The Sea of Trolls

Chapter Twenty-two HEIDE’S PROPHECY

“This iss not well done,” said Heide as she arranged and rearranged Olaf’s magnificent scarlet cloak. It was late afternoon, and the household was preparing to attend King Ivar’s welcome-home feast. If welcome it was. In spite of Olaf’s gifts, Ivar had waited an insulting two weeks before acknowledging the triumphant hero.

“You are giffing Ivar the troll-boar, but iff the king sees that boy, he will want him, too,” said Heide. She fussed with Olaf’s beard, which had been decorated with ribbons, before presenting him with his party helmet. Jack felt cold when he saw it. It had the same weird, hawklike mask. But this one was covered in gold and engraved with designs—a line of warriors marched around the rim, and beautifully wrought vines covered the top.

“He’s going to sing my praises, woman. What good is that without an audience?”

“And whhhat”—Heide drew out the word like a sigh of wind off the sea—“will the king think iff you haff a skald and he does not?”

“Ivar’s all right,” said Olaf uncomfortably. “I’ve served him all my life. He’s an honorable man.”

“He wasss,” Heide said with a sigh, “before she arrived.”

“Yes, well, you’re not changing a thing. Get my sword, boy. I’ll have to take it off at the door, but it looks good with the cloak.”

And so it did in the new scabbard Skakki had decorated with jewels he’d pried from a looted cross. Jack could hardly lift it, but Olaf strapped it on easily. Skakki would attend as well in his own finery, bearing a sword he had won in battle. He would never be as large as his father, but there was no mistaking his bravery.

Jack liked him. He had his mother’s intelligence. He was gentle with the younger children and unexpectedly kind to the thralls. Olaf said regretfully that Skakki had not inherited his berserker tendencies, but he was proud of his son in spite of this flaw.

Dotti and Lotti were covered in jewelry—rings on every finger, bracelets, necklaces, charms, and three large brooches, two fastening the straps of their jumpers and one in the middle. From these brooches hung further items on copper chains: keys, combs, scissors, knives, and a small silver scoop Dotti said was a nose-picker. They had learned about nose-pickers from Heide and found them most useful.

Rune looked every inch a skald in a white robe with his harp slung on his back. He was unable to sing, but the music had not left his fingers. Even Thorgil had unbent enough to wear a clean green tunic. The necklace of silver leaves she had fallen in love with shone at her neck. At Jack’s neck was the iron collar of a thrall.

Jack was nervous about meeting the queen, but after he sang (without mistakes, Rune warned him repeatedly), he could melt into the background. The real problem was Lucy. She would be given to the queen, and Jack couldn’t do a thing to stop it. Olaf said Frith liked pretty children, perhaps because she had none of her own. She treated them well when she wasn’t in a snit. As to what happened to the children when she was in a snit, Olaf was silent.

“At last! At last! I’m going to my castle!” Lucy cried. “I’m going to see my real parents.”

“Mother and Father are your real parents,” Jack said.

“No, they aren’t,” declared Lucy, and Jack didn’t have the heart to disillusion her.

“Aren’t you going?” he asked Heide, who was still in her stained work dress.

“The queen doess not like my presence,” she replied in her smoky voice. “It makes her nerrrvousss.”

Jack was disappointed. It would have been nice to have someone around who could make the queen nervous.

“I haff thiss to say, dear ox-brain,” Heide continued as Olaf made ready to leave. “Iff you take this boy and his sister to the court of King Ivar, it will be your doom. I haff spoken uff this often, but you haff not listened. Now for the last time I entreat you. Do not show them to the queen. I haff seen you lying in a dark forest with your lifeblood soaking into the earth.”

Rune looked startled. “You didn’t tell me this, Olaf.”

“Women’s ravings,” said the giant.

“I don’t think anyone has ever accused Heide of raving.”

“Listen well, old friend. Those who spend sheltered lives are ever afraid of danger. But you know danger is what we warriors were born for. Our spirits drive us seaward to sail the salt wave. Our happiness lies in risking all in some adventure, and if we survive, so much sweeter is our homecoming. But to all men, eventually, comes doom. Our only choice is to meet it boldly. It will come to us whatever we do.”

Rune’s eyes were shining. “You deserve the finest poem a skald could ever write.”

“I do, don’t I?” said Olaf, brightening up.

“You deserve a kick in the backside,” cried Heide. “Who ever stuffed men’s heads full of such nonsense? Whhhy can’t you avoid trouble and fight another day?”

But no one listened to her except Jack.

