The Sea of Trolls

Instead, the berserkers threw them to the ground and chopped them up. Blood poured everywhere—black in the dancing firelight.

Now the houses burned fiercely. Cries came from within, from women and children. Some attempted to escape, but they were treated with the same ferocity. Jack stood on the bluff, unable to move, unable to look away. He saw Olaf behead a young woman and throw her child back into the flames. He saw the roofs cave in with fountains of sparks. He saw the berserkers drive forth cattle. Their rage unquenched, they fell upon the animals and slew them as well.

He didn’t know how long he stood there. When he came to his senses, he saw that the sky had turned pink with dawn. The houses had collapsed into smoldering heaps. Berserkers poked around the ashes, digging for buried silver. They had salvaged bags of grain and dried fish from the storehouses that had not been burned. Three cows were tied to a tree. One magnificent horse, white with a black stripe along its backbone, still lived.

And that was all.

Jack had listened to the monk from the Holy Isle. He’d heard the dreadful tale of its destruction, but it hadn’t sunk in. It was merely a story, like the gruesome stories of saints Father liked to recall. Or Beowulf’s battle with Grendel. This was real.

He climbed down to the beach and walked into the water. He could swim out to where the sky met the sea, going farther and farther until he got too tired to stay afloat. And then, going by paths known only to departed souls, he might find his way to the Islands of the Blessed. The Bard would be sitting there with his harp. Hello, lad, he’d say. It’s a beautiful day. Only, the Bard would be more likely to say, What’s the matter with you, leaving your sister in a fix?

“She’ll be all right,” Jack told the old man as the cold water foamed around his legs. “She’s so pretty, even the Northmen like her. Thorgil’s going to give her to the queen.”

Did I hear you right? said the Bard. Are we speaking of Grendel’s Aunt Frith?

Jack walked farther into the sea. A wave knocked him over, and he went down with the bitter salt filling his nostrils. The rune of protection swung up and hit him on the mouth. Its heat was as shocking as the cold. He fought to the surface, coughing and spluttering, and treaded water as the heat spread throughout his body.

A flock of swallows circled in the early-morning clouds overhead. One of them swooped down, swift as an arrow, and came close enough to turn its head and look straight into Jack’s eyes. Then it beat the air with its sharp wings and returned to its companions in the sky.

Death must be fought with life, and that means courage and that means joy, said the Bard from his place beneath the apple trees.

“Nobody told me life would be harder than death,” muttered Jack as he fought his way out of the sea. He sat on the beach and let the warm sunlight dry his clothes.

“I hope you’re thinking of nice things to say about me,” said Olaf One-Brow, flopping down to clean the blood from his sword with sand.

Chapter Seventeen RUNE

Jack watched the Northmen celebrate on the shore from the relative safety of the ship. First they laid out the new booty to admire. A considerable hoard of silver had been unearthed. Bags of dried beans and barley were lined up on the sand. Sven the Vengeful moved them into different patterns, stepping back to judge the effect. He settled on a wide arc of grain bags framing the silver hoard. A row of wineskins decorated the front. Eric Broad-Shoulders, who was afraid of the dark, was not at all afraid to slay the three surviving cows. Eric the Rash dug a deep pit in which to roast them.

The most interesting find had been a cache of dirty white loaves under the roof of a storehouse. At first Jack thought they were a strange kind of bread, but the warriors’ excitement showed they were something quite different.

“Salt!” cried Olaf, dancing around with one in each huge hand.

“Salt! Salt! Salt!” screamed the others. They tossed them back and forth, pausing to take licks.

“Salt!” shrilled Thorgil as she balanced one on her head.

“What’s so special about that?” whispered Lucy. She was pressed up against Jack. He put his arm around her.

“They’re just crazy,” he said.

The Northmen nibbled at the salt cakes until their mustaches were powdered white. So much would have made a normal man sick, and Jack hoped to see them vomit, but they didn’t. After a while the salt madness left them and they reverently packed the loaves away.

The rotten food from the ship was dumped. A cloud of seagulls descended on it, along with crows. Bold Heart competed with the best of them. It was strange how Jack could pick him out from the mob of jostling black birds, but Bold Heart was faster, smarter, and, well, bolder than the others. “I suppose he’ll leave now,” said Jack.

“No, he won’t,” declared Lucy. “He’s been sent to us from the Islands of the Blessed.”

Jack didn’t say the bird had landed on the ship out of exhaustion, but he thought it.

All day the warriors partied. They devoured roast cow and drank sweet red wine from a place called Iberia. They bellowed songs about the gods, who seemed to be as fond of debauchery as their worshippers. One long poem was about a party much like the one Jack and Lucy were observing. Aegir, the sea god, had brewed a cauldron of beer. Not only did everyone get drunk, they got into an insult competition with Loki, the god of dirty tricks. Loki called Odin a liar, and Odin called him a pervert. Then Loki said Freya, the goddess of love, farted when she got scared and that Njord, the god of ships, had been captured by trolls who used his mouth as a chamber pot. Each new verse was greeted with howls of laughter. The Northmen pounded one another on the back for joy.

“What kind of people need a god of dirty tricks?” said Jack, watching from the ship as night fell.

“That kind,” yawned Lucy. For the first time in weeks she had eaten a full meal, and her head kept drooping. Bold Heart had fed well too, and he was perched on the rail with his eyes closed. “Should we escape now?” said Lucy.

“Where would we go?” Jack said bitterly.

“I don’t know. Ooh.” Lucy yawned again. “Maybe to that village they raided.”

“The villagers ran away.” Jack had not told his sister what really happened to Gizur Thumb-Crusher’s people.

“They’d help us if we could find them.”

“We’ll never find them. Just go to sleep, dearest.” And Lucy obediently curled up on a heap of furs.

Night was falling, but the revelry showed no sign of ending. The poetry was so disgusting now, Jack was glad his little sister was asleep. The crudest of all was Thorgil, who pretended to be Freya by yelling, “Oh! Oh! I’m so scared!” and farting.

“Olaf will want his song soon,” came a whispery voice behind Jack. He whirled and saw Rune standing by the mast. The light was so dim and the man so skinny, he almost seemed part of the mast. Bold Heart opened his eyes and clacked his beak.

“Why aren’t you out there with the rest?” said Jack.

“The bone-ache,” said Rune simply. “And I no longer enjoy the pleasures of pillaging.” He stopped to breathe hoarsely. It was obviously an effort to speak. “Maybe it was Dragon Tongue’s fault. He was always one for enjoying life. I guess he corrupted me.”

Jack turned back to the revels on the beach. Olaf One-Brow was pretending to be a lovesick troll-maiden. Bold Heart sidled along the railing until he was next to Jack. He pulled at the boy’s sleeve and bobbed in the direction of Rune.

“That’s quite a pet you have,” whispered the aged warrior. “Dragon Tongue used to talk to crows.”

“He taught me the art,” Jack said. No point wasting a chance to look important.

“He was a good man,” Rune said suddenly. “He was completely unlike us but a true warrior.”