The Sea of Trolls

“This cloak smells weird,” said Thorgil. They were tucked into a deep side channel of the river. They had to lie on a sandbar crusted with ice. The wind scoured the ground just above their heads, but they were hidden from the dragon. Jack had shared out meat pies and cider.

“It’s made of spider silk. Maybe spiders smell weird. I’ve never been close enough to tell,” he said. Bold Heart was huddled against him, pecking meat shreds from Jack’s hand.

“I keep expecting the cloth to be sticky.”

“Just don’t walk through a swarm of flies.”

“This is so boring,” Thorgil fumed. “Why can’t we go out in daylight if the cloaks can hide us?”

“The queen had some reason for telling us to lie low.”

“The dragon can’t see us. There’s nothing else out here. You can see for miles.” Thorgil balled up her cloak and jammed it into the sand.

The dragon had been visible for some time as a puff of smoke by day and a red fire at night. Occasionally, she spread her wings and floated over the valley, looking for prey. So far she hadn’t got anything.

I wonder if she’s laid more eggs, Jack thought. He felt vaguely guilty about killing her brood, but they hadn’t had a choice.

“I’m bored,” said Thorgil. The new Thorgil was almost as annoying as the old one. She no longer fell into mindless rages—though she was perfectly capable of getting angry—but she was filled with a thirst for new experiences. She had missed so much in her former life that every rock and clump of moss enthralled her. She wanted more and more and more entertainment, to make up for lost time. Sitting with her for hours was sheer torture.

“Why can’t we find out whether the dragon can see us?” she complained. “We could always run back here.”

“Because,” Jack said for the tenth time that day, “once the dragon notices us, she isn’t going to give up. She’ll check every nook and cranny.”

“Bold Heart could talk to her. Tell her we taste bad or something.”

“She’s not going to believe him,” Jack said. Bold Heart had revealed—and Thorgil had translated—that he’d told the dragon she had a rival at the other end of the valley. He’d worked her into such a rage, she’d sailed off to do battle. Then he’d incited the green dragonlet to kill his sisters.

“I suppose not,” grumbled Thorgil. She felt for the rune at her neck.

Jack watched her with a sick feeling of loss. “You can’t take it off, you know,” he said. “Once removed it can never be returned.”

“You’ve told me that about a thousand times. I’m never going to take it off. It makes me feel safe.”

I know, thought Jack sadly. He smoothed the feathers on Bold Heart’s head. The crow nibbled his fingers. The wind whistled and howled, and from a great distance they heard the dragon scream. She did this regularly, whether from rage or merely for exercise Jack didn’t know. It was when she was silent that they had to worry.

“I’m bored. Tell me a story,” said Thorgil.

Jack had gone through his entire collection in the days they’d spent crossing the valley. He’d told her all of Father’s gory martyrdom tales and all of the Bard’s sagas and even all of Lucy’s bedtime stories. He’d described every inch of the farm and every rock on the beach back home. He was almost reduced to introducing her to the black-faced sheep. He stood up and looked over the edge of the embankment.

The forest wasn’t that far away. The dragon had sounded as though she was flying away from them, perhaps back to her nest. He shaded his eyes. He thought he saw a puff of smoke from the distant cliff.

“We might make it,” he said.

“What! Really?” cried Thorgil, popping up to look around the valley.

“That’s where Olaf’s funeral pyre was, and there’s the trail into the forest,” Jack said. “It should take only a couple of hours. I don’t know. Maybe we should wait for dusk.”

But Thorgil had already shouldered her bags and wrapped herself up in the cloak. She was out before he could stop her.

“Stop! Don’t you ever think anything through?” Jack hurried after her while struggling with his own carrying bags and cloak. Bold Heart sailed overhead.

Jack had to admit it was a lot nicer traveling by day. They kept bumping into things in the dark or falling on patches of ice. The sunlight was exhilarating, and even the wind wasn’t bad in their warm clothes. The Jotuns had certainly been generous. Jack wondered for the first time why they had clothes that fit human children. No, he thought. They couldn’t have. But he didn’t really know. There was a war between Jotunheim and Middle Earth. Children might not be safer here than they’d been in Gizur’s village.

“Isn’t this fine?” Thorgil chirruped. Jack could hardly see her under the silk cloak. She looked as clear as a soap bubble. He supposed he was equally hidden, except for his hand gripping the ash wood staff. Jack was of two minds about the staff. He could keep it at the ready. Or he could sling it on his back and depend on stealth. He slung it onto his back under the cloak. He wasn’t sure he could raise fire in a hurry, and anyhow, what difference did fire make to a dragon?

Jack looked back occasionally to see whether the dragon had moved. A thin column of smoke put his fears to rest.

“Those boulders are such interesting colors,” Thorgil said. “I used to think they were all gray, but they aren’t. Some are like oyster shells and others are like fog and still others are speckled like a robin’s egg. And the shadows! You’d think they were the same, but some are dark and others are bright and—oh, look at that one!—it’s purple.”

Save me from Thorgil’s enthusiasm, Jack silently prayed. He thought he’d never miss her rages and sulks. At least when she was sulking she was quiet.

The forest drew ever nearer. The dragon seemed content to roost. Things might actually work out, Jack thought. They were still walking along the river, and to their right, at the edge of the valley where it went up into the surrounding hills, was a huge cream-colored boulder. Around it was a cluster of cream- colored rocks.

“Isn’t that sweet?” Thorgil warbled. “It’s like a mother rock with her babies.”

Wonderful, thought Jack. Now we’re going to stop and pet the baby rocks. A long scream echoed over the valley. “Run, Thorgil! The dragon’s up!” yelled Jack. She reacted instantly. She might sound featherbrained, but the shield maiden of old was still underneath.

“Hide in the rocks,” Thorgil cried. “We’re not going to make the trees.”

“Wait!” Jack shouted, trying to keep up with her. “The queen told us to stay away from them.”

“No time!” She reached the rocks first and crouched down. The cloak instantly took on a cream color. Thorgil was even the right size, though a little lumpier than the others. Jack threw himself down beside her. They both fought to regain their breath as the dragon—to go by her cries—zigzagged back and forth over the valley.

“She can’t see us. I told you she couldn’t see us,” whispered Thorgil.

“I hope she leaves soon. This is uncomfortable,” said Jack.

“Lean against the rocks…. I say!”

“What?”

“This one’s soft,” said Thorgil.

Jack felt the surface by his side. It was soft. The dragon’s cries retreated up the valley toward the ice mountain. He opened the cloak slightly to look. The rocks were all the same size, which was odd in itself, and the odor they gave off was so intense, it made him queasy. “This place smells like—”

The giant boulder suddenly stood up on eight giant legs and began frantically gathering the little rocks into a silk bag.

Chapter Thirty-eight SPIDER MUSIC