by Resa Nelson
Unlike the small villages Benzel had visited with Sinchetto, most of the people crowding the merchants’ row in Gott didn’t look or act as if they lived in the port city. Benzel imagined they were the wives of merchants or members of the crew from the ships that brought them to Gott. While people in small villages had traded with leather and cloth—safely stored in saddlebags now in the stable with the horse—these visitors in Gott followed the general custom in the Northlands and traded with silver rings and bracelets.
Benzel’s fingers and forearms now shone bright with silver.
Leaving his empty cart behind, Benzel retrieved the small sack and wandered from merchant to merchant.
First, he talked to the man in the space next door who peddled spices. The spice man said he rarely heard of berserkers anymore and doubted any existed. When Benzel told the spice man about Sinchetto finding the dead merchant from Hidden Glen, the spice man shrugged it off and suggested it must have been brigands.
The next several merchants said the same.
Benzel struck up a conversation with a tall and beefy man who looked like he might be a berserker until he spoke with a voice so soft that Benzel had to lean forward to hear his words. The big man stood behind piles of furs from rabbits and bears, so freshly prepared that they stank of the animals. The fur merchant didn’t discount the existence of berserkers, but he suggested the Hidden Glen merchant might have insulted a man without knowing that man was a berserker. “I hear they’re tricky, these berserkers,” the fur merchant said. “One minute they’re as calm as the next man, and the next minute they go berserk.”
Benzel talked with every merchant working the boardwalk until he came to the last and most popular one—a man selling daggers and short swords. Dressed in the more somber and dark clothes worn by Midlanders, the weapon merchant also displayed a silver pin in the shape of a dagger at the throat of his brown shirt.
Not wanting to interfere with the man’s trade, Benzel hung at the back of the crowd in front of the wares exhibited on his crates. When the crowd thinned and presented a lull, Benzel stepped forward, introduced himself, and asked if the weapon merchant knew anything about berserkers.
“I am Claude,” the weapon merchant said. “They’ve given up, haven’t they?” He rearranged the few armaments remaining on his crates with hands so quick and sure that Benzel imagined him to be a teacher of the fighting arts who collected and sold weapons on the side.
“They haven’t given up,” Benzel said. “Just this week our dragonslayer found the merchant from my village brutally murdered. Brigands don’t do that, and it wasn’t a dragon either.”
“Well,” Claude said, “a dragonslayer would know if a man’s been killed by a dragon or not. It’s the first berserker attack I’ve heard of in years. They disappeared from the Midlands long ago, but I know a man who claims a family of them moved to the port city.”
Dread and excitement rushed through Benzel. “Here in Gott?”
“No.” The weapon merchant shook his head. “Hagentown, the big port city of the Midlands. The man I know swears he saw them all wearing bear shirts under their cloaks last winter, and no one wears bear shirts but berserkers.” He pointed toward the opposite end of the boardwalk. “A good fur man will trade the fur of a bear, but no one dares to make shirts out of them for fear a berserker will kill him and steal those shirts. But even the fur man will tell you there’s no talk of berserkers anywhere. Word is that they did so much harm to so many that retaliation is what’s scared them into living like the rest of us.”
Benzel sagged with disappointment. “It’s what everyone says. It’s what our dragonslayer told me.”
Claude rested his forearms on his crate and leaned forward. “Most people rejoice at the thought of berserkers giving up their heinous ways. You got a beef with them? A score you need to settle?”
“I was born in Heatherbloom. Berserkers murdered my family and everyone else in the village. Everyone else in Bubblebrook, too, except for a baby.”
Claude stared at Benzel. “I heard of you and that little girl. They say your gods smiled on you that day.”
“Smiled?” Benzel spat out the word as if it tasted foul. “The gods must hate me to let such a thing happen.”
The merchant’s voice softened. “Not at all. Could be the gods have a special use for you in mind. Could be they needed to toughen your spirit.”
Benzel believed the weapon merchant must be soft in the head. “Sorry to waste your time.”
