The Sea of Trolls

Chapter Twelve THE SLAVE MARKET

After a day’s rest they went on, northward along the coast. The land became wilder. Few villages lay in these parts, and those few clung to the rocky shore as though they expected to be blown away by the wind.

The sea was still high, although the rain had stopped and the sun had come out. The captives worked in shifts to bail the ship, a never-ending chore. Now and then Jack saw round towers on the distant hills. They were solitary and somehow threatening. He never saw people around them.

“They’re the strongholds of the Picts,” said the gloomy monk.

Jack had seen Picts. They sometimes came along the road to his village, trading ironware for food. They were a small, secretive people, covered in blue designs that were said to be permanent. It gave them an almost ghostly appearance, for they could melt into the dappled shade of a forest as easily as an animal. He had never seen more than one or two at a time.

“Are there many of them?” Jack asked, more to pass the time than anything else.

“No one knows,” said the monk. “They come out at dawn and dusk and hide from the noonday sun. Some say they are weakened by sunlight. They’re fierce warriors, though.”

Jack watched the towers with interest, to see a thread of smoke or some other evidence of life. But nothing moved in those hills except the hurrying shadows of the clouds.

Since the storm Jack had felt a weight lift from his shoulders. His situation was no better. He was getting farther from home, yet the sea air seemed full of promise. He understood the motion of the waves now and how the ship responded. He was no longer afraid. In fact, he was beginning to enjoy himself. It was a wonderful thing to travel so swiftly.

“Það er gott. Þú ert hrifinn af sjónum,” rumbled Olaf from behind him. Jack flinched in spite of himself.

That’s good. You like the sea, the giant was saying. Jack understood more and more of the Northman language. It was like looking into a rippling stream. When you got used to the distortions, the image on the bottom became clear.

“Mér líkar hann,” Jack replied. I like it.

This seemed to please the giant, and he took time to teach Jack more words. “Skip,” he said, waving his arm at the ship. “Vígamenn.” He indicated the warriors. “Brjóstabarn. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” he said, pointing at Thorgil. Thorgil gritted her teeth.

Even she seemed different after the storm. She tormented Lucy less often and spent her time staring out at the water. She rarely joined in the belching and farting games so beloved of the berserkers. If Jack had to put a name to it, he would have said she was unhappy.

What on earth did she have to be unhappy about? Jack wondered. She was with her own kind, she was going home. It figured that a brute like Thorgil got nicer when she was depressed.

One day they rounded a cape and sailed into a wide bay. At the far end was a large town and a fine wharf. The other berserker ships, which had become separated in the storm, had already arrived. A cheer rose as Olaf stood and blew his battle horn. The ship slid to its berth as smoothly as a bird flying to its nest. Ropes were thrown. Wrestling matches broke out, with warriors being tossed overboard and clambering back for more.

It was such a cheerful gathering, Jack forgot his place in it. But then he saw a crowd of other captives hobbled on the shore. He was a slave. Lucy was a slave. There would be no merrymaking for them. This was probably the place where they would be sold. It was large enough.

Olaf’s captives were hustled off to join the others. There they waited through the long day while the warriors celebrated. People came to gawk at them. Jack was prodded and made to stand and turn. His teeth were studied, his eyes pried open to check (so he guessed) for disease. If he’d been unbound, he thought the people would have thrown sticks for him to fetch.

But he wasn’t unbound. This was one place where escape was possible and the prisoners were well guarded. Only Lucy was kept separate from the insulting shoppers. Finally, in late afternoon, a new group arrived at the edge of town.

It was hard to tell how many there were. Long blue shadows stretched from the houses and met the darkness under a grove of trees. In this darkness a band of people gradually appeared. Their bodies seemed to writhe with vines, and it was as though the forest itself were waking up. The hair prickled on Jack’s neck.

The men approached carefully, silently, like a herd of deer. It was then that Jack saw they were naked—or nearly so. What took the place of clothes were wild, blue designs painted on their skins.

