The Sea of Trolls

vessels from our battle group.”

Olaf pointed at a raiding ship that had just darted out of a fjord. The three ships of Olaf’s group had become separated during the long sea voyage. “I’ll bet Egil Long-Spear thinks we’re enemies and is coming out for battle,” Olaf said, naming the captain of the other ship. “Is his face going to be red when he realizes his mistake!”

But Egil’s face was more a chalky white when he recognized the berserkers. He bawled apologies across the water. “You’ll pay for this with a skin of wine!” Olaf roared back. Good Olaf was in control at the moment, and Egil, fingering the charm around his neck, gratefully promised the giant a wineskin.

The two ships sailed on together. Of the third there was no trace. Egil shouted that he thought it had gone down in a storm. No one, at least among the berserkers, seemed depressed about that. Thorgil said the men had been lucky because now they were feasting in the halls of Aegir and Ran. “I’d rather go to Valhalla, though,” she said. “It’s much more glorious.”

I wish you were there already, thought Jack. She was going to give Lucy to Frith, rider of Nightmares. Jack remembered the being who had passed over the Bard’s house. It had ridden a horse draped in shrouds of icicles that broke off and clattered into the room. The rider had been even darker than the sky, so black that it sucked the light out of the stars. Its thorny legs had clasped the belly of the horse, drawing white, oozing blood that was more like pus than anything.

Jack felt dizzy with fear. He understood it wasn’t actually the queen riding the Nightmare, but her spirit. If that spirit, weakened as it was then from being cast across the sea, was that terrifying, what would it be like up close? Jack felt the rune of protection about his neck. It radiated warmth like a small sun clasped to his chest.

Should he give the rune to Lucy? She’d need it more than he, if she fell into Frith’s hands. Once given, it was gone forever. He could not take it back. Jack watched Lucy, who was playing peekaboo with Eric Pretty-Face. The grim warrior covered his ruined face with hands that resembled slabs of bacon. “Peekaboo!” shrieked Lucy when he uncovered his eyes. “HAW! HAW! HAW!” rumbled Eric Pretty-Face. It was far too babyish a game for her, but Jack realized it was perfect for the slow-witted Northman.

Lucy was simply too little to understand the importance of the rune. The only thing that would interest her was the bright gold, and that would only be visible while Jack transferred the rune to her neck.

“What do you keep clutching?” came Thorgil’s voice.

Jack dropped his hand at once.

“You’re hiding something there. Give it to me!” She snatched at his throat, and Jack kicked her. Thorgil immediately fell on him, screaming and pounding him with her fists.

Jack tried to defend himself, but he was no match for the shield maiden. Not only was she better trained, she threw herself into battle with complete abandon. Jack found himself on the deck, his ears ringing and blood pouring from his nose. She put her knee on his chest and snatched again at his throat.

“Aaaaiii!” Thorgil shrieked, falling back. “He burned me! He burned me!” By this time Olaf had arrived. He looked at Jack’s bleeding nose and Thorgil’s agonized face. She held up her hand, showing a raw square of charred flesh. “Throw him overboard!” she screamed.

“Seems to me you got as good as you gave,” remarked Olaf.

“He used witchcraft! He’s unnatural!”

“I’ve told you a dozen times not to fight with my thrall,” said the giant. “For this you will be punished. You will not be allowed at the high table at our welcome-home feast. You will sit by the door with the better-class thralls.”

“That’s so unfair! I hate you! I’ll kill you!” wept Thorgil.

“Keep that up and you can eat with the hogs,” Olaf said. “If the lad used a little magic to defend himself, well, that’s what skalds do. Now go to the stern and stay there until we’ve got into port.”

Jack stuck his tongue out at her as she stumbled, weeping noisily, to the stern.

“You”—Olaf’s big hand yanked him up—“can stop baiting her. I’ll have order on this ship or you’ll both be picking your teeth off the deck.” He carried the boy to the mast and tied him by the neck next to Cloud Mane.

For the rest of that day Jack sat glumly with a rope around his neck. He wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve and felt his body for bruises. One of his teeth was loose. Lucy wasn’t allowed to talk to him.

Being punished was nothing new in Jack’s life. Being tethered like a horse was. He felt the shame of it deeply. “It’s all right for you,” Jack told Cloud Mane. “You aren’t smart enough to feel insulted. You think everything’s fine as long as you get your oats.”

Cloud Mane gazed at Jack with dark eyes. He twitched his nostrils as though he smelled something bad.

“None of us have had baths, so don’t take it out on me,” grumbled Jack as the ship sailed east along the coast.

Chapter Nineteen HOMECOMING

The next morning they met the first evidence that they were close to King Ivar’s country. A fat, heavy-bodied ship hailed Olaf and Egil as it passed. Jack, who had been released from the mast, leaned over the side to watch. The ship was piled high with dried fish. The men who rowed it, while sturdy, did not have the lean, dangerous look of Olaf’s crew.

“That’s a knorr,” explained Olaf. “We call it that because the timbers creak the whole time it’s at sea—knorr, knorr, knorr. It takes getting used to, but the men who sail them say it’s music. There’s a tolfaeringr, or a twelve-oared craft. Ptoo! ” Olaf spat over the side in the direction of a small but quite respectable ship. “Fit only for babies, in my opinion. That one’s probably looking for herring. See the nets?”

Jack nodded. “What’s our boat called?”

“A karfi,” said Olaf, pleased. He patted Jack on the back and woke up all the bruises Thorgil had inflicted. “It’s long, it’s lean, it’s fast. Best of all, it can go up a river and be pulled out on the sand. Perfect for raids.”

“And that?” Jack pointed at a huge craft making its way along the coast ahead of them. Its sail was blood red and its oars almost uncountable. They stroked the waves in unison, flashing a bright spray from the water. The sleek lines of the ship were almost unearthly in their perfection. Jack turned to see a look of hopeless longing on Olaf One-Brow’s face. He seemed almost sick.

“That’s a drekar, a dragon ship.”

And Jack saw that the prow was raised in a graceful curve to form a dragon’s head.

“It’s called Stricter. It belongs to King Ivar.” All the smiles were gone from Olaf’s face. Jack eased himself away, though he had little room to escape. He was confined to the prow of the ship as Thorgil was to the stern. “I’m not pulling into port behind that drekar!” Olaf shouted. “I will not be overshadowed by that joyriding weakling! I’m the one who’s supposed to come home in glory! I braved the danger, not that—that—”

“Boneless one,” finished Sven, and got a blow for his effort.

“When was the last time he did anything dangerous except run his fingers through Frith’s hair!” The giant stormed down the ship, aiming blows in all directions. Everyone hunched down as far as possible. Finally—his rage somewhat eased—Olaf gave orders to pull into a small bay. Egil Long-Spear’s boat followed.

The giant brooded by a campfire all afternoon. At nightfall Jack, at Rune’s urging, sang the opening of his praise-song:

Listen, ring-bearers, while I speak
Of the glories of battle, of Olaf most brave.
Generous is he, that striker of terror.