by Nancy Farmer
Come forth. Come forth to me. Cloak the air with your gray presences, he called to the life force, but his concentration was broken. Terror threatened to overwhelm him. These were the wolf-headed men. They were real. They were on the way to the village.
“Are those knights?” whispered Lucy.
“No. Be quiet.” Even without fog, Jack thought they would be well hidden in the bracken. They could escape. But what of Father and Mother? Or the Bard?
“I think they’re knights,” Lucy said.
“They’re monsters. Be quiet.”
“Hva ?” said one of the men on the road. He strode to the edge and peered out over the bracken.
“Ekkert. etta er bara kanína,” said another.
The words were almost like Saxon, Jack’s own tongue. He’d heard a few other languages in his life, from people who passed through at village fairs. He’d heard Welsh, Erse, Pictish, and of course Latin, but he could speak none of them. They were nothing like his own speech. This was. He was almost certain the first man had said What? and the second had replied Nothing. It’s only a rabbit.
Lucy wriggled beside him, and he tightened his hold on her. The warriors above were growing ever more clear. They were cloaked in sheepskins and wore leather caps over their long, pale hair. Swords and axes hung from their belts. One was only a boy.
For a long moment the men conferred, and then, miraculously, they turned back the way they had come. They would miss the village! Jack hugged Lucy. “They’re going,” she whispered.
“Shh,” said Jack. The boy had turned and was once again scanning the bracken.
“Komdu , Thorgil ,” called one of the men.
“They’re the knights come to take me to my castle,” Lucy cried out suddenly. “Here I am! Here!”
The boy on the road shouted, “ arna er kanínan!” He leaped into the bracken, knife in hand, and grabbed Lucy. Jack tried to knock him down, but the boy yanked her up by the hair and held the knife to her throat. By now the men were running back.
Jack had one instant—only one—in which he could have fled, leaving Lucy behind in the clutches of the berserkers. He couldn’t do it. She was so little and helpless. He was her brother. He had no hope of defeating such a band of warriors, but he could stay with her, little though that might accomplish. At least they would die together.
In the next instant a huge man with one bushy eyebrow extending across his forehead fell on Jack like a tree and knocked him senseless.
The ground was moving. It tossed him up first and then slid him down in a nauseating roll. Jack gulped for air, got foul-tasting water instead, and then he did vomit. He crouched on hands and knees. He had been lying facedown in a filthy pool, and his whole body was wet and cold. The ground heaved again.
“ rællinn er vakna ur,” someone said.
Jack’s head throbbed. He looked down to see a drop of blood plop into the disgusting pool. He felt his hair. It was matted and sticky. How had that happened?
“Hei ræll! ú hefur svoliti kettlingaklór arna.” There was crude laughter, and several other voices joined in.
Jack struggled to understand. They were speaking something like Saxon, but the accent was so barbaric, he could make out only one word in three. Was ræll their word for thrall ? If so—Jack had to think hard—it meant “servant” or possibly “slave.” That didn’t sound good. Kettlingur , which was close to kettlingaklór , meant “kitten.” What did kittens have to do with him?
Jack looked up—his head hurt so much, he was afraid to move quickly. The ground pitched again, and he saw, beyond a wooden railing, a vast expanse of gray water. He looked to the other side. More water.
He was on a ship! Jack had been in little coracles close to shore. He used them to reach small islands at low tide, to gather seagull eggs and whelks. He never went far. Now he saw no islands, only a heaving gray sea with a pitiless gray sky above. He moaned and ducked his head to shut out the terrible sight.
“Skræfan ín.”
Skrafan thin. Jack easily translated that into his own language. It was a favorite insult thrown back and forth between the village boys: “scaredy-pants.” Well, he was scared. Who wouldn’t be? He was adrift on the open sea with no memory of how he got there.
He turned to get a look at who was talking and flinched. It was a giant. Maybe not a true giant—they were supposed to have hands big enough to pick up an ox. But this creature was certainly taller than any man Jack had seen. He had blond braids hanging past his shoulders, a massive beard covering his chest, and one bushy eyebrow extending all the way across his face.
