Frostborn

by Lou Anders

  “On pig duty again, are you?”

  Karn started as his uncle drew alongside him.

  “Yes,” he muttered. He gave Uncle Ori a sideways glance. “You aren’t going to start in on me about lazy wolves, are you?”

  Uncle Ori’s eyebrows rose.

  “The wolves are lazy now?”

  “Not the ones with lambs, I’m told.”

  “Oh, those wolves,” said his uncle. “No, I’m sure there are more ways to get a lamb than being the most bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

  He looked down at the buckets of slop in Karn’s hands, wrinkling his nose at the stink.

  “I tell you what, my nephew, why don’t I do that for you, and you can feed the chickens for me.”

  “You’d do that?” said Karn, who couldn’t believe his luck.

  “You’ll owe me,” said Uncle Ori. “And I always collect my debts. But I’m happy to help you this once. What do you say?”

  “Don’t have to ask me twice,” said Karn, eagerly handing over the smelly slop. Uncle Ori took the buckets, handling them gingerly. Karn wondered what his uncle was getting from this deal, but he was too relieved to ponder it for long.

  “Well, run along, little lamb,” said Uncle Ori. “The chickens won’t feed themselves, you know.”

  Karn nodded his thanks and hurried around to the granary. Inside, he grabbed a sack of grain and slung it over his shoulder, then made his way to the chicken shed.

  It was strangely quiet. None of the birds were in the pen yet. He unlatched the door to the shed and his eyes took in the torn feathers scattered across the ground. He saw a hole punched through the wooden staves of the back wall. Only something strong could have snapped the thick wood so easily.

  Karn ran out the door to look at the hole from the other side. Then he noticed a footprint in a patch of softer mud. The print was large, deep, six-toed, and clawed. Karn’s eyes widened. He knew what had made that print.

  “Troll!” he yelled.

  “He may catch you one day, you know,” said Eggthoda. They were in a room in Eggthoda’s home, one of her storage chambers.

  “He’ll never catch me.” Thianna had been fighting with Thrudgelmir again. It didn’t matter how the fight started. She knew it was really about her size.

  “If he could catch me,” she went on, “it would be because I was big and clumsy like he was. Then it wouldn’t matter.”

  Eggthoda nodded sagely. Then she rubbed her considerable chin with her large hand.

  “Hold on a minute,” she said. She rummaged inside a chest and pulled out something.

  Thianna looked at the object uncertainly. “It’s a wooden sword?”

  “There’s a book that goes with it. A manual of sword fighting.” Turning to the chest again, Eggthoda removed a tattered leather volume. “You read, yes?”

  “A little,” said Thianna, who had only seen a few books in her life.

  “A useful skill, reading. Or I think it is. The print is too small for me, but there are pictures. The book will teach you to sword fight.”

  Thianna objected immediately.

  “But giants fight with clubs and axes,” she protested.

  Eggthoda stood up straight, unclipping her club from where it swung at her belt. It was a huge stone thing, like a boulder with a handle.

  “Here is my club,” she said, holding it out to Thianna. “Can you lift it?”

  “No,” said Thianna, scowling.

  “Then take the sword. Practice swinging it, and practice reading too.”

  “It doesn’t seem a very gianty thing to do,” said Thianna. Still, she liked the grip of the hilt in her hand, and she couldn’t resist a few practice swings. She lunged at Eggthoda playfully.

  Unfazed, the giantess grinned. “It may not be gianty, but it does seem to be Thianna-y.”

  Swinging the wooden sword back and forth now, Thianna couldn’t help agreeing.

  Karn spun around, prepared to race back to the house and get help. The only problem was the eight-foot-tall monstrosity blocking his way. Karn’s mouth dropped open at the expanse of green and gray flesh before him, all warted, mottled, and lumpy. The creature wore only a skirt of dirty fur bound around its waist with a bit of rope. It grasped a huge tree limb in one of its hands. It also had two heads. A few leftover chicken feathers were sticking out of one of its mouths, the one on Karn’s left.

  “Um, hello,” said Karn. It was a silly thing to say, but it beat screaming.

