The Sea of Trolls

He cleared his throat. He felt, rather than saw, the queen behind him. I mustn’t think of her, Jack thought. Cold ran a finger down his spine. He began:

Listen, ring-bearers, while I speak
Of the glories of battle, of Olaf, most brave.
Generous is he, that striker of terror.
Lucky are they who sit in Olaf’s hall
Gifted with glory, treasure, and fame.
The wolf-headed men call him leader.
Odin’s skull-pickers name him friend.

Jack warmed to his task as he sang. He forgot about the audience. He forgot about the queen. The life force shimmered all around in spite of the gory theme of the song. It was drawn, Jack thought distantly, by the magnificence of Rune’s poetry. It made each line more lovely and Jack’s voice more resonant. He was dimly aware that one of Odin’s skull-pickers—a crow—was sitting in the rafters high overhead. This disturbed him briefly, but he forgot about it.

When he finished—and it was a very long poem—not a sound was to be heard. Even the hearth fire had stopped crackling. Then the great hall burst into cheers. “WONDERFUL! WONDERFUL!” bellowed Tree Foot, dabbing his eyes with his beard.

“IT CHOKES YOU UP, DOESN’T IT?” agreed Eric Pretty-Face.

“I really liked the part about skull-splitting,” said Egil Long-Spear.

“And wading in blood up to your ankles,” said Sven the Vengeful.

“It’s not fair!” Thorgil said loudly. “Jack gets all the glory for doing nothing. He never fought a battle or pillaged anything!”

Rune sat with a quiet smile on his face. The compliments flowed around him like warm honey. Jack wished he could give him credit, but that would be dangerous at the moment. Perhaps someday Jack could show his gratitude.

“What a charming tune,” trilled the queen’s voice from behind him. Somehow the way she said it made Rune’s achievement seem trivial and silly. Jack whirled around, ready to defend the old warrior’s art. He remembered his peril in time and turned the movement into a bow. “Don’t you think that was a pretty tune, Lucy?” Lucy, who had dozed off on the queen’s lap, sat up and nodded.

“Life has been rather dull of late,” said Frith. “What treats we have in store for us, with our new skald.”

“He’s my brother,” Lucy said proudly.

“All the more reason for him to live with us. Don’t you think so, my lord?”

Olaf, do something, thought Jack.

Ivar rose to his feet. He looked deathly pale and exhausted, as though some disease ate at him. “Is this skald a gift, Olaf?”

“No, old friend,” the giant said simply. “I have given you much of my wealth-hoard. I have done so freely and gladly. I captured the great troll-pig on the borders of Jotunheim and gave him to you for Freya’s sacrifice. Is this not enough?”

Ivar bowed his head. “I am ashamed to appear greedy.”

“I’ve never thought of you as greedy, old friend,” said Olaf.

“I suppose that means I am,” the queen said. She stood up, dumping Lucy to the floor. Her cats came out of the shadows and surrounded her skirt, walking round and round like a stream of living gold. Lucy cried briefly and fell silent with her thumb in her mouth.

Frith came up to Jack and touched his lips with the tip of her finger. Ice coursed through his body, warring with the heat of the rune. “Such a lovely voice. What a pity not to hear it raised in your praises, Ivar.” The cats rustled around Jack’s legs now. They came up to his waist, so large were they, and their incessant movement made him dizzy. “Very well, then! I am greedy—but only for the glory of your court, dear husband. I want this skald for my own.”

“Great Queen,” began Olaf, and Jack noted that he called Ivar old friend, but there was no such warmth when he spoke to Frith. “Great Queen, do not ask this.”

“But I do ask it.”

“Take something else,” said King Ivar. The look the queen gave him caused him to stagger back into his chair.

“I have a new warhorse,” said Olaf, and Jack could see it hurt him to say this as much as it had hurt Thorgil to give up her necklace. “I think his sire came from Elfland, and I intended him for my son Skakki. You may have him, if you leave the skald.”

“I do not bargain, noble Olaf,” said the queen. “Dear me! I’m not some fishwife in the market. The horse is of course welcome, but that doesn’t settle the question of the boy.”

“Yes, it does,” said Jack. He was horribly afraid. He had to fight against her will and the cats walking incessantly around his legs. Then, too, he had to fight her beauty, but it was easier with the life force still hovering in the air. Frith was not as alluring in its presence. He glimpsed a shadow behind her that was in no way like her human form.

“This land has laws,” Jack struggled to say. “Ivar is king, and he’s told you not to take me.” His throat almost closed up with fear, but he heard a murmur of approval from the hall.

“Father always tells Mother what to do,” chirped Lucy. A ripple of laughter, quickly stifled, went round the room.

“I’ll sing your praises, Great Queen,” said Jack. “But I must honor King Ivar’s will.”

Frith’s form wavered ever so slightly. The fish-oil lamps sputtered and the hearth seemed to dim. Then all returned to normal. “I see you are as clever as you are musical,” the queen said. “I accept this compromise—for the moment. Give me a praise-song, boy, and I’ll tell you if I like it.”

Jack felt ready to collapse. He had no song ready, and his mind was emptied out. The cats continued to weave around him, now buffeting him with their bodies, now treading on his feet. “Could you—call off your cats?” he said weakly.

“They’re not mine,” trilled Frith. “They belong to Freya. They pull her sacrificial cart and obey her will. I certainly can’t tell a goddess what to do. Her beasts have chosen to like you, and that’s that.”

“Liking” was not what Jack thought the cats had in mind. They bumped into him roughly and their feet were heavy. He’d played with farm cats back home. Sometimes they got into a mood, and just when they seemed happy, they’d decide you were prey and attack.

However, he had no choice. What can I say? What can I say? he thought. All the praise-poems he knew were about brave deeds or accomplishments such as playing the harp or swimming. They could be applied to men or women. None of them were suitable for Frith. Could he lie? No, thought Jack. A bard’s skill came from the life force, and you couldn’t lie to it.

So what was left? Her beauty. In praise-poems a woman’s beauty was mentioned in general terms. It was there. It was good. Far more important was her character, but Frith had no character except lust and greed. Beauty it would have to be, then.

Jack began awkwardly. He was having to make things up on the spot. He raised his head and saw the crow hidden in the rafters. Bold Heart! It had to be him. He must have followed them from Olaf’s hall. Bold Heart bobbed up and down, seeming upset. He couldn’t have been happy about the cats. They could have swallowed him with one gulp and yowled for more.

“Why have you stopped?” said the queen.

Jack turned and saw her with Lucy snuggled once more in her lap. Or rather, Lucy was doing all the snuggling. Frith would never do anything so lovable. His sister’s life was in his hands. He had to please Frith or find out what happened to children when she got into a snit.

He looked directly at the queen. Her beauty stunned him as it had before. He began singing, first of her white