Troll and Trylleri

by Joyce Holt

  Gunnarr's eyebrows, wiry, thick and grey, arched at Hadd's words.

  "Not just any sword," Roald said. "Our best smiths have been working on it since harvest. A sword for a king. I've sent word for the master smith to have it ready at first light."

  "This I must see," Gunnarr said.

  "I, as well," said Gyda.

  The men cocked brows at the maiden bred to ply nothing grander than needle and snips.

  "Perhaps I'll want to have one made for my father, king of Hordaland," she said, her chin tilted.

  "Ah," the men all said. That sort of interest they could understand.

  They didn't hear her grumbling moments later on the way to the guest chambers. "They forget who I am," she growled. "All they see is a pretty face, with no thought to the uses I could put a sword to."

  "My lady, are you a shield maiden?" Jorunn blurted before she could stop herself.

  "The girl speaks," Gyda said with mock marvel. "Nei, I wield a different kind of blade. In the battles I mean to wage, I need to know much about every matter, including those things that catch a king's eye."

  "Besides a shapely ankle?" Brynja teased.

  Gyda scoffed. "There's no wit behind a swaying rump or batting lashes. If those are your only weapons, you can seize only so much ground and no further. Girl, repack this chest. The lid won't close."

  While Jorunn refolded several sumptuous pieces of attire, she eyed her own threadbare gown where it sat half-hidden in the corner. One small garment without even a crate to hold it. "When do you want your garb back?" she whispered to Drifa, dreading the thought of sidling past Rimhildr while wearing her old rags. "You'll have to pack—"

  The woman waved her off. "Not now."

  "Would you sell them—" she began, but Drifa had already bustled off on another errand.

  A housegirl came to the chamber and announced a meal all laid and ready. Jorunn trailed after Gyda to the high table. Young men waited outside the door to haul out the chests and baskets.

  "What, no honey?" Brynja said as she sat.

  "I'll fetch some," Jorunn said, hurrying off before anyone could stop her. She found Lodmundr in the torch-lit houseyard, harnessing fjord horses to the sleighs and sledges. "I have silver. Sell me a pair of skis."

  "Can't even talk about it now. Get out of my way." He brushed past, and growled when she tried to get him to listen.

  She slipped into the byre. Perhaps he'd lied about the snowshoes going missing. She scurried past stalls, hunted quickly about, found harnesses and tack, rough horse blankets and scrap leather. Cattle grunted. A horse whickered.

  "Who are you to be poking around where you don't belong?" another herdsman asked, wielding his mucking spade like a sentry's staff.

  "Looking for something lost." She backed away from his skeptical frown and headed toward the cookhouse. Her stomach knotted to see dawn's first glow in the east. She was running out of time.

  "What are you doing here?" Groa asked when Jorunn sidled up to her.

  "Honey, for the high table, and—"

  "Already sent some, a moment ago. Get out of here before she sees you."

  Jorunn backed into the shadows. "But Lodmundr lost my—"

  "Drifa!" someone called in their direction from the far side of the flatbread hearth.

  Jorunn recognized the plaintive voice, and ducked her head.

  "Out, out!" Groa shooed her to the houseyard.

  "You gave my snowshoes to Lodmundr," Jorunn hissed at her, "but he's lost them, and now Rimhildr has had my shawl burned. Before the sun rises I'll have to change back to my rags, and nothing else to shield me from the cold, nor any way to tramp to another steading. This is your doing! Help me! And quickly. I must leave before Rimhildr sees me in my old garb!"

  "Help you? How?" Groa planted fists on hips.

  "The bag of provisions you promised, to start with. Then a coat and a cloak and a pair of skis."

  The woman harrumphed. "I don't owe all that."

  "Nei, but I'll pay." Jorunn held out the ingot in the palm of her hand.

  Groa sucked in a breath. "Where did you get that?" she hissed.

  "Not stolen, if that's what you're thinking. Vel? Are you going to prove an honest woman? Keep your word!"

  Inga popped out of the cookhouse. "Drifa, please tell me she's taking me back! I can't bear it out here!"

  Groa reached to Jorunn's hand, but not to take the ingot. She wrapped Jorunn's fingers about the lump of silver, hiding it from sight. Her lips stretched thin. Jorunn couldn't read the emotion behind her sparking eyes. The cook turned to Inga. "Get back inside."

