Troll Blood (29 page)

Peer sits down. In truth his legs have simply given way. But
it seems sensible; no one can think he’s dangerous if he’s sitting on the ground. And if they want to kill him, they’ll do it anyway. And he’s too tired to care. He grips Loki’s collar and waits for them to come.

It works. A crowd of men and boys surrounds him, arguing loudly, threatening him with their spears but not touching him. Their dogs skulk around snarling, foxy-faced, with curling bushy tails. Peer looks up, beyond fear, smiling stupidly, just thankful to be with people again. Dark eyes glitter down at him, suspicious, doubtful. He sees details—a cluster of red feathers swinging from a brown earlobe, a long necklace of white beads, a checkerwork armband in black and blue and white.

And then …

Can there be fair-haired Skraelings? A young boy scrabbles his way to the front of the crowd. His chest is bare. He wears a breechcloth of soft leather. His shoulder-length, white-gold hair is braided at the front and tied with discs of white shell and bunches of little blue feathers. His round face, pale under the tan, is marked with paint—a black line drawn from his forehead down over his nose, and white diagonal streaks across each cheek. His blue eyes blaze at Peer, furious, incredulous, and more than a little scared.

“Who are you?” he demands in clear, aggressive Norse. “Where have you come from?” The paint on his face wrinkles as he scowls. “Did Harald Silkenhair send you?”

CHAPTER 20
Thorolf the Seafarer

H
ilde dreamed. She thought she was running through the woods, trying to catch Peer, who was running ahead of her and who wouldn’t stop, although she called and called. He vanished into dark trees, leaving her alone and lost.

She woke, and the waking was as bad as the dream. She lay in the gloomy flicker of the fire hall, knowing that Peer was gone. Nothing good would ever happen again. Astrid lay asleep beside her, her arm over her face.

Gunnar had shut his door against Astrid, leaving the girls no choice but to sleep in the fire hall with the men. Hilde didn’t know why it should be different from everyone sleeping together as they had on the ship. But it was, and the men thought so too. There was a wide gap between herself and Tjorvi, the nearest sleeper.

Miserably she went over what Astrid had told her about Peer. He had fallen into some sort of trap; that was all she would say. When Hilde had pushed for details, Astrid got angry. She’d said, “It wouldn’t help to tell you. And anyway, it’s hard to explain. It’s like looking through a tiny window, a peephole, at something bright and small. You can’t see everything. In fact, you can’t see much of anything.”

“But you’ve found him,” Hilde burst out. “Then let’s go and rescue him.”

“But I don’t know how to get there,” Astrid said. “Oh, Hilde, think about it. Think how a fly flies! I’d never find the way.”

Hilde thought of it, the random career of a fly whirling through the woods, past tree after tree after tree …

“You said he was trapped,” she’d said at last, dreading the answer. “What sort of trap?”

Astrid wouldn’t tell her for ages. And when she did, it was worse than Hilde could possibly have imagined. “He couldn’t move. I think he was pegged down.”

Pegged down!

In agony she racked her brain to think of something—anything—that could be done. But there was nothing. Tjorvi and Arnë would look for Peer again tomorrow. She would go with them. But it would be no good searching and calling, because when Astrid’s
sending
had found Peer, he had seemed to be dying, so by now he was probably dead. Perhaps there were things in the woods that weren’t harmless like the little
wiklatmu’jk
. Perhaps the elusive Skraelings had killed him.

Her mind was running in hopeless circles when she was startled by an unexpected sound. A single muffled thump on the door.

Peer!

Her heart jumped into her throat.

It’s him; it’s got to be
.

She sat up instantly, casting a look around the room at the assembled bodies. All sleeping like the dead. No one else had heard. Her bare feet touched the damp earth floor. Taking fast, shallow breaths, she tiptoed past the fire.
Peer’s come back. He’s waiting outside. Who else would be out there? It’s him; he’s safe
.

The relief, oh, the relief! Her terrors faded. The childhood reassurance was coming true:
It was just a bad dream. Everything will be all right
. Happiness was possible. Life was worth living.
A second chance; we’ve got a second chance
.

There was another thud against the door, followed by a strange scratching sound, like claws. Loki. Of course Loki would be with Peer; he never left him.

I’m coming, I’m coming
…

He was so clear in her imagination, standing wearily on the other side of the door, perhaps leaning against it, holding himself up. In a moment she would see him, speak to him, touch him. She seized the wooden bar that fastened the door at night. It was heavy, but she managed to lift it from its sockets without a sound and lay it quietly on the floor. Trembling with cold and excitement, she raised the latch and eased the door back.

A freezing wind whirled into her face, smelling of salt and seaweed. It blew her hair into her eyes. “Peer?”

The night was dark, cloudy, but surely there was someone on the threshold. Taller than Peer. A figure—or figures. … She wiped her hair away and craned into the night with a cry of disappointment. Peer was not there.

The wind pushed into the house. It rushed up the room, sweeping the fire low. Along the darkening walls, men raised sleepy heads, lifting themselves on their elbow. Hilde turned.

A wet trail crossed the floor, as though someone had run through the room with an armful of soaking washing. A person was disappearing through the door to the inner room—a big man, his clothes black and dripping. The door slapped shut.

There was a strangled wail from Floki. “Oh, gods!”

His voice was drowned by Gunnar’s waking yell of terror.

Hilde stumbled. Something squirmed between her feet. She looked down. The dragonhead lay there, inert, its blind eye staring at her, its mouth curled in a sardonic grin. She backed away from it, knuckles against her teeth.

