01 - The Sea of Trolls

by Nancy Farmer - (ebook by Undead)

  The dragon rose and hovered in the air. She opened her talons, and Jack and Thorgil tumbled out into a ring of stone. Around them beady eyes watched intently. Jack realized, with a sick rush of terror, that they had been brought—as a cat might bring mice for her kittens—to teach the dragonlets how to hunt.

  “Strike between the chest plates below their necks,” Thorgil said in a low voice. “That’s what Olaf told me.”

  Jack could hardly believe his ears. She was up and ready for battle. He was anything but ready. He found himself hypnotized by the dragonlets. They hissed and swayed back and forth, craning their necks. Their eyes were lit with evil intent. How could Thorgil think of fighting now? It was all over. They were doomed.

  Four of the monsters—each twice Jack’s size—were working up the courage to follow their mother’s bidding. The dragon crouched at the side of the nest, making a bubbling noise like a pot of boiling water. Her great, golden eyes were half closed.

  Bold Heart stuck his head out of the bag and cawed sharply. The dragon reared back as though stung. Bold Heart climbed out and hopped to the ground. He cawed again and mumbled something in crow talk. The dragon burbled.

  “Are they talking?” Jack whispered.

  “I don’t know. Keep your eyes on the green one. He’s bolder than the rest.” All Thorgil’s attention was given to the dragonlets. She was correct: The green one was curling a long, snakelike tongue over his scaly lips as he gazed at the tidbits his mother had brought home. Saliva—or something like it—fell to the ground with a hiss. The other three creatures eyed their brother nervously. They were smaller and golden, like their mother. Jack guessed they were females.

  Bold Heart had worked himself into a perfect frenzy of cawing and warbling. He seemed to be trying to convince the dragon of something. She hissed and lashed her tail. Then, abruptly, she rose and soared off down the valley. Bold Heart turned his attention to the dragonlets.

  They, too, seemed to understand him, but they were too young to pay attention for long. One of the golden females scratched her potbelly with long fingernails. She seemed to be dozing off. “Thorgil, lie down,” Jack whispered.

  “I’m not a coward,” she said.

  “This is strategy. I think they don’t know about hunting. If we lie still and don’t move, they’ll ignore us.”

  “Thorgil Olaf’s Daughter does not retreat.”

  The green dragonlet arched his neck to study her. His snaky tongue flicked out. Jack despaired of getting through to the shield maiden. If she kept moving, she’d get them both killed. “Lie still and get him to lower his guard. Then you can stab him,” said Jack.

  This must have made sense, because Thorgil immediately obeyed. The dragonlet considered her for a long moment before being distracted by a passing hawk.

  Bold Heart hopped in front of the creature. Jack waited breathlessly for a fatal strike, but the crow seemed to be discussing something with the young dragon. The bird cawed and hopped, flicking his head at the smaller siblings. Jack couldn’t understand what was being said, but the meaning was clear: Hey, look! Mother’s away from home. It’s a perfect time to get rid of rivals.

  The longer Bold Heart cawed, the more agitated the green dragonlet became and the more nervous were the golden ones. Suddenly, with shocking speed, the green dragonlet hurled himself across the nest, barely missing Jack and Thorgil with his talons. He seized his sisters by the neck—bang, bang, bang, one after the other—and threw them off the cliff!

  Jack heard them wail all the way down. They were only chicks. They couldn’t fly. The green dragonlet threw back his head with an ear-piercing shriek of victory… and Thorgil raised herself up and stabbed him between the chest plates below his neck. The victory scream stopped in midshriek. The dragonlet thrashed and beat at the knife, but the blow was mortal. He collapsed onto the shield maiden.

  Jack immediately grabbed his stubby wings and pulled him off—fortunately, the creature was far lighter than he looked—but, to his horror, he saw Thorgil clawing at her face. Some of the dragonlet’s blood had splattered onto her and was raising blisters. He washed her frantically with the bag of drinking water and wiped her with his cloak. It seemed to help. She had blisters on one cheek and on her lips, but her eyes, thank goodness, had been spared.

  Thorgil looked stunned. Her eyes were wild, and she seemed hardly aware of things around her. But after a moment she rallied and, clinging to Jack, hobbled out of the nest. He took her behind a boulder and ran back to retrieve what supplies he could find.

