The Sea of Trolls sot-1

by Nancy Farmer

  And Jack, too, felt the life force had moved deeper. It was there, but it would not come easily to his bidding. Which wasn’t a bad thing, he decided, grasping the blackened ash wood staff. He’d become afraid to summon its power in Jotunheim. The fire was too wild and unpredictable.

  They traveled south, camping at night on little beaches. Jack and Thorgil told the warriors most of what happened, keeping only the Norns and Mimir’s Well to themselves. The Northmen were mightily impressed with Thorgil’s slaying of the dragonlet as well as Jack’s triumph over the spider. They hadn’t been idle either. Besides the fight with the sea serpent (which now stank to the heavens), they’d battled with a giant, evil-tempered pike.

  “Tried to get me every time I drew up water,” said Sven the Vengeful. “I finally showed it what was what.”

  “TASTED GREAT WITH CRANBERRIES,” commented Eric Pretty-Face.

  Then there had been a battle with a pair of huge wolverines when the warriors went foraging on shore, and an encounter with a giant lynx, and one afternoon, when Eric the Rash took a nap under a tree, he woke to find that a slug had devoured most of his shirt and part of the skin underneath.

  They met more ships as they approached the entrance to King Ivar’s fjord. The fishermen cheered as they passed and begged to be allowed to visit and take a close look at the sea serpent. Eric Pretty-Face threw his chest out proudly. But he’ll never equal Olaf One-Brow, Jack thought with a pain over his heart. None of them will.

  The sound of the sea died away as they went inland. The water became placid, and here and there on the shore Jack saw deer and rabbits—normal-size deer and ordinary rabbits. Far away to the north lay high mountains covered in snow. Jotunheim, thought Jack. It looked unreal. Perhaps it was unreal.

  Presently, they saw the farms high in the hills and the steep meadows dotted with sheep. They saw the dock, which was filling up with people, and beyond, on a shoulder of dark blue stone as bleak and lifeless as metal, Ivar’s palace. Heide, Dotti, and Lotti scanned the ship anxiously.

  Oh, heavens. How can I tell them? thought Jack. In the end, no one had to tell them. If Olaf wasn’t visible, he wasn’t there. You couldn’t hide him. Dotti and Lotti screamed and tore their clothes. Heide wept silently, after the manner of her people. Skakki led them all back to Olaf’s house.

  “I told him,” said Heide, standing before the long fire in the middle of the hall, “‘Iff you take the boy and his sister to the court, it will be your doom.’ I sssaw him lying in a dark forest with his life blood soaking into the earth. Poor Ox-brain.”

  “It wasn’t quite like that,” said Jack.

  “The visions are neverrrr exact. The meaning wasss clear.”

  Dotti, Lotti, and the children sat solemnly around the sides of the fire trough, with Olaf’s friends and companions. Skakki occupied Olaf’s great chair. It was too large for him and always would be. Skakki, at age sixteen, was now head of the household.

  “He died as he wished, in battle,” said Rune in his new, strong voice.

  “And had a funeral worthy of a king!” cried Thorgil. Then she sang:

  Half a forest was felled to hold him.

  At his feet lay the troll-bear, direful and deadly,

  Yet no match for Odin’s beloved.

  The Valkyries called to him from the hills,

  The gates of Valhalla swung wide,

  And even the Mountain Queen wept at his passing.

  A hush fell over the hall. For a moment no one moved. Then Rune said, “That was poetry.”

  “Women can’t make poetry,” said Sven the Vengeful.

  Everyone turned to Thorgil, expecting her to fall into one of her rages. She only sat down, looking stunned. Bold Heart sailed from the rafters to her shoulder and warbled into her ear. “I don’t know how I did it either,” Thorgil said, “but thanks for the compliment.”

  “She’s talking to birds,” whispered one of the smaller children. “Does that mean she’s a witch?” Dotti shushed him.

  “It means she’s a wise woman,” Jack said.

  “But she’s making poetry. Surely that’s unnatural,” insisted Sven. Again everyone turned to Thorgil, waiting for her to have a tantrum. Nothing happened.

  “Thorgilll,” said Heide, drawing out the name, “do you feel all right?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with her!” Jack cried. “Thorgil Olaf’s Daughter can do whatever she likes. He accepted her. Why can’t you? She fought the troll-bear by his side. She killed a young dragon. She tasted its blood by accident, just as Sigurd did. That’s why she understands birds now. She drank from Mimir’s Well. That’s why she can make poetry now. Why can’t you accept that?”

