Troll Blood (33 page)

“Gods!” Harald stared at him in disgust. “You’re like a human water clock. We ought to stand you in a corner and keep time by the drips.”

Now that
, thought Hilde,
is the sort of remark that used to make Floki giggle. See how he likes it when it happens to him
.

This time there were no smothered chuckles. Most of the men ate on steadily, pretending not to notice. There’d been a lot of this lately: everyone tiptoeing around, afraid of setting Harald off. Since Gunnar died his moods had become dangerously unpredictable and his mocking tongue was sharper than ever. Every morning he called Astrid over to comb his
hair, and Hilde could not watch without a shiver. She didn’t know why it frightened her, but it did. It was like watching a cat playing with a mouse, knowing that sometime the claws would come out. But Harald seemed to enjoy it, and if Astrid found it humiliating, she didn’t say so. She never referred to it. The baby was showing more by now, but she never spoke of that, either.

She doesn’t talk about anything. She never smiles
.

Floki, who had been glancing covertly at Harald and struggling not to sniff, gave up the battle.
“Sssnnnfff!”

Everyone jumped. Harald heaved a cold sigh. “Someone should make a poem about you, Floki. Though I wonder if anyone could do you justice. Let’s see … ‘Indoors, Floki’s nose drips into the pot. Outside, it sprouts an icicle of snot.’” He showed his teeth. “How’s that? Not bad, I feel, on the spur of the moment.”

“I’ve got a cold,” Floki muttered. “I can’t help it.”

“I know that, Floki,” Harald said soothingly. “I know you can’t help it.” Floki’s worried forehead cleared, but Harald wasn’t finished. “But tell me something. Is there anything you can help?”

Floki looked this way and that.

“Answer the question,” said Harald pleasantly. “You look like a pig, you sound like a pig. Granted. But do you have to be as stupid as one? Do you have to be a bandy-legged, red-faced, useless idiot?”

Floki twisted his shoulders miserably. He tried to grin, but
there were tears in his eyes.

Magnus growled, “Come on, Harald, stop picking on the lad. Like he told you, he can’t help having a cold.”

“Ah!” Harald’s blue eyes flicked to Magnus. “Magnus, rushing in to look after Floki, as usual.” He spun his knife and caught it. “You should be in petticoats. You fuss over him like an old woman, don’t you? Why is that, Magnus?”

Magnus flushed a slow, angry red.

With widening eyes, Floki plastered his fingers to his face and exploded into a huge, wet sneeze.
“Aaaarcchoooo!”

Harald grabbed his cup. “Get out of my sight, you fool!” he yelled, and threw it. It bounced off Floki’s head, splashing Magnus with weak ale. Floki squealed in pain. Magnus jumped up.

“Right! I’m sick of your sneering ways, Harald. I stood by while you drove one young lad to his death, and I’ll not stand by while you start on Floki. Who gave you the right to push us all around?” He glared at Harald. “Your dad was all right, but I can’t stand the sight of you. If you was old enough, I’d pick you up and break you in half.”

“Shut up!” Harald’s voice slashed like a whip. “Tuck Floki into bed and kiss him good night. That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?”

With an incoherent roar, Magnus launched himself at Harald’s throat. Harald stood. The trestle table collapsed between them. Harald put his chin over Magnus’s shoulder, hugging him close. His right arm jerked, once, twice. He
stepped back. His knife was covered in wet blood. Magnus slid to the ground.

It happened too fast for anyone else to move. Hilde stopped breathing. All around the table were open mouths and horrified eyes.

“Oh, gods. Magnus!” A wail from Floki broke the silence. He scurried around the table and dropped to his knees, grabbing Magnus’s arm, rolling him over. “Oh, gods!” He patted Magnus desperately. “Wake up, wake up! Oh, gods, Magnus!”

Hilde stared at Magnus. There was a bloodstained slit in his shirt. His mouth hung slack, showing his missing teeth, and his eyes were setting in his head.

Floki looked up, fingers curling and uncurling. “Tjorvi!” He threw himself at Tjorvi, grabbing fistfuls of his clothes with trembling urgency. “The life-stone, Tjorvi, give it to me, quick!”

Big Tjorvi gaped. “What?”

“That life-stone,” Floki shrieked. “The one you told us about. The one your friend got from the eagle. You can have it back later. We need it for Magnus. Quickly, he’s dying!”

Tjorvi’s face twisted in shocked understanding. “There isn’t any life-stone, Floki. It was just a story.”

Floki stared at him, panting. “But—we need it.”

“There isn’t any life-stone,” Tjorvi repeated.