It didn’t move; it couldn’t have moved
.

But there it was. And how had it got there?

Frantic men scrambled from the blankets, grabbing axes, drawing knives. The dim end of the room filled with shadows as they threw themselves at the door of Gunnar’s bedchamber. What a crowd they made.
There’s too many people. Who are they all
? Breathless, she counted faces. That was
Tjorvi, all right, pressing against the door with Arnë—but who was that hollow-cheeked fellow beside him, who ducked away as she looked? Between Floki and Magnus was someone whose head gleamed unpleasantly, like bald bone. And who was that, grinning most inappropriately over Halfdan’s shoulder?

From beyond the door came a series of half-throttled screams.

“It’s stuck!” Tjorvi gasped, sweat pouring down his face. “It won’t shift. Someone’s barred it—on the inside!”

“Then break it down” Teeth bared, Harald swung around, his gold hair flying. “We need a log, quick. That one!”

“Not that one!” Hilde screeched. It was the dragonhead he was pointing at, and it was now much farther up the room.

“Don’t touch it!”

Harald bent, stared, cursed. He grabbed an ax from the feeble hands of Floki and began attacking the door with huge hacking swipes.

Someone touched Hilde’s elbow and she almost jumped out of her skin.

“What did you stop him for?” said Astrid viciously. She was very pale. The bruise on her face stood out. Her lips were parted and her breath came quickly.

“Nobody ought to touch that thing—not even Harald,” said Hilde vehemently. She didn’t know why. Then she did.
When the dead fight the living, I’m on the side of the living
. It was as simple as that.

Astrid pointed at the ruined dragonhead. “But you did. You
took it away. Where did you hide it?”

“In Thorolf’s house”

“Thorolf’s house?”
Astrid began to laugh. “No wonder we have visitors. Can you see them, too? Poor fellows, they’re not in very good shape anymore—not after sword and fire and seawater …”

Tjorvi had an ax now, and he and Harald were taking turns at the door, which shuddered and jumped. Splinters flew. They opened a long gash in the planks. Harald tossed the ax aside and called, “Father? Father!”

The screaming had stopped. Harald ran desperate hands through his hair. He looked wildly around. “Astrid! Help him!”

“How?” said Astrid calmly.

Harald seized her arm. “You’re a troll, you’ve got troll powers, haven’t you? Do something!”

Astrid showed her teeth. “And if I’m a troll, why should I help you or him? Maybe I did this! Maybe I let them in.”

Harald grabbed a fistful of her bright hair. He jerked her head back and pressed his knife against her throat.

“No! Harald, she didn’t.” Hilde caught her friend’s arm. “Astrid, everyone knows you’re not a troll. Please help us. Please!”

Astrid’s face twisted stubbornly. She looked at Harald out of the corners of her eyes and gasped, “Threaten away, Harald Silkenhair. I can’t help Gunnar anymore. You saw to that”

“What do you mean?” Harald yanked her hair. Astrid started to laugh again, a high-pitched sound not far from
weeping. “The soul has wings, Harald, did you know that? Even Gunnar’s soul. So I hid it for him in an egg, a little bird’s egg. And it was quite safe with me—till you stamped it into pieces this afternoon.”

She lifted her voice and screamed, “Hear me, Gunnar, if you can! You should have trusted me, not Harald. And now I wouldn’t help you if you came crawling to me along the highway.
A cold wife and a cold bed. A cold life and a cold death to you, Gunnar Ingolfsson!”

Harald flung her away. He hurled himself at the weakened door, and Tjorvi and Magnus joined him, throwing their shoulders against it.

It gave way, pitching them into the darkness beyond. They fell through on hands and knees. Hilde saw Harald scrambling up. “Bring torches!”

She ran to the fire and plucked a burning stick from the embers—ran to the broken door. All the men were pushing their way in. Floki hung back, his mouth trembling—afraid to go in, afraid to stay in the fire hall by himself. Hilde held out her hand, and he gripped it tightly. Like children they tiptoed into the room together.

Gunnar lay uncovered on the bed, his arms outspread. There were deep black marks on his bare throat. His skin ran with water; his hair was soaked. The air in the room smelled chill and shocked, as though a wave had burst through it. The bed linen dripped quietly onto the floor.

Floki’s hand shook in Hilde’s.

With a cry, Harald cast himself on the bed. He got an arm behind Gunnar’s shoulders and heaved him up, cradling him. Gunnar’s arms hung down and his eyes stared at nothing.

Thorolf the Seafarer had been—and gone.

They built up the fire till it blazed, and huddled around it, listening to Harald weeping behind the broken door.

“Harald’s brave enough,” Halfdan muttered once. “Sitting up with
that
.”

The men nodded. After a while, and almost as though he couldn’t help it, Magnus said, “What if
Gunnar
won’t lie quiet?”

That made everyone draw closer together—except Astrid, who sat alone and silent near the door.

But the night passed without further disturbance. When a little gray light crept through the smoke hole, Hilde began stiffly to set about stirring up some warm groute. She didn’t ask Astrid to help: Astrid looked as though she might never move or speak again. Hilde set a small bowl aside for the Nis. She knew it was frightened of ghosts. She hoped it was all right.

Harald came out of his father’s room. The men jumped nervously as if expecting a monster. He paused in the doorway. “A funeral,” he said coldly. “Build a pyre. We’ll burn his body and raise a mound to cover his bones. Pull down the other house to make material for it. I don’t want a turf or a hearthstone left in place. And from now on this bay will be
called Gunnar’s Grave. Where is the dragonhead? Has it been burned yet?”