Now the boy remembered. In that fragment of time between seeing Lucy with a knife at her throat and the utter darkness that followed, there was an instant where a huge one-browed man had hurled himself at Jack. This was he! This was a berserker in the flesh, every bit as dreadful as the stories said. Beyond him Jack saw other men pulling on oars. They were smaller than the giant but just as evil-looking.
Lucy! What had happened to her? Had they—? It was unthinkable! But men who could slaughter the gentle monks would think nothing of killing a girl. Jack closed his eyes. He had failed to save the one person he was bound to protect. His fragile little sister had been tossed aside as if she were of no more importance than a mouse.
He found that having his eyes closed made him even more seasick.
Jack pulled himself up and staggered to the rail. It would take only a small effort to throw himself over the side. Why not? What did he have to live for? Lucy was dead, perhaps even his parents. He didn’t know what had happened while he was unconscious. His future was bleak. The berserkers would probably kill him in some entertaining way. They might even eat him.
Jack felt dizzy with pain and despair. He’d failed everyone, even the Bard. If the old man hadn’t given him the rune of protection, he might have withstood the Nightmare.
Jack felt at his neck. There it was, invisible but still warm to the touch. What a laugh! It saved his life for what? He was a miserable failure who let berserkers kill his sister. He let the Nightmare steal the Bard’s wits. The poor old man would wander until he found the Valley of Lunatics. At least there he’d make friends.
Jack’s mouth quirked. What was wrong with him? He had nothing to smile about. Yet the thought of the Bard having a party in the Valley of Lunatics—all of them saying “wudduh” and “gaaw” and nodding wisely—well, it was kind of funny. No, it’s not, Jack told himself sternly.
Yes, it is, said his mouth, insisting on quirking up.
He felt warmth spreading from the hidden rune. It filled him with a distant hope. After all, he didn’t know that his parents were dead. The Bard might recover. Life was precious and not to be thrown away heedlessly.
At that moment Jack looked down the length of the boat and saw the boy who’d killed Lucy. Jack lurched forward, but he saw he wouldn’t get past the men. They sat squarely in the middle, each one hauling on a pair of oars. The giant sat in front on a wooden chest.
“Hvert ertu a fara?” said the giant.
Where are you going? Jack translated.
“To kill that boy,” he said, pointing.
For a moment the giant appeared to be working it out. Then his eyes opened wide. “A drepa etta brjóstabarn. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
“Ég er ekki brjóstabarn!” came the outraged voice of the boy.
“Jú, a ertu!”
The men all seemed to find this extremely funny. They roared and hooted. The boy protested in his higher, shriller voice.
“ a er gott,” said the giant, wiping tears from his eyes. He moved his tree-trunk-size legs to one side and signaled the other men to do likewise. “A drepa etta brjóstabarn. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
What kind of people were these? thought Jack. They knew he wanted to commit murder, and they liked it! He didn’t understand the word brjóstabarn , but drepa most definitely meant “kill.” He pushed his way past the berserkers, stepping over legs and under elbows. He didn’t know what he was
going to do when he got back there.
He came out from under the last smelly, sheepskin-clad arm and tripped over Lucy. She was crouched in the dirty water at the bottom of the boat. “It’s about time,” she sniffled. “I’ve been suffering most horribly, and all you did was sleep.”
“You’re alive! Oh, thank Heaven!” He hugged his little sister, who at once burst into tears.
“I’ve been trying to tell these knights to take me to the castle,” she sobbed.
“They aren’t knights,” Jack said, unsure of how much to tell Lucy.
“You can say that again! They smell like hogs and bark like dogs. And they laugh at me. Tell them to take us home right now.”
“I don’t think they’ll obey me,” said Jack.
“Hei ræll! ví drepur u ekki etta brjóstabarn?”
“He’s asking why you don’t kill me,” said the boy in perfect Saxon. “If you try, I’ll cut your head off.” He continued plying his oar, which was different from the others. It hung from a kind of hinge and went straight down into the water.
“You’re the brjóstabarn ?” Jack said.