“Wait,” the merchant said before Benzel could turn to go. “Am I right thinking you came to Gott thinking someone can tell you how to find the berserkers?”
“Right,” Benzel said. “But no one can. I talked to every merchant on this boardwalk.”
“Maybe my wife can help. She’s no merchant, but she travels in different ways. She sees more than the rest of us can.”
Benzel suspected the merchant’s wife had gone soft in the head, too. Still, what could it hurt to hear the man out? “What do you mean?”
“She’s an alchemist. A good one. And she’s a Northlander like you.”
Benzel had heard of alchemists, although he’d never met one. He smirked. “She turns iron into gold? I don’t see how that helps find berserkers, but I wouldn’t mind being rich.”
“No alchemist has figured out how to produce gold. Yet.”
“But they do magic tricks? Spells and things?”
Claude’s face twitched.
Benzel wondered if he’d offended the man with his levity. “I’ve only heard stories. There’s never been an alchemist anywhere I could meet one.”
The merchant sighed as if shrugging off the weight of a ship from his shoulders. “Alchemists work with the elements and all sorts of natural things. They have an insight that none of the rest of us have.” The merchant gave a stern gaze to Benzel. “I’ll not be sending you to my wife if you can’t respect that.”
“I can,” Benzel said. He put the small sack on top of the merchant’s crate and drew it open just enough for him to peek inside. “By any chance, does your wife care for purple carrots?”
The merchant grinned.
CHAPTER 6
Benzel followed the directions given to him by the weapon merchant and walked to the opposite side of the city until he found a woman with three young girls in a field full of grazing ponies. They stood next to a man presenting a pale blond pony.
“Ma’am?” Benzel said when he approached the woman. “Your husband sent me.”
She gestured for him to wait and spoke to the man holding the reins of a pony whose orange-brown mane was so thick and heavy that it all but covered the animal’s eyes. It stood only as tall as the man’s shoulders. While the man held on tight to the reins, the pony snorted and pawed at the ground. The wife of the weapon merchant crossed her arms and stared at the creature. “Are you sure the girls will be safe with this pony?”
The animal neighed in protest and glared at her.
“Please, missus,” the man said. “Don’t insult the beast. It’s a true horse, not a pony.”
The merchant’s wife rolled her eyes. “Honestly, what’s the difference?”
“It’s mostly height,” the man said. He struggled to hang onto the rein while the animal tried to yank it out of his hands. “A true horse stands a smidge over 14 hands high, and you can see that Marmalade here meets that qualification.”
Marmalade settled down and appeared to draw itself up even taller.
“But there’s other things,” the man said. “Ponies have shorter legs, not like Marmalade’s long legs.” He turned toward the three little girls and said, “Aren’t they pretty legs?”
In unison, the girls squealed, “Yes!”
“And ponies have broader foreheads and wider barrels. Ponies also have thicker manes and tails, like all my horses here. However, ponies are known for being calm and they like to cooperate with people.” He gave a sideways glance at Marmalade as if to underline his point.
; “We want a pony ride!” one of the little girls shouted.
All three girls looked at each other. Without discussion, they chanted in unison, “We want a pony ride! We want a pony ride!”
Marmalade stomped his foot as if in agreement.
“Bee! Fee! Glee!” the woman said to the girls, who then calmed down. To the man, she said, “Will you watch them? Make sure they don’t fall off?”
The man paled. “I can only promise to do my best, Ma’am. I can’t guarantee—”
“Good enough,” she said, dropping a small silver ring into the palm of his hand.
The three girls—Bee, Fee, and Glee—shouted with delight, each reaching her arms up toward the man and demanding to be the first placed on the horse’s back.
The merchant’s wife smirked and turned her back on the man before he could think to give the ring back and run off with his small true horse in tow. “Now, then,” she said to Benzel. “Why would my husband send you to me on such a glorious afternoon that I’m enjoying with my children?”
Benzel couldn’t help but glance at the man while he plopped the girls in a row on the little horse’s back. “He tells me you’re an alchemist.”