  The long fire crackled and danced in a wind that came in under the eaves. The animals Olaf had carved on the rafters seemed to stir. “You shame us,” murmured Skakki.

  “I—I didn’t mean to,” stammered Jack. “It’s just that—”

  “No, you’re right,” said the boy, standing, and now he did resemble Olaf. “I name you sister, Thorgil Olaf’s Daughter. I welcome you to the family.”

  “And I name you daughter,” said Heide. “And so do Dotti and Lotti.” She glared at the two junior wives.

  It was too much for Thorgil. She was used to being the outcast. So much friendliness overwhelmed her, and she burst into tears and fled the hall.

  “Where will she go?” said Jack. No one else seemed disturbed by the shield maiden’s departure.

  “Up the hill to find the king’s dogs,” Rune said calmly. “Slasher, Wolf Bane, Hel Hag, and Shreddie will be delighted. They haven’t seen her yet.”

  “Nowww,” said Heide in her smoky voice, “tell me about the Mountain Queen weeping over Olaf.”

  It seemed Heide wasn’t completely ignorant of Olaf’s activities. She had noted her husband’s trips, loaded with presents, and had concluded he had an extra wife. “But a troll?” she exclaimed. “Had the man no taste at all?”

  “The queen is rather nice—oof!” gasped Jack as Rune elbowed him in the stomach. “But ugly. Very ugly,” he finished. At Heide’s insistence, Jack described Glamdis.

  “Orange hair sprouting from her head? Nine feet tall? Fangs? Wasss Ox-brain insane?” seethed the wise woman. Dotti and Lotti looked considerably cheered up by Heide’s annoyance.

  Then Jack explained how the troll-maidens practiced marriage by capture and how the Mountain Queen had a harem of sixteen louts. He told the fascinated assembly about the miserable human who had fathered Frothi and Frith. “He painted pictures of his human family on the walls,” Jack said. “At least Olaf escaped that fate. He was able to go and come as he pleased.”

  “Yesss, well, Ox-brain wass impossible for anyone to control,” said Heide, somewhat mollified.

  “He couldn’t help being captured,” Lotti pointed out.

  “No, no, of course not.” Heide shook her head. “And he wasss so big and beautiful.” All three of the wives sighed.

  As for Olaf’s friends and companions, they were delighted with the story. “HE MADE A TROLL-QUEEN FALL IN LOVE WITH HIM! WHAT A FEAT!” said Tree Foot, completely wowed.

  “What a man!” said Egil Long-Spear.

  Chapter Forty

  FREYA’S FEN

  “If you’re going to be a skald, you must look the part,” said Rune, stepping back to observe Jack’s white robe. It was Rune’s own, shortened to fit the boy. A message had been sent to King Ivar the week before, but no welcome had been issued until today. Tonight was the full moon, and tomorrow was the day set forth for Freya’s sacrifice.

  Jack was deeply worried by the delay, but he could do nothing about it. No one, apparently, entered Frith’s presence without permission. You’d think she’d be anxious to get her hair back, he thought. But she probably enjoys making me suffer.

  “This doesn’t feel right,” he said, belting the robe to keep it on. It was still too large. He knew real bards were old, fierce, and scary. Jack didn’t feel scary. Scared was more like it.<
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  “Shh. You have to start somewhere. Frith is going to be difficult, and you’ll need to impress her. Do you know what you’re going to do?”

  “No,” Jack said miserably.

  “It will come to you,” Rune said.

  Thorgil sat by the door, tapping her foot with impatience. She was dressed in her wolverine coat from Jotunheim. Her boots had been brushed and her sword polished. She was even clean, having been dragged to the sauna that afternoon.

  “I’m going with you,” said Heide.

  “Is that a good idea?” said Rune.

  “Perhaps not, but it will be interesting,” said the woman. “I make Frith nervousss, which may be worth a great deal.” Heide was dressed in a dark blue robe embroidered with birds and fish. Her hair was braided in two loops on either side of her head. They looked like the horns of some fantastic animal. She wore a necklace of silver charms—eyes, legs, and other body parts. She made Jack nervous too.