For answer, the boy kicked Jack in the stomach and followed up with another blow to the head. “You’re a dirty thrall. I can kill you whenever I want.”
The blow opened up the cut on Jack’s head. He wanted to fight back, but he was too weak. All he could manage was to hold his stomach and try to keep from vomiting.
“You monster!” shrieked Lucy. “You—you brjóstabarn !” She scrambled under the forest of arms and legs to the giant and climbed onto his lap by pulling on his braids.
“No…no…,” moaned Jack. He expected the giant to hurl Lucy into the sea.
“You’ve got to do something!” Lucy was screaming. “You’re my knights, and you’re supposed to be taking me to my castle. Get off that box and beat that brjóstabarn !”
Instead of getting angry, the giant gave another of his barking laughs. He put Lucy down and made his way to the stern of the boat. It swayed sickeningly under his weight. “Hann er rællinn minn, Thorgil ,” he said, slapping the boy so hard, his head snapped back. “ ú mátt ekki drepa hann.” Then he trudged back to his box.
Thorgil ground his teeth, but he didn’t utter a sound. He glared at Jack with a hatred so intense, Jack could almost feel it. Meanwhile, Lucy had returned. She squatted in the dirty water and patted Jack’s arm. “I’ll protect you,” she said. “After all, I’m a princess.”
Gradually, the bleeding stopped, and Jack was able to recover from the vicious blow to his stomach. He couldn’t think of a thing to do, other than stay alive for Lucy’s sake. She had no idea of their extreme danger. To her, this was merely an uncomfortable adventure.
After a long while Thorgil turned to Jack and once again spoke in perfect Saxon. “I will not kill you because you belong to Olaf One-Brow. It is his privilege to do so. However, the girl is my thrall.” He smiled coldly. “I will kill her whenever I wish, if you displease me.” And he turned again to ply his single oar.
Chapter Eleven
The Shield Maiden
They traveled all day, with breaks to let the oarsmen rest. The sky remained gray, but the clouds lifted enough for Jack to see land far to the left. At one point they passed an island that trailed plumes of smoke. Was that the Holy Isle? It was too hazy to tell.
At one point the rowers halted, and Olaf One-Brow passed out smoked fish, cheese, and a kind of flatbread Jack had never seen before. He thought it delicious until he realized it had been stolen from some poor village. Olaf found a pot of honey and smeared it on the bread for Lucy. No one else got this treat.
“Litla valkyrja,” the giant rumbled, tousling Lucy’s hair.
“Princess,” corrected Lucy. They smiled at each other.
“Pest,” said the boy at the oar.
Jack studied him. Thorgil was handsome, in a sullen way. His eyes were blue, and his hair would have been as golden as Lucy’s if it hadn’t been so dirty. The berserkers were all filthy, Jack realized. Their boots smelled like carrion, and their sheepskins reeked of sweat. Lucy, in her sky blue dress, looked like a flower dropped into a pigsty.
What was he to do about her? Jack might try swimming to shore by himself, but he couldn’t leave her behind. Olaf One-Brow might possibly be talked into setting her free, but Lucy didn’t belong to him. The berserkers set great store by ownership. Once Thorgil had pinched her, to see Jack’s reaction, and Olaf had done nothing about it.
They slid north on the gray ocean until the sun broke out in late afternoon. It hovered, red and swollen, over the horizon as they turned toward land. Jack saw a dense forest and fires along the shore. Two other boats had been drawn up. Shouts greeted their arrival.
Altogether the warriors numbered about forty men and seven boys. The ones on shore were showing off the booty they had taken—embroidered shawls, necklaces, even pairs of dainty ladies’ shoes draped about their necks like trophies. They pranced around, guffawing and pointing at one another. Other loot was displayed on the sand: metalwork, pottery, spoons, swags of richly colored cloth, and a jeweled cross that might have come from the Holy Isle. Huddled next to the forest were the captives, with their legs hobbled.
Jack was hustled to this group, but Lucy was presented like a rare prize to the assembled warriors. Olaf lifted her over his head and boomed “Litla valkyrja!” before he put her down. Everyone admired her. Lucy bowed. They bowed back. She clapped her hands and they laughed. She was caught up in her princess fantasy, but Jack was desperately worried about the berserkers’ true motives.