  Her crutch had snapped in two in the dragon’s talons on the trip up. His staff was still intact, and he still had the gold chess piece, sun stone, and poppy juice in a pouch around his neck. The food was ruined. The water bag was empty. His cloak had gaping holes from where he’d dropped it in the dragonlet’s blood. So did the bag he’d used to carry Bold Heart. Jack decided to abandon them. He wanted to pull Thorgil’s knife free, but it was covered in gore and he was afraid to touch it.

  Bold Heart, meanwhile, had hopped onto one of the stones encircling the nest. “You were wonderful!” Jack cried. “I had no idea you could talk Dragon.” The crow burbled, and Jack flinched and looked behind him. “All right, all right. You really can talk Dragon.”

  Bold Heart strutted up and down as if to say, I am the greatest! I am the greatest! I’m the toughest crow in Middle Earth, and in Jotunheim, too!

  “Yes, you are,” agreed Jack, “but you’d better hop aboard. We’ve got to find a hiding place before the dragon returns.” He lifted the crow to his shoulder and hurried back to Thorgil.

  They squeezed between boulders, working their way back from the cliffs. Jack searched anxiously for a cave or a hole—anything that could conceal them from the dragon. He found nothing but a confusing jumble of rocks. Thorgil was tiring rapidly. It was amazing that she’d had the energy to kill the dragonlet. Now her strength flagged, and she leaned more and more on Jack.

  Jack, too, was exhausted. Thorgil was hanging on to one shoulder and Bold Heart clutched the other. The wind on the high cliff was fierce, freezing, and continuous. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to walk.

  Odin must really love me, Jack thought. I’m suffering enough for six Northmen. They staggered into a narrow ravine and concealed themselves as best they could in the shadows. The shadows, of course, were especially icy.

  “We have to rest,” Jack whispered. “I have to rest. You were magnificent, Thorgil. I never dreamed anyone could be that brave.”

  She said nothing.

  “It’s all right to enjoy praise,” he said. “Olaf loved it. I can tell you, if we survive, I’ll make you the best poem a warrior ever had—you and Olaf, of course.”

  Thorgil made a choking sound. Jack bent down, squinting in the shadows. Her lips were badly blistered, and he had a horrid thought. “Thorgil, open your mouth.” She did, and he saw, to his dismay, that her tongue was blistered too. She didn’t talk because she couldn’t.

  “Oh, no, no, no,” Jack whispered, holding her. It was a sign of her utter weakness that she didn’t push him away. “I don’t have water, but I’ll look for ice.” He searched along the rocks until he found a pocket of snow. He brought it to her. She ate it, little by little, and it seemed to reduce the swelling of her tongue. At least she wasn’t choking anymore.

  Jack leaned back and gazed at the strip of sky over their hiding place. He had no idea what to do. Out of habit, as he did whenever he was upset, Jack clutched the rune of protection around his neck. It was barely warm. Even it had little encouragement to add to their desperate situation.

  Bold Heart crouched and moaned. It was unlike any sound he’d made before. Jack looked up and saw a blob of snow at the top of the ravine. Where had that come from? A second later it was joined by another blob, and another and another. Hooo-uh, hooo-uh, hooo-uh, wuh-wuh-wuh, said the first blob.

  The other blobs responded with doglike barks, cackles, shrieks, and hisses. Hooo-uh! Hooo-uh! the first blob said emphatica
lly. It was hard to see against the bright strip of sky, but Jack made out a huge, round head with yellow eyes. It was an enormous owl, big enough to carry off a lamb—or attack a pair of desperately weak humans. Bold Heart hid behind Jack.

  Hooo-uh wuh-wuh-wuh! yelled the first owl. The others replied with a variety of indignant cries, working themselves into a frenzy. They fluffed their feathers, hunched their shoulders, and spread their wings. Krujff-guh-guh-guh! they shouted. They danced back and forth on fat, feathery legs.

  Jack looked down to see Thorgil staring at them with a look of utter terror on her face. Thorgil scared? She’d stood up to dragons!

  A terrible, wailing scream echoed over the cliffs. The owls exploded from their perch in a flurry of wings. Jack heard an ominous creaking. The dragon had discovered the destruction of her nest.