  The young woman clutched Groa's arm, stepped closer, stared. "You're not Drifa! It's you, the beggar-girl, the thief!"

  "I don't beg. I don't steal. I work hard for what little I get." Jorunn spun about, then drew up short.

  Gyda was crossing the houseyard, head cocked at the words she'd overheard. The glimmer of dawn backlit her figure as slender and steely as a sword blade.

  "Mistress, Mistress!" Inga cried and ran to kneel in the crunching snow. "Take me back, I beg you."

  "You beg, do you?"

  Jorunn stepped back a pace, clenching the silver ingot until her fingers hurt.

  Inga plowed on. "He vowed you'd given permission, so what would it hurt—"

  Gyda snapped. "The vow I care about is the one you made, and promptly broke. The person you should have been heeding was not that lying lout but me. Come, girl," she said to Jorunn. "We're leaving sooner than planned."

  "Me? What do you want with me?" Jorunn asked as she trailed along, wincing at Inga's wail.

  "They say you're seeking service. I'll take you. Up in the sleigh with you. Warm up the furs for me. Brynja, do hurry up!"

  "You are a thief," Inga screeched. "You've stolen my place!" She yelped as Groa hauled her back to the cookhouse.

  Jorunn had meant to leave the stifling pall of Morgedal, but not to leave the kingdom. A nine-day journey to some far dale— What about sweeping Svana out of harm's way? She could do her sister no good from such a distance. "I can't—" Jorunn began, then strangled on her words. The brightening dawn showed two skiers coming up the track from Morgedal, two lanky dark-bearded men. One was her father Knut.

  The other was Utlagi the Sour, the wife-killer.

  12 – Haven on Runners

  Jorunn lurched aside, keeping out of sight of her father and the wife-killer he meant her to marry.

  Inga shrieked one last accusation of "Thief!" before Groa dragged her into the cookhouse. Rimhildr, standing at the door of the hall, shot a glare around the houseyard. Torches glowed wan in the pale cold dawn, lighting everything in ochre hues against the grey background.

  Large hands grasped Jorunn's waist from behind, and she yelped as one of the stablemen hoisted her into the sleigh. Her cry drew Rimhildr's glance. Jorunn sank down in the blankets and furs, hiding like a hare down a bank. She could hear her father's voice demanding his daughter back. Drunken already, this early? Or drunken still, after a night at his keg? Tipsy enough, anyway, to risk a trek through the troll-haunted woods before full light. She rose just far enough to peer out again.

  "She did not have my leave to enter your service," Knut snarled. "Where is she?"

  Rimhildr drew up like a queen. "You're drunk! How dare you come here in such a state!"

  "Bring her out! I want her back."

  The lady sent a boy into the hall while the steward strode to meet this unwelcome intrusion. "Begone, you drunken fool!" the man ordered.

  "Give back my daughter!" Knut roared. "I've paid my skatt in full. You can't go taking her as thrall when I've paid in full!"

  Utlagi hung back, blinking bleary eyes at the number of men surging near. Stablemen and huntsmen hurried to lend aid, and in a moment Roald and Hadd emerged, their swordsmen spreading out to flank the common folk of the steading.

  Rimhildr stood with arms folded, glaring down her nose like an eagle ready to stoop on prey.

  "You forgot t
his," Drifa said as she climbed into the sleigh, tossing Jorunn a wad of cloth.

  Startled, Jorunn yipped at the woman's sudden presence, but she knew the feel, the scent of the faded brown fabric. Her ragged gown.

  "What?" Drifa asked. "No shawl? No coat? This will be a bone-chilling ride."

  "It's been stolen," Jorunn squeaked, and wrapped the tattered gown around her shoulders.

  Her father's voice bellowed. The steading folk crowded the two ruffians, ushering them out of the houseyard. Gyda and Brynja mounted the sleigh and nestled in the warmth between the maids. A stableman climbed in, perched in front of the womenfolk, and slapped the reins.

  Roald and Hadd took the lead on skis. Their armed men herded Knut and Utlagi ahead, goading them now with spears.

  Jorunn took one glance at the hall as they lurched past the threshold, and the first ray of morning sunshine flared full in her face. Her gaze met that of Rimhildr. The lady's eyes sharpened in a sudden glare, her brows knit, and she beckoned to the steward, barking some order and pointing at the sleigh.