“She’s a little charmer, isn’t she?” a woman said. She was thin, her eyes full of grief. “I had a daughter. She wasn’t as beautiful as your sister.” She fell silent, and Jack thought he knew what had happened. The woman’s daughter had not been pretty enough to keep.
“The girl’s a slave like the rest of us,” said a man in a torn monk’s robe. “They’ll raise her like a prize pig and then sell her.”
“At least she’s alive,” Jack said.
“Sometimes death is better.”
“No, it isn’t.”
The monk laughed harshly. “Hark at him! The child presumes to lecture his elders. Listen, boy. Long life is but a chance to commit more sins. The longer you live, the more Satan whispers in your ear. Your soul grows so heavy, it gets dragged down to Hell. It’s better to die young, preferably right after baptism, and be taken into Heaven.”
“My daughter is in Heaven,” said the sad-eyed woman.
“Yes, well, you don’t know that,” the monk said. “Even quite small children are capable of evil.”
“I know she is,” the woman said fiercely.
“And I believe you,” said Jack. “I think it depends on whether someone means to be bad. My sister Lucy can drive you crazy, but she hasn’t an evil bone in her body.”
“Man is born corrupt,” the monk said in a hollow voice. Jack made no answer. That was the sort of thing Father said all the time.
The warriors gorged themselves on roast meat until their bellies bulged and their beards shone with grease. They drank mead until they fell over. Fights broke out. More than one man went to bed with a cut lip or bloody nose, but it seemed to be in good fun. Jack noticed, however, that some did not take part.
Olaf One-Brow’s group camped by themselves. No one playfully punched them or threw sand in their hair. No one uttered a catcall in their direction. It seemed that Olaf’s men were too important to indulge in horseplay.
The exception was Thorgil. Another lad with chopped-off hair ran past the group and threw a pebble at the boy. Thorgil sprang to his feet with a shout and took off after the offender. Round and round they went until Thorgil caught up with his tormentor.
“Hættu!” cried the short-haired lad.
“Aldrei! Nei!” shouted Thorgil.
The others danced around, singing, “Dreptu hann! Dreptu hann!”
“They’re saying, ‘Kill him! Kill him!’” the mon
k said quietly.
“You know their language?” said Jack. Thorgil was getting the best of the fight because he was so much more frenzied.
“Oh, yes. I have had occasion to preach to these…animals.”
By now the short-haired lad was trying to escape, but Thorgil pulled him back and proceeded to pound and kick him in a sickening way. The cries of the watchers changed to “Nóg! Hættu!”
“They’re saying, ‘Enough! Stop!’ But she won’t,” said the monk.
“She?” Jack was startled from his fascination with the fight. It was getting nasty, with Thorgil pulling the boy’s head back in an attempt to break his neck.
“Oh, yes. That’s a girl.”
“Nóg,” growled Olaf One-Brow, plucking Thorgil from the fray as easily as picking up a kitten. The short-haired boy scuttled off on hands and knees. The others scattered.
“I’m surprised,” said the monk. “Olaf usually lets a fight go through to the end.” The giant lumbered back across the sand with Thorgil tucked firmly under his arm.
“How can that be a girl?” said Jack. He’d known some bad-tempered girls in the village, but none of them would have thrown themselves into such a vicious fight. None of the boys, either, for that matter.
“She’s a shield maiden,” said the monk. “A little abomination who will certainly toast her heels in Hell for all eternity. She’s trying to make the grade with Olaf, so she’s twice as likely to pick fights as his men. And they’re no slouches.” The monk stared long and hard at the group. By now most of the warriors had collapsed on the sand in a drunken stupor. Only Olaf’s men spread cloths and lay down properly.
They formed a square as though, even in sleep, they were in military formation. In the middle lay Thorgil. Next to her, on a blanket, was Lucy. She had a real pillow and a richly embroidered cover that might have been taken from a church altar.
“What’s a brjóstabarn ?” said Jack.
