The Sea of Trolls

Jack pulled his sister out of the crush until they were up among the houses. He didn’t know what to do. He felt lonely and scared. No one in this town cared about them. They were livestock, to be sold or slaughtered. But he had to stay in control so he could protect Lucy. He looked around to find something to take his mind off his troubles and saw Thorgil walking slowly up the street. She, too, was alone. No one had come to greet her. She didn’t even seem to have friends.

Something twisted inside Jack. How could anyone be that alone? No matter how desperate his and Lucy’s situation was, they had each other. And they had parents who missed and mourned for them. They had a village where they would be greeted as enthusiastically as the returning Northmen. How could anyone come home to nothing?

Then, racing down the street, Jack saw a pack of dogs. They were unlike anything he’d ever seen and unlike the curly-tailed dogs frisking around the dock. These animals were huge, almost as tall as he. They had long, lean heads and small ears. Their coats were matted and gray.

Jack pushed Lucy behind him. The dogs galloped toward them like horses. But at the last minute they pulled up and danced around the children, baying and leaping.

“Slasher! Wolf Bane! Hel Hag! Shreddie!” yelled Thorgil. The dogs fell on her, yipping and licking. They rolled her in the dirt, and she pummeled them back. Then one of them—Jack thought it was Shreddie—left the tangle and came back to Lucy. He plumped his front legs down on the ground and waggled his rump in the air. His tail wagged furiously.

“Nice doggie,” said Lucy.

“I don’t think so,” said Jack, his heart pumping.

“Stay away from them!” shouted Thorgil, fighting her way out of the tangle. “They’re my friends. Mine! They’re not for dirty thralls.” She ran up the street. “Come, friends! Come to me!” she yelled back. The dogs took off like arrows.

Jack stared after her, glad the huge beasts had gone. “Nice doggies,” said Lucy.

“Let’s find Olaf,” said Jack. It occurred to him that Thorgil, when she cried Come, friends! Come to me, had spoken in Saxon.

Chapter Twenty THE WISE WOMAN

Olaf took them to his farm above the village. Several of his thralls—with slave rings around their necks— carried chests of booty. Jack wondered if he would be fitted with such a ring. It would be a terrible and unending humiliation. No one could look at him without knowing his status.

Any illusion Jack might have had about friendship between an owner and his slave was dispelled by the thralls’ names: Pig Face, Dirty Pants, Thick Legs, and a man-and-wife couple called Lump and She-Lump. She-Lump led Cloud Mane to a stable. Even the horse had a better name.

The walls of Olaf’s main house were curved inward. The ridge along the top formed an arc like the keel of an overturned ship. At each end of the ridge was a carved dragon’s head. Scattered about were other buildings— stables, storehouses, kitchens, and spare bedrooms.

Inside, as with Father’s house, the floor was below the surface of the ground. Along the sides were benches and tables and, leaning against a far wall, a beautifully made loom. Everywhere were examples of Olaf’s carving skills. Horses, birds, fish, and dragons decorated the roof beams and supporting timbers.

A fire burned in a long stone-lined trough down the middle of the hall. It made the air pleasantly warm, but smoky. Jack and Lucy started coughing the minute they got inside. “Good for the lungs!” cried Olaf, striking himself on the chest. “A hearty cough always tells me I’ve arrived home. Come on, ladies! Come and see what I’ve brought you!”

Olaf’s three wives crowded around, along with his tow-headed children. There were at least a dozen. They mobbed their father, demanding to see what he’d brought them. “A smack on the backside!” roared the giant. The children weren’t a bit scared. They continued to climb on their father’s legs and hang off his arms.

Finally, the wives unhooked them and the gift-giving began. There were shawls, tunics, bolts of cloth, and tools for the general running of the house. A heap of salt cakes brought cries of approval from the wives, who, Jack learned, were called Dotti, Lotti, and Heide. Olaf handed out embroidered headbands to the boys and scarves to the girls. Everyone got a new knife. He tossed necklaces, bracelets, and brooches to the wives, laughing to see them fight for the loot. “Who are the thralls for?” Dotti said. The women eagerly turned to look at Jack and his sister.

“He’s my skald,” said Olaf.

“Ooh! Your own personal skald!” cried Dotti.

“You deserve it, really you do,” enthused Lotti. They were as alike as two apples from the same tree: blond and blue-eyed with fat, rosy cheeks and well-rounded arms.

The third wife was different. She had a broad, flat face and eyes that tilted up at the corners. Her skin was bronze, which made her light blue eyes all the more remarkable. But that was not the only difference. Jack felt the air tremble as she looked at him. A lazy, drowsy warmth crept over him, and Olaf’s voice seemed to fade away. Nothing registered except this strange, dark woman staring at him. Then she laughed, and the drowsy feeling went away. “I like thiss boy,” she announced in a heavily accented voice.

“Now, Heide, I’m not giving him to you,” said Olaf.

“You haff not the giffing uff this boy,” Heide said.

“And you have not the getting, woman. See, I brought you pots of herbs and medicines, as you asked.”

Heide nodded, accepting the tribute. “How about the girlll?” Her voice was low and husky. Lucy hung on to Jack’s hand, her thumb in her mouth. She stared at the smoldering fire in the middle of the room and appeared to be miles away in one of her fantasies.

“She belongs to Thorgil.”

“Thorgil?” cried Dotti and Lotti together.

“It was her first capture,” Olaf said. “She was pleased as anything about it.”

“Thorgil,” said Heide in her smoky voice, “iss not pleased about anything.”

“Yes, well, I’m not going to break my rules and deprive her of her first capture.”

Jack was fascinated to see how careful Olaf was with Heide. He might knock his crew around, and he probably smacked Dotti and Lotti as well, but this woman was in a different category. If anything, Olaf was afraid of her.

“What iss Thorgilll”—the name was drawn out—“going to do with the child?”

“Give her to Frith.”

“No!” cried the other wives, and Olaf looked apologetic.

“She wants to be admitted to the Queen’s Berserkers,” he said. “It’s her dearest wish. I can invite her along on trips, but I haven’t the authority to admit her. The gift of Lucy—that’s the little mite’s name—will win her entry.”

“It iss not well done,” said Heide. “It iss supreme foolishnesss, my ox-witted Northman. It will end in disasterrr.”

Now Jack did expect Olaf to strike her, but he only grimaced. “Don’t try your witchy stuff on me, Heide. I’m tired, I’m dirty, and the only thing I want is a long sweat in the sauna and a nice bucket of mead.”

“Bucket” was exactly what Olaf had in mind. Dotti filled one from a keg in one of the storehouses, and Olaf drank until his beard was dripping. “By Aegir’s mighty shoulders, that’s good!” he said. “Honey wine from your own fields. You can’t beat it.” Lotti hastily brought him bread and cheese.

“You know what would go with this?” said Olaf. “Graffisk. Fetch me some graffisk!” Lotti sped out the door. “You’re in for a treat, boy,” he told Jack. “Many’s the time I dreamed of this dish while at sea. It truly means I’ve come home. Because I like you, I’ll let you have some.”

“Thank you,” Jack said uncertainly. He wouldn’t have minded the bread and cheese, but that hadn’t been offered. Suddenly, an unbelievably foul odor wafted through the door. It was like toenails and rotten teeth and