.”
The warriors huddled around the old man. The sun had set, and gray evening stretched across the sea to the fog still flowing up the darkly wooded mountain. Here and there the first stars appeared.
“Who wants to go berserk?” said Olaf softly.
Chapter Sixteen
GIZUR THUMB-CRUSHER
“I want to go! I have the right!” said Thorgil. The ship had been driven onto a beach. The warriors were unwrapping weapons and examining them by the light of a small fire.
“You have the right to obey my orders,” Olaf said. “I want you to guard the ship.”
“Why me?”
“Who else is going to watch your thrall?”
“I don’t want her!” ranted Thorgil. “She’s weak, she’s useless. I wanted to trade her for a sword, but you wouldn’t let me!”