  Jorunn sank down in the blankets and furs, heart beating with the tromp of the two horses harnessed one ahead of the other as they picked up their pace and left the houseyard. She heard the voices of Gyda and Brynja, but their scornful words about penalties for drunken louts rattled without meaning against the flurry of her thoughts and fears. Rimhildr behind, all suspicious and sharp— Her father swept along in the vanguard— Her only safety, this haven on runners.

  The forest closed in around the track to Morgedal, leaving Rimhildr behind now, far behind. Night lingered under the heavy spruce boughs. The troll could still be lurking, but if so, it wouldn't likely snatch at a sleigh, would it? A skier in the lead would make more tempting a target, or a straggler in the rear. Or one of the spare horses ahead of the sleigh, tromping the snow for the riders coming behind them.

  The troll might snatch a lone man like Knut, perhaps. Should she wish it?

  The pathway opened out into the dale of Morgedal much sooner than Jorunn expected. It had made such a long trudge on snowshoes. Now, at a horse's trot, it had taken no longer than the time she would spend rolling out a flatbread round.

  Knut and Utlagi had skied partway up the far flank of the dale, where they stood hurling curses at the travelers.

  Roald and Hadd set several spearmen to guard the way back to Dondstad, then pushed on down the dale. The procession halted at the mouth of the next side valley where a trio of men on skis waited. One handed Roald a long narrow bundle, well wrapped in cloth. Gyda said something about a king's sword, and Brynja answered, but Jorunn wasn't listening. She craned to look back up the dale. Two dark figures cut across the sloping snowfields, heading toward Utlagi's hut.

  Could she jump out of the sleigh, slog home in snow twice as deep as she was tall, and fetch Svana? Would Gyda let her bring her little sister along, sweep her out of this miserable place? "Mistress," she began, touching Gyda's arm.

  The young woman held up an imperious hand and went on talking to Brynja.

  Jorunn leaned forward and hissed at the sleigh's driver, a black-bearded man in a fur-trimmed hat. "How long will we halt here?"

  He shrugged and pointed at Roald, who was clapping the shoulders of the master smith. Jorunn could hear the tone of parting in their voices. Hadd stowed the bundled sword in the next sleigh in line where Gunnarr rode. She glanced upslope again. The tall figure of Knut parted from his companion and angled off toward his own cot.

  Jorunn sank back in the furs. Her slim hope had just shrunk to nothing.

  Gyda elbowed her in the ribs. "What did you want?" she asked, looking down her nose.

  "It's nothing. I'm sorry. A foolish thought."

  "What is that thing you use for a shawl? It's nothing but rags."

  "I – I have no cloak. It was stolen—"

  "You look like a slattern." Gyda curled her lip. "A half-frozen slattern. How can I trust you to tend my needs if you haven't the wits to tend your own?"

  The driver glanced over his shoulder, then doffed his fur-trimmed felt hat and handed it to Jorunn. "Take this. A kerchief like that might do for indoors, but for travel—"

  "Don't be a fool, Ketill," Gyda told the man.

  "I've a hood here somewhere, Mistress," Ketill said, rummaging around. "I'll not suffer."

  Gyda sniffed, then snapped at Jorunn. "Wrap my feet. The furs are gaping." She turned back to her cousin.

  Jorunn drew on the fur-trimmed cap, still warm from Ketill's head, and bent to her task.

  The procession started up again. Hadd continued in the lead with several of his men, leaving behind Roald who was already giving his companions orders to prepare for another troll hunt. The sleigh jolted into motion, heading down the dale along the frozen creek. On the hillside above, Knut's lanky figure vanished into the trees, gliding to the only home Jorunn had ever known. Back to gloom and the sour smell of rot, and Svana huddled in the corner.

  At the next steading, Jorunn promised herself, she'd take leave of Gyda, overwinter there if she must, then walk upcreek after the thaw.

  She was no thrall. A free woman, with choice whether to go or stay. Free, but friendless among strangers, and lacking snowshoes or even a shawl.

  Not completely friendless. She snugged the hat down, grateful for the brush of its fur trim across her brow. Her heart swelled at that small kindness, but she had no chance to give even a word of thanks to Ketill, his head now hooded in shapeless blue-grey felt.