  “I don’t think she can see us,” Jack whispered to Thorgil. “Stay still. We should wait until she gets tired of hunting.” But the dragon didn’t get tired for a long time. Back and forth she went, searching the cliffs. Her shadow passed overhead several times as the sun slowly worked its way across the sky. The shadow in the ravine became deeper.

  When it seemed the dragon was far away, Jack crept out and filled the water skin with snow. He trickled it into Thorgil’s mouth and a little into Bold Heart’s beak. He himself sucked on fragments of ice he found on the rocks. It was all they had and all they would have.

  At last the dragon appeared to settle down. They heard occasional outbursts of grief, but the position of the creature didn’t move. “Mm,” said Thorgil, grasping Jack’s hand.

  “What is it? Do you want water?”

  “Mm!” the girl insisted. She still couldn’t talk. She pulled at Jack and pointed down the ravine.

  “That’s not the way to the ice mountain,” he said, “but I suppose it doesn’t matter. We can’t get down the cliff, and we’ll freeze to death here.” With afternoon, the wind had picked up and was whistling through the ravine. Jack lifted Bold Heart, who seemed noticeably weaker. None of them had eaten much for days. The bird’s injured wing drooped and his feet were clumsy. He didn’t have a covering of feathers on his legs like the owls.

  Jack’s body ached with tiredness, but he put one arm around Thorgil and used the staff to steady them both. Bold Heart clung to his shoulder. The ravine was full of loose rocks, and their progress was slow. They went down and down as the cliffs towered up and up until it was almost dark at the bottom. They came to a place where the trail—if it was a trail—divided. Jack stopped. He was so exhausted, he couldn’t make up his mind.

  Thorgil, however, had no problem. She firmly steered him to the left. They came to more divides. Each time, Thorgil chose a direction, almost as if she knew where they were going. Jack didn’t care. At least someone was making decisions.

  To his very great surprise, they came out into a little valley full of trees. A stream chuckled down the middle, and on either side were bushes full of raspberries and blueberries. The ground was covered with tiny mountain strawberries. The air was warm and sweet.

  “Oh, Thorgil,” murmured Jack. He sat her down on a bed of clover and hurried to gather fruit. All three of them feasted, though he had to squash the berries and drip the juice into Thorgil’s mouth. Bold Heart gorged himself.

  Jack hid two more drops of poppy juice in the berries he fed the shield maiden. He wasn’t sure if this was wise, but it seemed she would never survive if she didn’t rest. Soon she was stretched out on the clover, snoring. Her face was more peaceful than it had been since… well, since forever, Jack thought.

  The light turned blue with evening, and a mist rose from the stream. Jack walked along the edge. It was hard to feel that anything could go wrong in this place. Everything was so peaceful. Flowers—ordinary flowers, not troll-blossoms that wanted to kill you—grew on the mossy banks. Mushrooms of all shapes and colors dotted fallen logs.

  Jack bent down to fill the water bag. The stream was warm—not hot, just warm enough to feel nice. He bathed his face and hands. Then he stretched out beside Thorgil and Bold Heart. They had only one cloak, but it was enough in the soft, sweet air of the little valley. Jack went to sleep watching the bright chips of stars in the dark sky overhead.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  THE CAPERCAILLIE

  Nothing horrible came out of the woods that night. Nothing ripped branches or belched fire or tried to bite off anyone’s leg. Jack opened his eyes on a forest full of birds. They sang and chattered in all the trees. The air was full of trills and warbles and chirrs as the birds greeted the dawn. Crossbills flew out of pine trees. Woodpeckers drilled at bark. Thrushes and finches darted through aspen, oak, and birch, for this warm, hidden pocket was like a forest in England.

  “Isn’t it lovely?” Jack said with a sigh, smoothing Bold Heart’s feathers. Thorgil looked terrified. “It’s all right,” Jack assured her. “It’s only different from what we expected. I don’t know how you found this place, but I’m awfully glad you did. The stream is warm, by the way. If you want to bathe, I’ll help you to the edge.”

  Thorgil looked at him as though he were completely crazy.

  “Oh, I know. You Northmen like to stink to High Heaven, but the water feels nice. I wish we didn’t have to leave. At least we’ll be able to rest.”