  The mouth with the feathers in it chewed slowly and screwed up its beady eyes, peering at him.

  “Hello,” said the mouth on the other head. Ugly yellow-brown teeth protruded upward from behind the lower lips of both mouths. Some of the teeth in the right-side mouth were broken off. Both heads were bald, though one of them had a bristly brown beard that started around its neck and reached almost to its waist. The other, the one with the chicken feathers still crunching in its teeth, had a long, bushy mustache.

  “Chicken good?” asked Karn, who was at a loss for words. Mountain trolls were rare this far south of Ymiria, though Karn had been brought up on stories of how they would occasionally venture from the woods to raid farms. They were said to be dangerous and nasty, but no one thought they were particularly smart.

  “Mmmmph,” said the head that had been eating, nodding in agreement. It puffed out a chicken feather. Then it cast a sideways glance at the other head. “But, well, they are crunchy, a bit hard on the teeth really. Also, chickens are a little scrawny.”

  “Yes,” agreed the right-side head, patting their shared belly. “Perhaps we want something a little more filling.”

  “More filling?” said Karn, who wasn’t sure he liked where the conversation was going.

  “Yes,” said the mountain troll’s mustached head. It smacked its lips and leaned forward. Karn stepped back to avoid being poked in the face by the troll’s big, bulbous nose. This close, its breath was horrendous.

  “Like maybe this man-kid?” said the other head. “They do come bigger, but he’s got at least a few chickens’ worth of meat on him.”

  Now Karn was sure he didn’t like the direction of the conversation. Ending up as a mountain troll’s breakfast before he’d even swung a sword or traveled farther than Bense didn’t sound like the sort of life that the skalds wrote songs about.

  The mountain troll shifted its grip on the tree limb. Karn was out of time.

  Something clicked inside Karn. He assessed the mountain troll the way he would size up an opponent in a Thrones and Bones game. The bearded head had black metal hoops in both its ears, whereas the mustached head sported some sort of crude facial tattoo on the cheeks and forehead. Did these suggest differences in personality? And why did only the mustached head have chicken feathers on its lips?

  “How come only he ate chicken?” asked Karn.

  “What?” said the mountain troll’s right-side head.

  “Only one of you had any chicken.” Karn plucked a feather from where it was glued to the thick, gray lips. “Weren’t you both hungry?”

  “Only one stomach,” said chicken-feather mouth. “It all goes to the same place.”

  Karn nodded nonchalantly.

  “But don’t you like the taste too?” he said, directing his question at the other head.

  “What?” asked the right-side head. The mountain troll shifted its grip on the tree limb.

  “The taste. The taste of the chicken.”

  “Um—” began the head being addressed.

  “Chickens are crunchy,” interrupted the left-side head. “Hard on the teeth.” The right-side head frowned at this but nodded.

  “Hard on the teeth?” asked Karn. “They aren’t hard on my teeth. How can they be hard on such big, fierce teeth as you have?”

  “Well,” said the left-side head, “they aren’t usually, but he’s broken a few.” He nodded at his other head. “The fool tried to munch on some boulders.”

  “That will do it,” said Karn, though he obvio
usly had no experience eating rocks.

  “Anyway,” said Broken Teeth, “it doesn’t really matter. Whatever he eats goes to the stomach. I don’t feel hungry after.” The mountain troll again shifted his grip on the tree limb and lifted it up off the ground. “So, bearing that in mind, let’s get on with it.”

  Karn glanced around hurriedly. Where was everyone?

  “Of course,” said Karn. “But you don’t just eat for hunger. You eat for pleasure too. Don’t you miss that?”

  “No sense crying once the milk is spilt,” said the left-side head. “Now, if you don’t mind, we’ll be moving to the clubbing-and-eating-you part of this conversation. You know what they say: No lamb for the lazy wolf.”

  What was it with lambs and wolves today? Karn wondered. Then he tried not to flinch as the troll hefted the tree limb high overhead.

  “Speaking of milk,” said Karn, “what if I told you I have something you could both eat that was soft and sweet and very, very filling?”

  The troll hesitated at the start of its downward swing.