“I am,” she said. “I’m called Thurid.”
Behind Thurid, the man still held on tight to the reins and encouraged the horse to walk in a circle while the girls on Marmalade’s back kicked their heels into his side.
Marmalade snorted and shook his head from side to side. His thick mane went in all directions.
Thurid gave Benzel a once-over. “What need do you have of an alchemist? It tends to be Midlanders and Southlanders who swear by us.”
Marmalade wrenched his rein free from the man’s hands and set off across the field in a wicked gallop.
Mortified, the man chased after the horse.
The little girls clung to Marmalade and screamed with joy.
Benzel pointed at them. “Your daughters…”
“They’re fine.” Thurid smiled. “Actually, they’re hellions pretending to be five-year-old girls.” She gave Benzel a knowing look. “Let me give you some advice: never have triplets.”
“I hadn’t planned on it.” Benzel cleared his throat, anxious to get to the point. “You asked me why I need an alchemist. I’m looking for the berserkers that killed my family and destroyed my village.”
The amusement on Thurid’s face fell away. “Which village?”
“Heatherbloom. They wrecked Bubblebrook the same day.”
Thurid nodded in recognition. “So I heard. Long ago.” She looked Benzel up and down again. “You were just a little boy when it happened.”
“Older than your girls,” Benzel said. “But not by much.”
“What do you want with berserkers?”
Benzel pressed his lips together in determination. “To give back to them what they gave to me.”
“You want to kill them,” Thurid said. “Good for you. They deserve it. But the berserkers are gone. No one’s heard of them in ages. They’re simply not around anymore.”
“That’s what everyone tells me,” Benzel said. “But a dragonslayer found my village’s merchant dead a few days ago. The dragonslayer says he was murdered by berserkers.”
Thurid shook her head in disbelief. “Which dragonslayer?”
“Sinchetto.”
“Hmm,” Thurid said as if pondering his answer. “Sinchetto’s a good one. And not one to exaggerate like a lot of them Southlanders. But couldn’t it have been brigands that killed your merchant?”
“Sinchetto says no.” Benzel heard the frustration rise in his voice and struggled to stay calm. “Everyone I talk to thinks berserkers are gone for good. Or that they’ve settled down and are living among us. Hiding in plain sight. Your husband says a man claims berserkers live in the biggest port city of the Midlands.”
Thurid laughed. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve been to that city countless times and never heard a peep about berserkers living there.”
“That’s why your husband sent me. He says you see more than the rest of us because of your alchemy.”
“What else did my husband say?”
Benzel thought back to their recent conversation. “Something about the gods—our Northlander gods—testing me to make me strong. Toughen me up for reasons of their own.”
Like all Northlanders, Thurid had a dagger tucked beneath the belt around her dress. She pulled the dagger free, reached up to Benzel’s head, and cut off a lock of his hair.
“Hey!” Benzel said. He reached up to where she’d made the cut as if that would make his hair grow back.
“My husband’s right,” Thurid said. She opened a pouch hanging from her belt and tucked the lock of hair inside. “Defeating berserkers—and finding them first—can be something requiring the help of the gods.” She squinted at Benzel. “It’s a higher cost than usual. What have you got that’s worthwhile?”
Benzel held up the small sack he’d brought and opened its mouth. “Purple carrots. Fresh from the new crop in what used to be Heatherbloom.” Before Thurid could ask, he added, “No one lives there anymore. I make my home in Hidden Glen, which is close enough to Heatherbloom to tend its smaller crops.”
Thurid held out her hands. “The whole bag.”
“Done.” Benzel gave the sack to her.
“And half the silver on your arms and fingers.”
Benzel slid the silver bracelets and rings from one arm and handed them over.
A new commotion in the field behind Thurid made him look up.
Marmalade returned at breakneck speed with the three girls still clinging and screeching with happiness. His hooves dug up divots of dirt that went flying everywhere when the true horse came to a sudden stop. The man who had once held Marmalade’s reins trotted in the distance, looking worn out and defeated.