  “Ahnt to go,” said Thorgil with difficulty.

  “You can talk! Open your mouth so I can see how much the swelling’s gone down.” Thorgil obeyed. Jack was pleased with her progress. Her face and lips looked better too. The blisters had almost vanished, leaving only a slight puffiness.

  “Ahnt to go now,” said Thorgil.

  “Oh! I’ll go beyond those trees and give you privacy.”

  “Not att. Go out valley. Soopid thrall.”

  Jack stared at her. He might have known. If something was good, she’d be sure to reject it. “It’s a mistake, you know, to call someone a ‘stupid thrall’ when he has the only knife.”

  “Ate birds. Huh-huh-tote birds,” Thorgil said, and burst into tears.

  Jack was confounded. In spite of himself, he felt sorry for her. She’d saved him from the dragon, after all, and she’d found the valley. What was wrong with her? “Is this place dangerous?” he asked. “Is there something I should know?”

  “No. Hate birds, is all.”

  “Well, that’s not enough,” Jack said. “I like them. I even talk to them, or at least smart ones like Bold Heart. We absolutely have to rest. If you don’t like the singing, stuff moss into your ears. I’m going off to find food—another of our little problems, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  She did as he suggested: stuffed moss into her ears. Then she sat staring at the stream with tears rolling down her cheeks.

  He left Bold Heart to keep her company. There was no reasoning with the shield maiden. She was determined to suffer no matter how nice things were. His mood lifted as he walked along the stream. The life force seemed to be everywhere, in the leafy trees, the ecstatic birds, the lemmings and voles that rustled through the strawberries, in the butterflies, midges, and beetles. The place was simmering with activity.

  Jack found berries, but he wanted something more sustaining. He considered the mushrooms—or were they toadstools? He found and dug up wild leeks.

  He froze as he heard something crackling in the underbrush. Slowly, carefully, a magnificent bird stepped from the shadows. Her majestic brown tail fanned out behind her, and around her feet flocked ten speckled chicks. Jack’s mouth watered. It was a capercaillie, big as four hens put together. Heide had served one in Olaf’s hall. Jack remembered clearly its rich flesh flavored with lingonberries from Dotti’s garden.

  The capercaillie gazed at him haughtily. Her eyes, topped by patches of red that resembled eyebrows, seemed mildly surprised. She wasn’t even afraid. Jack felt for his knife.

  The creature moved toward him. The speckled chicks pecked at the ground and glanced up for approval from their mother. The capercaillie lowered her head and
clucked softly. Jack knew she could feed them for days. He could roast her with the leeks he’d gathered earlier and serve her with the wild strawberries her chicks were so busy eating.

  The bird walked past him with a dignified tread. She wasn’t afraid of him. It would take only a second to cut her throat, but Jack couldn’t do it. The Bard had told him it was evil to use the life force to lure game. This valley was brimming with it, and the capercaillie felt secure in its presence. To kill her was—somehow—wrong.

  I must be stupid beyond belief, he thought as he watched the bird disappear into the forest. Soon, however, he came into a different sort of woodland. He saw apple, walnut, hazelnut, and pear trees among the more familiar pines and aspens. They were covered with both flowers and ripe fruit, as though spring and autumn had run together. Jack took off his tunic and used it as a carrying bag.

  And then he heard a buzzing in the distance that sent a thrill along his nerves. It was an uncountable number of bees, so many that there must have been hundreds of hives up ahead. Jack, who was well used to the insects from Mother’s work, understood the quality of their hum. You could tell their mood by the sounds they made.

  He’d heard angry bees and cheerful ones, worried bees and some so despairing that the whole hive was sinking into death. But these were possessed by mad joy. Jack could imagine them rising and falling in their thousands over the trees. It filled him with alarm, though he’d never been afraid of the creatures before. Their emotions were simply too strong to bear. Jack turned away.

  Thorgil was still staring at the stream when he returned. He sliced up ripe pears for her. He found a flat rock and pounded nut meats into powder. She ate and went back to watching the stream.

  You’re welcome, Jack thought. But after awhile he got up and changed the binding on her ankle. She couldn’t help being an infuriating berserker. He saw that the puffiness over her ankle had vanished, as had the blisters on her cheek. In spite of herself, Thorgil was recovering.