  “Come on,” said Thorgil. Bold Heart had chosen to ride on her shoulder. Jack felt slightly jealous, but he had bigger worries than a faithless bird. He grasped his staff and followed Rune out the door.

  Night wasn’t far off. The evening chorus of birds had begun, and long shafts of golden light crossed their path. The harvest moon had already risen. It was almost as large as a Jotunheim moon, Jack thought, as he glimpsed it between the trees. An owl hooted—wuh-huh-huh—but it was a small, brown bird, not something that could carry you off.

  Skakki led the way as head of the house. Thorgil and Heide followed, chatting like the best of friends. Thorgil had calmed down since leaving Jotunheim, but she still exclaimed over marvels she had surely seen many times. Heide listened patiently. Now and then the wise woman explained how a flower could be used or what had made that form in the grass.

  Jack was having trouble walking because he wasn’t used to robes. “Wait,” said Rune when they passed an oak tree.

  The old warrior cut off a long, thin branch. This he twisted into a kind of crown and set it on Jack’s head. “Dragon Tongue used to wear oak leaves when he was about to work magic. I don’t know why.”

  I don’t either, thought Jack. Work magic? Half of what he did was an accident. The other half went out of control. I’m not a bard. I’m a twelve-year-old farm brat. The most important job I ever had at home was mucking out the barn.

  “You’re quite remarkable,” said Rune quietly, as though he could see into Jack’s mind. They’d fallen behind the others. Jack could hear Thorgil warbling about a speckled toadstool and Heide’s low voice explaining how poisonous it was. “First you impressed Dragon Tongue, then Olaf—and Olaf wasn’t the most perceptive of men,” Rune said. “You went on a quest through Jotunheim and came out the other end alive. You survived a troll-bear and a dragon. You made friends with the Mountain Queen. You drank from Mimir’s Well, and you outwitted a giant spider. Many warriors would give their sword arm for such a record.”

  “Please,” said Jack, blushing. “I’m nothing special. I’m just a farm brat dressed up in fancy clothes.”

  “Listen to me and listen well: One of the first things you learn when you become a skald is that you must not lie.”

  “But I’m not lying.” Jack was startled by Rune’s sudden anger.

  “Your power depends on knowing what you are, both bad and good. Now, everything I’ve said about you is true. Deny it and—well, you might as well spit into Mimir’s Well.” The old warrior strode ahead and joined the others.

  Jack followed, bewildered by what had just happened. He was a farm brat. But he was also everything Rune had said. To deny his achievements did seem to be a form of lying. I guess… I guess I’m kind of heroic. Jack walked along, deep in thought.

  The sun had set by the time they emerged from the forest. King Ivar’s hall was lit from within and without, for they were expected. A crowd of curious people had gathered to see how Jack would restore Frith’s hair to her. They moved aside, respectfully, and Jack heard a woman say, “Doesn’t he look impressive? He’s a real skald from across the sea. Trained by Dragon Tongue. I wish we could get our Egil to pay attention to music.”

  “Egil’s about as tuneful as Freya’s cats,” said her husband resignedly.

  Jack straightened up. He was a skald from across the sea. He was Dragon Tongue’s heir. Giant spiders swooned when he played.

  The inside of King Ivar’s hall was a shock. Filthy straw covered the floor. Bones from old feasts lay everywhere, and someone had vomited in a corner. No one had bothered to clean it up. Fleas pattered against Jack’s legs as he walked, and over all hung a dank, sour smell. Bold Heart gripped Thorgil’s shoulder a little tighter.

  At the far end the king sat on his throne, looking bloated and sick. His beard was matted, and his clothes were speckled with grease. Next to him Queen Frith glowered at the visitors. She looked worse than last time—lumpier and less wholesome. She didn’t even have the honest ugliness of a troll.

  Good heavens. Have they been sitting here the whole time? Jack thought. It seemed they’d been perched there for weeks, waiting for his return. The priests of Freya and Odin stood at their side. They looked as though they couldn’t wait to flee the room.

  “The quest has been fulfilled,” said Rune.

  Ivar looked up. His eyes were almost buried in puffy flesh. “Really? That’s nice. Did you hear that, my troll-flower? The boy has returned. Now you can have your pretty hair back.”

  “About time,” said the queen in a nasty, whining voice. “Get up here and fix me!”

  “Remember the conditions we agreed on,” said Rune.