Bee, Fee, and Glee slid down the horse’s side and plummeted to the ground. While it grazed on weeds bearing yellow blooms, the girls climbed to their feet and ran toward their mother with exuberance. “Mama! Mama!”
Thurid turned around to beat them to the punch. “Look at the treat I have for you! Purple carrots!”
The expression on each girl’s face changed to disgust.
“Carrots?” Bee exclaimed.
“Who likes carrots?” Fee said.
“They’re awful!” Glee added.
“You haven’t even tried them yet,” Thurid said. “They’re sweet like candy.”
The girls brightened and looked at each other with new hope. Each reached into the bag and took a purple carrot. They raced with carrots in hand toward the true horse. “Marmalade!” the girls called out.
The horse looked up.
Giggling, the girls extended their carrots. The horse nibbled at their hands, making the girls squeal even louder with delight.
Thurid sighed. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” She closed the mouth of the sack and tucked it under her arm. “No purple carrots for them. More for me.”
“Now what?”
Thurid offered a blank look to Benzel.
“Is that all there is?” Benzel said. “Is the alchemy already done? When will I find the berserkers?”
“We haven’t even begun,” Thurid said. She glanced up at the sky and then shook her head. “So hard to tell the time of day when the sun stays up all the time. But it must be afternoon. Wait until early evening so I can get my hellions put away in bed and have my husband make sure they stay there.” She pointed back at the port. “If you remember where you met my husband, our ship’s behind his merchant stand. I’ll be waiting for you there.” Thurid paused, and the expression on her face darkened. “But tell no one that you’re coming to see me.”
CHAPTER 7
Benzel spent the rest of the day with Sinchetto but mentioned nothing about meeting the weapon merchant or his wife the alchemist. Instead, Benzel listened to Sinchetto’s advice about learning the ins and outs of being a merchant in order to fill the shoes of Hidden Glen’s dead one. The dra
gonslayer had spent many years giving protection to traveling merchants and had learned much by watching them apply their trade.
After sharing a hearty meal at a tavern, they took a walk along the boardwalk where a few merchants lingered over their wares in the evening of perpetual twilight. Most customers that had crowded the boardwalk during daylight hours now crowded the city’s many taverns instead. The few who wandered the merchants’ row did little more than look.
A slight chill hung in the air, making Benzel shiver. The wooden planks of the boardwalk creaked with every step. The ships lining the dock groaned and sighed, bobbing in the low tide and rubbing against each other. Benzel wrinkled his nose at the stink from a few broken shells on the boardwalk. A lone gull picked among them, hoping to find an overlooked morsel.
“Why don’t you want to consider returning to Hidden Glen?” Sinchetto said while they strolled. “You’ve traded everything you brought. I didn’t see any barter that wouldn’t help your neighbors. Why keep them waiting?”
“We’ve only just begun,” Benzel said. “Nothing will perish soon.” He fidgeted, not wanting to admit that having left the small corner of the world where he’d spent his entire life until now, Benzel couldn’t wait to see what might be around the next corner. The last thing he wanted to do was go back to boring Hidden Glen. Besides, Uncle Kjartan must be furious that Benzel left without saying goodbye or asking permission to strike out on his own. No matter how Auntie Helga might have placated Uncle Kjartan, Benzel still feared the repercussions of his decision and didn’t want to face them.
Sinchetto spoke as if he’d read Benzel’s mind. “There’s no reason to fear going home. Anyone who doesn’t understand your courage in replacing Hidden Glen’s merchant most likely can be persuaded with ease.” The dragonslayer gave the young man a friendly nudge with his elbow. “After all, you’ve got me to sing your praises. Who’s going to argue with a dragonslayer?”
“But there’s so much to be done.”
“And there’s time in which it can be done.” Sinchetto stared at Benzel for a long moment. “Unless, of course, you’re worried about finding berserkers and thinking they’ll escape if we go back to Hidden Glen.”