“Picts,” he whispered. They were not like the furtive traders in his village, but strong in their numbers and growing stronger with the dark. All at once the Picts crowded forward to the captives, pinching them to see how fat they were.

“Hættid!” cried one of the berserkers. Stop it! For once Jack was glad of their presence. The warriors pushed the Picts to one side, and Olaf One-Brow strode out to confront them.

“Ekki núna!” he roared. Not now!

Not ever, thought Jack with his heart pounding.

“Farið!” Go away!

With a hissing sound, the Picts withdrew. One moment they were there at the end of the lane, the next they had disappeared back into the forest.

Anything had to be better than being bought by one of them, Jack thought wildly. He would rather slave in a lead mine, lift heavy rocks, shovel manure to the end of his days than be carried off by Picts.

Olaf now set his men to tidying up the captives. They were plunged into icy water, their hair scrubbed with ill-smelling soap. The cold and dripping captives were lined up by crackling bonfires to dry. They were given slabs of bread topped with a hearty meat stew.

It was the best food Jack had eaten for weeks. He bolted it down and licked his fingers for the last savory drops. Bags of cider were passed around, as much as they could drink. Finally, bloated and woozy, Jack stretched out with the others on the ground.

I’m like a farm animal, he thought as the rich food churned in his stomach. I didn’t say grace. I didn’t offer a portion to the life spirit. I just gobbled like a pig being fattened with apples.

He rose and watched the sparks fly up from the bonfires. He tried to call to the life spirit, but his belly was too full and he was too tired. I’ve turned into a real slave, he thought miserably as he went to sleep.

It was market day in the town. Farmers brought baskets of apples and turnips. Bakers laid out trays of hot, maddeningly fragrant bread. Chickens were lined up in baskets, and horses, goats, and pigs were paraded for the inspection of buyers. But the big event, the one that probably didn’t happen often, was the sale of slaves.

The captives were separated into groups—young men and women, older ones, a special category for pregnant women. “Tveir á verði eins,” cried Olaf. Two for the price of one. The actual sales were handled by a friend of Olaf’s called Sven the Vengeful, who could speak several languages.

As for children, there was only Jack. Lucy was kept back, for what reason he couldn’t tell. Please don’t let us be separated, Jack prayed. A jolly-looking couple was quite taken with him and turned him around admiringly. But then the wife said something. The husband shrugged and walked on to the adults.

It seemed children weren’t that useful. Jack caught snatches of conversation. He couldn’t understand Erse or Latin, but some of the townspeople spoke Saxon. Children were puny and caught diseases. It was like throwing your money away to buy something that curled up and died the minute you got home.

Gradually, the captives were sold and led off by their new owners. The strongest went first, followed by the pregnant women. The older and less healthy went next. They made up for their shortcomings with experience. One was a cobbler, another knew how to train horses, and one frail old woman could cook six kinds of pudding as well as brew beer.

But there were rejects. Two men had scarred backs, a sure sign of being troublemakers. One of the women had a twisted leg, which painfully reminded Jack of Father. Another spat at anyone who came near. No one even tried to bid on the monk. Jack heard a man say monks put curses on you and turned your milk sour.

By the end of the day only these remnants were left. Thorgil at last appeared with Lucy. The shield maiden sat on the ground to trim her toenails with a wicked-looking knife, while Lucy glued herself to Jack’s side. He was glad, of course, to see his sister, but he remembered the Picts. The sun was almost at the horizon, and he just knew they were coming back.

As the marketplace emptied and most of the townspeople went home, a few vendors remained with inferior animals. They watched the grove of trees with great attention. The shadows seemed to stir, and Jack clutched Lucy’s hand. Olaf stood in front of a bonfire, waiting.

It was clear the giant didn’t like the painted men, but he was there to make a profit. The Picts carried a clanking assortment of weapons and bags of ornaments as they made their stealthy approach from the forest. They spread these on the ground before the fire.