  “Soft and sweet, you say,” said Broken Teeth. “What is that?”

  “Our farm makes the best cheese in all of Norrøngard,” said Karn.

  “Cheese is salty,” said the left-side head.

  “Also, my ma’s skyr is the freshest, creamiest skyr you’ve ever tasted.” Karn was speaking of the unique Norrønir yogurt. “You could eat barrels of it, and you wouldn’t even have to chew.”

  “No chewing?” said the right-side head.

  “None,” said Karn. “You could practically drink it. You just suck it down.”

  “I don’t see any skyr here,” said the left-side head. “Just pound this boy into a puddle and drink him.”

  “We eat the skyr with honey,” added Karn. “Best thing you ever tasted. Way better than puddled boy.”

  “Mmmmm, honey,” said the right-side head.

  “And sometimes lingonberries,” added Karn.

  The broken-toothed head frowned at this. “These lingonberries, they aren’t crunchy, are they?”

  “Not that you’d notice,” said Karn. “Anyway, you could just have the honey.”

  “And the skyr? I could have the skyr too?”

  “Yes, honey and skyr. And cheese as well, if you want.”

  The mountain troll lowered the tree limb to the ground. “Hey!” said the head that was in favor of eating Karn. “What are you doing? Just puddle him and let’s get on with it. No lamb for the lazy wolf, remember.”

  “I can’t eat lamb,” lamented Broken Teeth. “But I’d like me some skyr and honey.”

  Left-side head blew out a breath in aggravation.

  “Give me that,” it said, and reached across with its other hand for the club.

  “No,” said the other head, jerking the club back. “I think I want to try me some lingonberries.” Karn watched in amazement as the two hands fought for control of the tree limb.

  “I want my lingonberries!” hollered Broken Teeth. He ripped the club out of the opposing hand and shook it angrily at himself. The troll’s left hand then grabbed one of the broken teeth, yanking it savagely.

  The right-side head howled in pain, then swung the tree limb around and brought it down heavily on its other head.

  The left-side head’s eyes rolled up and the head collapsed, its neck going limp. The troll had knocked its other head out.

  “That will teach him,” the right-side head said proudly.

  Then the troll’s left leg buckled, and the monster fell heavily to the ground.

  “Hey!” hollered the troll, struggling in the dirt. The remaining head tried to get back on its feet, but its bulk was too great to move without all of its limbs working together.

  “Gotta run,” said Karn.

  “But what about the skyr?” complained the troll.

  Karn hightailed it to the longhouse, where his father was outside, in conversation with several freemen.

  “Troll!” Karn proclaimed.

  “Troll?” said his father, his hand instantly on the hilt of his famous sword, Whitestorm.

  “Behind the chicken shed,” said Karn. “It ate a few of the birds.”

  “Karn, get in the house. We’ll deal with it,” said Korlundr.

  “Oh, it’s okay,” said Karn. “I’ve taken care of it already.” Korlundr looked puzzled. “Here,” said Karn, “I’ll show you.”

  Kolundr whistled appreciatively when he saw the monster still struggling on the ground, trying unsuccessfully to rise and blubbering about skyr. He sent Karn to the house while he dealt with the troll properly. Afterward, he called for the day meal early, so that Karn could tell his tale over and over again. Karn’s shoulders were soon sore from all the manly claps he had to endure, but that and a swelled head were far better than being in a troll’s belly, and he enjoyed being a hero. His uncle was strangely silent, no doubt from guilt over switching duties with him. Karn didn’t worry about it, but he did feel slightly sad for the troll when he poured lingonberries over his skyr.

  “Seriously. I don’t see why I have to go.”

  Thianna sat on a stool in her father’s workroom, hunched over.

  “If you burn any hotter, daughter of mine,” said Magnilmir, “you will surely start to melt the walls in here. Then where will we live?”

  Magnilmir was packing various objects into a large backpack. Thianna watched as he selected a bowl made from hand-carved mammoth ivory, several cleverly wrought stone mugs, and a belt made of linnorm scales. All were small in her father’s great hands. Thianna frowned at the little human-sized objects, knowing who they were intended for.