  Morgedal fell behind. The fjord horses trotted along downhill, their broad hooves rarely plunging through the pack trodden down by the skiers and riders and string of spare horses leading the way. Trees whipped past, spruces heavy with snowy fleece and birches reaching thin twig-fringed branches toward the sky. The trail twisted and dropped and came out at last upon a flat surface as wide and long as all of Morgedal.

  "Is this a lake?" Jorunn blurted in awe. All her life on the slopes and ridges of home, and she'd never seen such an expanse.

  "Don't interrupt," Gyda said, giving her a jab to the ribs.

  "Not the lake itself, this isn't," said Ketill, his voice low. "That lies beyond the two islands up ahead. This is nothing but an inlet."

  On the frozen, flat surface of the inlet, the group picked up their pace. The wind of their passage nipped at Jorunn's cheeks as they sped along. Ahead and to their left the sun began climbing its low arc, its beams lighting the ridgetop to their right with blazing brilliance.

  "Kviteseid, the Eid of White," Ketill said over his shoulder with a nod toward the headland.

  Their path swung wide around one rocky outcropping, then another, and past the gleaming spur of land on their right. Jorunn gaped at the incredible sight beyond. The lake was so broad she couldn't make out shapes of individual trees on the far side.

  "There," Ketill pointed straight south to the far side of the lake, "see the low headland? Freyr's Grove."

  Jorunn shaded her eyes and stared. A poor cotter's daughter, she'd never been to the local judicial Assembly held at Freyr's Grove, nor to the winter sacrifices held in his honor. The bare tops of birches crowned the knoll.

  The skiers and riders in the lead swung a gentle angle left, heading right into the low morning sunlight. The horses cantered on and on along the narrow lake. On both shores rose steep hillsides and cliffs, and Jorunn realized there would be no easy trek back by foot once the snow and ice melted away in the spring.

  When they slowed to walk the horses, she rose, half-turning, to look back along their path. The headland had fallen far behind. She stared at the lay of the land, imprinting it for her return.

  "Sit down," Gyda ordered. "You're letting in a draft."

  Jorunn sat. She studied the ridges nearby but saw no sign of any steading or even of a lonely cot. Banks drew close again to either side, walling in their path along a streambed.

  Then they came to another lake, as wide and long as the first. Hadd called a halt to change to fresh horses in the traces
. Jorunn wanted to leap out and walk to land and hunt for a place to winter, but there wasn't a single dwelling in sight. Not even a smoke plume.

  "We left in such a hurry," Brynja said, "I'm hungry already."

  Drifa produced a basket and handed out barley cakes and dried fish.

  Jorunn ate without tasting a bite. Nine days' journey, Inga had said. They had already traveled far beyond belief, and not half a day had passed. "We left in such a hurry," she echoed in a low voice. Groa hadn't given her that week's worth of provisions she'd promised.

  Without supplies she wouldn't survive in the wilds on her own.

  They started up again, at a quick trot once more. When this second lake finally came to an end and banks swept down on either side, Jorunn kept up a constant craning, searching for smoke, searching for fields.

  "Why do you fidget so?" Gyda asked, thinning her lovely lips.

  "I didn't know how far you planned to go," Jorunn said. "Please, mistress, this is too much for me. Let me go back!"

  "On foot? You must be out of your wits."

  "If only we come to another steading, I'll stay and work to earn a pair of skis." Under the furs, she pressed fingers to the lump that was her precious silver ingot.

  "Ja, ja," Gyda said slow and distinct. "You were looking for a place. I gave you one. You need look no further. I'll even provide you with a shawl, when I get the chance."

  "But back in Morgedal I have—"

  Gyda bent forward and tapped the driver. "If this lackwit leaps out at any point along the way, you pull out of line and go fetch her back."

  "Ja, Mistress," Ketill said.

  "I beg you," Jorunn said, "just listen—"

  "I'll not let you wander off to your death. You've entered my service. Serve well while I give you shelter and protection."

  "I didn't—"

  "I'll hear no more about it." Gyda turned back to Brynja.

  Jorunn sputtered a moment more, but there seemed no point to it. No smoke plumes beckoned any kind of refuge. She couldn't go back to Morgedal where Utlagi waited to take her as wife. She couldn't go back to Dondstad where Rimhildr now fumed at trickery under her own roof. She was doomed to take the longest leap of all. So said the Fates. All because she hadn't left at first light, that morning after she learned that Rimhildr held the keys of Dondstad, that morning after Toothgnasher had brought the words of the Norns.