“Troll spawn,” murmured Thorgil. A strange light gleamed in her eyes.

Jack had to admit the weapons were beautiful. They were decorated with fanciful designs much like the patterns on the Picts’ skin. The jewelry—pins, brooches, earrings, and bracelets—was finer than anything Jack had expected from such wild creatures. Perhaps they weren’t so bad. But he looked into their brooding eyes and knew that nothing good could be expected from such folk.

The Picts examined the captives. They seemed uninterested in the scars on the men’s backs or the lameness of one of the women. They drew back when the other woman screamed at them but returned at once with secretive smiles. They were clearly delighted by the plump monk. They pinched him all over, exclaiming and hissing. Sven the Vengeful translated, setting a price for the lot.

Then it was Jack and Lucy’s turn.

A broad-chested Pict with a shaggy beard and drooping eyebrows inspected them. He seemed to be the leader. He felt Lucy’s fair hair and admired her small hands and feet.

Jack clenched his fists, longing to drive his head into the man’s stomach.

The Pictish leader smiled and brought out a weapon not displayed yet. It was a magnificent sword with a dragon etched along its shining blade. The handle was of dark wood inlaid with gold. Thorgil gasped.

“It’s your decision,” Olaf said in a low voice.

“Yes,” said Thorgil with that strange light in her eyes.

“You would please the queen if you kept the girl. You would please me, too.”

“I know.” Thorgil scowled and reached for the magnificent sword. She turned it over in the leaping light. She ran her finger along the dragon design.

“Dainty work. Not strong, but pretty,” commented Olaf.

“All right! All right! I know what you want me to do,” shouted Thorgil. She threw down the weapon and grabbed Lucy by the hair, pulling her away.

The Pictish leader replaced the sword in his bag and put out a small, cheaply made dagger. He pointed at Jack. Jack was obviously not worth much.

“You’re joking!” said Olaf. The Pict produced a blanket pin of some dull metal. “Better,” said the giant. They bargained back and forth until the dagger, the pin, and a thin copper ring lay on the sand. Olaf raised his hand to clinch the deal. He looked at Jack as if assessing whether he could get more.

No! No! thought Jack. He was about to be taken away from Lucy. He was about to go with them into their dark forests and silent hill forts. All at once it came to him that he’d understood every word Olaf had said.

For weeks he’d been listening and translating. The Northman language was not that different from his own, but he’d been afraid to speak it. Afraid of being laughed at! How stupid could that be? “Don’t sell me,” he said.

Olaf put his hand down. “What?”

“I said, don’t sell me.”

Olaf One-Brow chuckled. “And why not?”

Jack cast desperately around in his mind. He knew better than to plead. Berserkers hated whiners. He had no skills to offer unless you wanted someone who could catch sheep. But wait! He did have a skill. He didn’t know if it would impress a berserker, but he knew music.

Without pausing to think, he sang a charm the Bard had taught him. It was in Saxon, but that couldn’t be helped. Sven the Vengeful could translate.

Olaf looked absolutely stunned. “Is that what I think it is?”

“A magic charm,” said Sven in a shocked voice.

“I’ve heard it before. I can’t think where,” said Olaf. “Is it likely to harm us?”

“I wouldn’t take a chance on it,” said Sven.

“Are you a bard?” Olaf asked Jack. For answerback sang the first verses of “Beowulf’s Saga”. It was one of his best pieces, full of adventure with a rousing melody. His voice was rather fine, he thought, even better than when he last sang for the Bard.

“Here! Take back your trash!” shouted Olaf, kicking the dagger away with a tinny sound. “Be off with you before I sharpen my axe on your skulls.”

The Picts carefully gathered up their goods. Olaf’s threat made no impression on them even though they were half his size. The giant hoisted Jack under his arm and strode off to the berserkers’ camp. The last Jack saw of the monk was his pale, unhappy face in the firelight.