  “I’m just as cold as you are,” she said.

  “It will be your first time off the mountain.” Magnilmir looked at his daughter. She rewarded him with a scowl. “It is something giants do.”

  “Not all giants,” said Thianna. “Thrudgelmir isn’t going. Neither is Elma or Marbor.” The latter two were young giants who often ran with Thrudgelmir. Neither of them was particularly fond of humans. Nor were they fond of half-humans.

  “Since when do you let Thrudgelmir, Elma, or Marbor dictate your behavior?” said her father. “If you don’t mind my saying, and really, even if you do, you don’t get along with any of them. Why should you care what they think?”

  “I don’t,” said Thianna. “I’m just pointing out that not every giant goes.”

  “Well, the smart ones do,” said Magnilmir, stuffing a final few items into the pack and then lacing it shut. “As much as I enjoy the colder weather, the humans have supplies we’ll all be glad of once winter gets here. Thrudgelmir’s stubbornness only means that he’ll have to trade with me later for what he needs rather than with a human now, and he won’t get nearly as good a deal. Besides, it’s a tradition.”

  They were speaking of the giants’ biannual trip down the mountain to the border of Ymiria and Norrøngard. Ordinarily, giants didn’t venture that far south, where the warmer weather made them uncomfortable. Nor did humans regularly travel very far north into the icy Ymirian mountain range. But as the weather was turning from warm to cold or cold to warm, the giants of Gunnlod’s Plateau and the humans of Korlundr’s Farm met at a place known as Dragon’s Dance for a week of feasting, storytelling, and trading.

  “You two packed and ready to go?” asked Eggthoda, barging into the workshop and setting down several large packs that she handled as lightly as if they were stuffed with feathers.

  “That is a difficult question,” explained Magnilmir. “We are physically ready, but perhaps not emotionally. My daughter does not wish to go.”

  “Nonsense,” said Eggthoda, placing her great palm across Thianna’s back. “You want to go, don’t you, Thi?” Thianna wasn’t sure what to say, so she shrugged. She didn’t want to disappoint Eggthoda, who she had become quite fond of, but she wasn’t ready to alter her position.

  “It seems that my daughter’s great friend Thrudgelmir isn’t going,” explained Magnilmir.
<
br />   “Thrudgelmir? Who cares what he does? He’d go to the goat house to get wool, if you know what I mean. Besides, Thianna has been helping me cast hoarfrost cantrips for weeks now. Of course she’ll want to help me sell them, won’t you, Thi?”

  “Maybe,” said Thianna, who hadn’t considered that her work might be good enough to be sold alongside Eggthoda’s.

  “Besides,” continued the giantess, “I’ll need this clever little giant’s help if I’m really to get the better of the humans in a trade, won’t I?”

  “My help?” said Thianna, brightening.

  “Of course. You helped me with the cantrips. That’s only half the job. Now we have to sell them. You don’t get off until the work is done. We giants stick together, don’t we?”

  “I guess we do,” said Thianna, glad that somebody considered her a giant.

  “Then grab your skis, Thi. We’re going downhill.”

  “That,” said Thianna, “I can do.”

  Dragon’s Dance

  The first thing that Karn noticed was all the dragons. His party had been following the course of a wide river for a week, traveling due north through mostly alpine forests. After hours of staring at his own feet, he looked up into the bright light and blinked. As his vision adjusted, he saw them—dozens and dozens of dragons.

  “Amazing,” said Karn.

  “I suppose that it is an impressive sight the first time you see it,” said Pofnir with a superior grin.

  Karn nodded. One glance and it didn’t take a genius to see how Dragon’s Dance had gotten its name. Like many Norrøngard settlements, the camp was constructed on a hill for added visibility and security, but unlike others, this hill was covered with stone dragons. Or rather, it was covered with dragon heads. The hill was dotted with roughly twelve-foot-tall stone poles topped with ornately carved dragon heads. The poles were paired, crossing right below the dragons’ necks, so that it looked like they were partnered in a dance. Horizontal stone poles ran between every two cross-frame constructions.