The Sea of Trolls

Jack said nothing. His eyes filled with tears.

“I know you can’t write a song for Olaf,” said the old Northman. Jack turned and looked at him—or as much as he could see of the man’s figure in the dim light. “Dragon Tongue could never praise people he hated. He was too honest.”

“What will Olaf do to me?” Jack didn’t argue with Rune’s conclusion. He felt sick every time he thought of the bloodbath in Gizur’s village.

“Feed you to the fish,” Rune replied. “Also, you don’t know our language well enough. You’re good, but you make mistakes.”

“Are you telling me to run away?” Jack didn’t know why he trusted the old warrior, but he instinctively did. There was something deep about him, something almost as compelling as the Bard.

“You’d never survive. To the south lies Magnus the Mauler’s country. To the north is Einar the Ear-Hoarder. Einar has a collection of dried ears he wants to enlarge.”

“I see,” said Jack.

“I will give you songs,” said Rune. “I was a skald once. I wasn’t as great as Dragon Tongue, but I was still good. Day after day the poems bubble up in me, and I have no voice to give them. You will be my voice.”

The shouts of the feasting warriors seemed far away. The world shrank until it contained only three people: Jack, his little sister, and this amazing new ally. “I guess Olaf won’t mind,” Jack said.

“Don’t tell him!” This outburst caused a fit of coughing that went on for a long time. Jack shifted from one foot to the other, not knowing what to do. Finally, Rune recovered and drew several shuddering breaths. “Olaf wants his own personal skald. He wants you all to himself, as he wants that horse of Gizur’s. It adds to his fame. If he thinks you can’t perform, he’ll kill you.”

The steed the old warrior was speaking of was tethered next to the silver hoard. It was a beautiful creature, white like the salt cakes, with a strange black stripe along its backbone. It gazed at the reeling Northmen with dark, intelligent eyes.

“Then… I thank you.” Jack was grateful, but at the same time he hated the idea of being property.

“Let’s begin,” whispered Rune.

The lesson lasted for hours. Bold Heart went back to sleep, and Jack wished he could join him. He’d had no rest the night before, and the whole day had been spent working. Eventually, the fire on the beach sank down to coals. The Northmen went to bed. It gave Jack a chill to see them lay out cloths and lie down in orderly rows. It meant that they could appear thoroughly stupefied and still behave like warriors.

Finally, Rune pronounced himself satisfied with Jack’s progress. The boy fell onto a heap of clothes and was asleep almost before he landed.

They sailed north along the coastline. After they passed Einar the Ear-Hoarder’s lands, they camped on shore. From here on, they would meet no one who would dare attack.

Olaf and his crew were in no hurry. They felt they had earned a vacation. The noble horse, which Olaf named Cloud Mane, was balanced in the middle of the ship. He was led ashore each day to feed on fresh grass.

The warriors hunted in the dark forests that lined the shore, bringing back deer and wild boar. They netted trout in the streams. Eric the Rash ground up one of the salt loaves for seasoning. Jack noticed again how eager the Northmen were for salt. They craved it more than wine, and that was saying a good deal.

“We don’t have it at home,” Rune explained.

“We dry our salt from seawater,” said Jack. “Why can’t you?”

“Not enough sunlight,” said the old warrior, turning away. He refused to waste his breath on such idle talk and saved his voice for poetry. Every night he drilled the boy out of Olaf’s sight. Jack was amazed at how complicated the verses were. Nothing was called by its true name, and the more variations you could work in, the better. A ship was called prow-beast, ocean’s steed, and Njord’s swan in the same verse. Instead of saying battle, you said a meeting of mail-coats and sword-tips. It was very confusing and, to Jack’s mind, pointless.

“No!” Rune wheezed when Jack said The king sailed over the sea to battle instead of The giver of gold rings drove Njord’s swan upon the whale-road to a meeting of mail-coats and sword-tips. “No! No! No!” Rune doubled over in a coughing fit, and Jack felt ashamed of teasing the old man.

“No,” said Rune when he had recovered. “You’re not merely singing here. You’re working magic.”

“Magic?” Jack immediately woke up.

“Surely Dragon Tongue told you. Each song draws its power from Yggdrassil, the great Tree that rises through the nine worlds.”

“I never heard of Yggdrassil.”

“Dragon Tongue would have called it the life force. It gives you the power to create. Now you’ve worn me out and wasted my time.” Rune stopped speaking and gave his attention to breathing. It was a terrible sound, harsh and painful. Each time, the old warrior paused as if to gather strength for the next breath.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Jack.

Rune waved him away.

Jack returned to the campsite with a hundred questions buzzing in his mind. The Northmen weren’t all consumed with slaughter and pillage. They believed in this thing called Yggdrassil, which was another name for the life force. Did the Tree really exist? And if it did, what a wonderful thing to see! Who could he ask about it?

Jack watched Sven the Vengeful and Eric Pretty-Face demonstrate the best way to crack a skull. Thorgil was so inspired, she lined up a row of deer heads and smashed them with a club. There was no point asking them about the life force. Sighing, he found Lucy playing with little wooden figures whittled by Olaf for her entertainment.

There was a cow, a horse, a man, and a woman. Lucy had made a fence out of sticks and had drawn the outline of a house in the sand. Bold Heart watched her intently. He picked up the cow and dropped it. Lucy squealed, and the crow bobbed up and down in apparent glee. He picked up the horse.

“Make him stop!” said Lucy, smacking at the bird. He jumped easily out of her reach. Jack grabbed the horse from Bold Heart’s beak and planted it back in front of the little girl.

Bold Heart preened his feathers, looking completely uninterested. A second later he scooped up the man and flew to a nearby rock.

Lucy screamed. Sven the Vengeful dropped his axe on Eric Pretty-Face’s foot, starting a vigorous argument.

“Stop that! Can’t you see you’re upsetting her?” Jack cried. Why am I talking to a stupid bird? he thought. But Bold Heart understood! He flew back and laid the toy in front of Lucy.

“About time,” she grumbled.

Sven the Vengeful and Eric Pretty-Face stopped quarreling and grabbed the charms they wore about their necks. “Sei?er,” muttered Sven. They walked away, casting nervous glances over their shoulders.

“Say-thur,” repeated Jack. “What’s that?”

“It means ‘witchcraft’,” said Thorgil, looking up from her skull-smashing game. “We don’t like witches. Sometimes”—she smiled—“we throw them into bogs to drown.”

Bold Heart made a pass just over her head. Thorgil yelled and ducked. “See? That’s what I mean! You’re a witch and that bird is your familiar! It’s not natural for crows to stay up after dark. It’s not natural to talk to them. Both of you should be drowned in a bog.” Bold Heart made another pass—claws out this time—and Thorgil ran off with her hands protecting her scalp.

Jack stood frozen, watching her grab Olaf’s arm. She started arguing, but unfortunately for her, she’d interrupted the giant in the middle of something important. Olaf sent her sprawling to the ground. “Hold your noise with that witch nonsense!” he shouted. The shield maiden, spitting curses, picked herself up and staggered off.

Jack sat down to think. Thorgil wouldn’t give up that easily. She’d wait for an opportunity and attack again. He had to think of a way to protect himself.

He saw nothing wrong with talking to animals. Mother did it all the time, singing to calm the bees or to gentle a frightened ewe. She’d taught him her small magic, and Jack had never thought twice about it. Did that make him a witch? And what about Bold Heart? He did fly around after dark like an owl.