The afternoon was cloudless and warm. The fields were covered with a haze of bees, and the farm horses frisked along the fence. Even Cloud Mane, who was more reserved, whinnied as they passed. First came Olaf, carrying Lucy. Beside him was Skakki. Clustered behind were Dotti and Lotti, Rune, Thorgil, and Jack. And to the rear groaned the cart on which Golden Bristles was penned. It was pulled by oxen and flanked by Thick Legs, Dirty Pants, and Lump, who, if not well dressed, were at least clean. Pig Face was at home recovering from a bite taken out of his leg, courtesy of Golden Bristles.

They walked up the mountain through pine forests and meadows. Lemmings bounded through drifts of wild garlic, and elk withdrew behind stands of cloudberries and cranberries. Jack saw a falcon hover and then dive to pluck a small, squealing rodent from the grass. He went back to check on Golden Bristles.

“This looks good to you, doesn’t it, piggy?” he whispered, and the boar oinked in reply.

“Don’t get attached to him,” said Lump. “He’s to be sacrificed to Freya.”

“Sacrificed?”

“You don’t keep a brute like that around for his looks,” said Dirty Pants. The thralls had become friendly to Jack, once they realized he wasn’t going to make trouble for them.

“I thought he was for—you know—making baby pigs.”

“He’s done that, all right,” Lump said, snickering.

“He’s not a normal boar,” explained Thick Legs. “They’re vicious enough, but his kind came over the sea with the Jotuns. He’s in a class by himself. He killed a man when he was taken, and he ate two pig boys.”

That’s why you put me in with him, thought Jack, but he didn’t say it aloud. “I suppose it isn’t any worse than killing him for meat.”

“Oh, it is. Much worse,” said Dirty Pants. “They’ll throw him, cart and all, into Freya’s Fen. He’ll sink slowly. Sometimes it takes hours, and he’ll know what’s happening. Pigs are smart.”

“That’s—that’s horrible!”

“It’s what he deserves, the human-eating monster,” said Lump. “Too bad Pig Face can’t watch it.”

Jack walked along with the boar, singing in a low voice. He didn’t want to attract Thorgil’s attention. He sang of the Islands of the Blessed, where snow never came and where the air was ever sweet and the water clear as sky. Golden Bristles seemed to understand, for he grunted softly.

They came out of the forest to bare ground. Thorgil ran off at once to find the king’s wolfhounds. The promontory known as Fang Rock jutted out over the fjord, and Ivar’s hall loomed at the very end. It dwarfed all the outlying buildings. It even dwarfed Olaf’s hall. Its humpbacked roof extended at least twice as far and was supported by at least two dozen pillars on each side. For all that, it was ugly. It reminded Jack of a giant sow bug with pillars for legs. Smoke rose from a dozen fire pits outside.

Other guests shouted greetings—Sven the Vengeful, Egil Long-Spear, and a new man introduced as Tree Foot. Tree Foot was shaped like a beer keg. His broad chest was covered by a curly red beard, but his most distinctive feature was his left leg. The lower half had been replaced by a beautifully carved wooden stake. It was decorated with the same fanciful designs that covered the beams of Olaf’s hall.

“HA! HA! HA!” bellowed Tree Foot, stumping along. “SO YOU CHEATED THE FISHES.” He slapped Olaf on the back.

“How’s the leg?” asked the giant.

“NEVER BETTER. YOU’RE A MASTER CARVER.”

Tree Foot was evidently as deaf as Eric Pretty-Face, and when that warrior showed up, Jack had to cover his ears. “What happened to his leg?” he asked Rune when they’d got far enough away from the two bellowing men.

“A troll bit it off,” said Rune. “The same one who tried to get Eric Pretty-Face’s leg.”

More and more people came. They hovered by the fire pits to savor the odor of roast pork, salmon, goose, and venison. Rune struck up his harp, and people gathered around to sing. It was a happy crowd, but Jack couldn’t help noticing that no one went into Ivar’s hall. The area Jack could see through the huge open door was curiously dark. Windows weren’t a feature of Northman halls, but they were brightened by hearth fires. There was a long hearth fire inside Ivar’s hall. It seemed muted, as though the surrounding darkness was so thick, even light had to struggle to escape.

Since it was high summer, the sun was slow to go down, and when it did at last disappear, the twilight lingered. The snowy mountains to the north glowed red. Jotunheim, thought Jack. Home of people who bite off legs. The redness seeped into the sky and turned the earth the color of dried blood.

“I suppose we’d better go in,” said Olaf.