  “Yes, yes. The bribe. The boy and his sister go free.”

  “And must be returned home,” said Rune.

  “I know what we agreed on. You took your sweet time in Jotunheim. Now get off your backside and work magic.”

  Jack stepped forward, staff in hand. He felt a faint warmth in the blackened wood. “Where’s Lucy?” he said.

  “Who? I don’t know any Lucy.” The queen sagged over her chair like a steamed pudding in its bag.

  “The thrall I gave you,” said Thorgil, moving to stand by Jack. She had her hand on her sword. Jack hoped she wouldn’t draw it, or at least not yet.

  “Oh, that. She was such a disappointment. Wouldn’t talk or look at me. All she did was moan.”

  “Where is she?” cried Jack. He felt the staff thrum with power. He knew he could draw fire from the earth without any effort now. Rage drew it forth.

  Thorgil put her hand on his arm. “Great Queen, the child was part of the conditions. Without her, there will be no healing.” That was an exceedingly brave thing for Thorgil to do. You didn’t say no to a half-troll shape-shifter if you wanted to stay healthy. Frith loomed out of her chair with the shadows boiling up behind her.

  “She’s in Freya’s cart,” Freya’s priest said quickly. “She’s been there a long time, waiting for the sacrifice.”

  “Then I must go to her,” said Heide. For the first time Frith noticed the wise woman’s presence.

  “You! Hel hag!” she spat out. “What are you doing in my fine hall with your nasty spells and witchcraft?”

  “Trying to keep my skirts clean,” said Heide. The birds and fish on her robe glowed, and her eyes were dark and dangerous.

  “Get out! And take that croaking spy of Odin’s with you!”

  “Gladly,” said Heide, holding out her arm for Bold Heart. “You should pray the girl is well,” she added in her smoky voice. “I would not wishhh to be youuu if she isn’t.”

  “Get out! Get out!” shrieked Frith. She began throwing things around—a goblet, plates, a footstool.

  “Now, now, my little troll-flower,” said King Ivar.

  “Where’s your old hair?” said Jack, feeling he should take charge of the situation. “I’ll need it if I’m going to undo the charm.”

  “There!” screamed Frith. She kicked a basket at him. It rolled, and a disgusting sludge dribbled out the side. />
  “That doesn’t look like hair,” Thorgil said.

  “It isn’t! It went bad after you left! My mother made it, and it’s turned to slime. Typical of her stupid enchantments!” Frith was so beside herself, she could hardly breathe.

  “Then I’ll—I’ll have to find a substitute,” Jack said. He’d had some idea of singing her old hair back, but that was clearly impossible now. What to do? What to do? he thought. Panic threatened to swamp his mind. Tonight was the harvest moon and tomorrow was the sacrifice to Freya.

  Lucy would be drawn to Freya’s Meadow, the site of the sacrificial ceremony, by the cats. There she would be garlanded and presented with a little image of the goddess. Then her hands would be tied to the cart. The priest would push it into the mist-shrouded fen to float, but ultimately to sink beneath its dark waters.

  Jack took a deep breath. In his mind’s eye he saw the sacred meadow with the full moon overhead. And then he knew what to say.

  “This is how your beauty will be restored,” he cried. Rune, Skakki, and Thorgil flinched. They turned to him in amazement. Jack knew he sounded different. His voice filled the hall, and he could see fear in the eyes of his friends and King Ivar. He was no longer a mere boy, but an agent of the Norns. They spoke through him from their haunt by Mimir’s Well.

  “You will cut hair from Freya’s cats—not too much. Take a third and leave the rest for the cats to keep themselves warm. Go to Freya’s Meadow and lay out a white cloth to catch the moonlight. Over this you must place the hair and lie down upon it. When the moon is at zenith, your beauty will be restored.”

  Jack gazed at Frith in the smoky light of the fish-oil lamps. He felt no fear. He felt no hate, only a calm assurance of the truth of what he had said. Frith had turned pale.

  “You look like—” She stopped, seeming to gather her thoughts. “My mother used to host a chess game with someone like you.” She shook her head. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll try your little trick. If it doesn’t work, I can still sacrifice your sister.” She strode over to King Ivar, who was watching Jack with his mouth open. “Wake up, you weakling!” Frith screamed. “Call your warriors! Tell them to bring me my cats!”