Floki dragged his hands down his face, staring at Tjorvi with wild eyes. He fell down beside Magnus again, shaking him. “Magnus—Magnus …”

“He’s dead,” said Harald drily. He still held the knife in his hand.

“Oh, gods.” Tears poured down Floki’s face. His nose ran. “You killed him. You killed Magnus.”

He got up, arms and legs scrabbling as though he could hardly control them. “Then I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you,” he screamed, and snatched a knife from the table. His hands were shaking so hard that he fumbled and dropped it. Harald laughed, but the others were coming out of their shock.

“That was murder,” Arnë yelled.

“Aye!” Tjorvi growled, and there was a chorus of agreement.

Harald flicked the knife into his left hand and drew his sword with a scrape of steel. “Come and tell me so,” he taunted. “Come on!” He threw back his head to make his hair shake. “Who’s first? Who wants to meet Bone-biter? Come and kill me, Floki!”

Sobbing, Floki tried to fling himself forward, but Tjorvi grappled him back. Harald laughed again, shrill and loud. He stepped across Magnus’s body and began to chant, beating time on his chest with the fist that held the dagger.

The men hung back. To get to Harald they had to get past three feet of pointed steel.

Under Harald’s feet, poor Magnus lay sprawled in all the indignity of death. Floki was weeping in awful, shrill whimpers. A haze of shame and defeat floated in the room.

Astrid backed up close to Hilde and spoke between her teeth. “You threw a bucket of water over him once. Could we try it again?”

“He didn’t have his sword then,” Hilde murmured. But Astrid was right: They had to think of something, fast. She could see Arnë creeping forward, and Tjorvi shifting his balance. Harald was watching with pinprick eyes, laughing silently, his sword braced.

What would Peer do? Distract him somehow
. There was a chirrup from overhead. The Nis! Her gaze flew upward. Could the Nis distract Harald? The Nis was beside itself with excitement. It teetered on the edge of the rafter, eyes popping, pursing its lips in an exaggerated
Sshh!
Sure of their attention, it jumped from beam to beam till it crouched directly over
the clothes Astrid had been mending by the fire, and jabbed a long forefinger downward.

Hilde stared.
What? A cloak, a couple of tunics, some leggings
? And now the Nis was pointing excitedly at Harald. …

Astrid’s face came alive. She clutched Hilde’s arm, sprang forward, snatched up an armful of clothes, and threw them over Harald’s sword and sword arm. The blade sagged, muffled in fabric. Harald jumped back, swearing, trying to shake off the clothes, but Hilde tore a blanket from the sleeping bench and sent it sailing at him.

The girls went crazy. They grabbed everything they could off the benches and sent cloaks, jerkins, blankets, socks—a perfect snowstorm of clothes—whirling at Harald. Up in the roof the Nis squeaked deliriously and hurled Harald’s own boots at his head.

Harald staggered. A pair of Floki’s trousers hung drunkenly over one eye. His sword was tangled in the folds of Tjorvi’s heaviest cloak. Arnë leaped on him, bearing him to the ground. Tjorvi followed. They pinned him down, and wrenched the sword out of his hand.

Astrid and Hilde leaned on each other, laughing and crying. The men dragged Harald to his feet. The floor at that end of the fire was a mess of clothes. Magnus’s feet stuck out from under it. Hilde sobered abruptly. Rough, cheerful Magnus was dead, and their little victory couldn’t change that. Floki, weeping like a rainstorm, went on his knees to clear the clothes from Magnus’s face.

Tjorvi looked down at him, and then at Harald, whose face was ugly with rage. “What shall we do with you?” he asked heavily.

“Take your hands off me,” Harald spat. Then his eyes went black with shock, and he stared down the room at something behind them—something that could not be happening.

The house door scraped slowly open, revealing a wedge of black night and white snow. Someone walked stiffly in. Someone—or something. The clothes were strange, and covered in painted symbols. The face was stained with blood, but it looked familiar.

Hilde went cold. It was Peer’s face.

It was Peer’s ghost.

CHAPTER 23
Death in the Snow

P
eer blinked. He’d expected surprise, but not this. Every person in the room stood in stiff, arrested positions, gaping in terror. He stepped forward, and they all stepped back. Tjorvi let go of Harald. With a strangled yell, Floki jumped to his feet. “It wasn’t us,” he babbled. “You can’t blame us, it wasn’t us. It was him! Take Harald, not us, it wasn’t us …”

Peer looked at Hilde. Her hand had flown to her mouth and she was gazing at him in apparent horror, her eyes huge. He swallowed. “Hilde. It’s me. I’m back.”

Astrid gripped Hilde’s arm, steadying her. Hilde clutched her, swaying. Then she stepped slowly forward.
“Peer?”
It was a breath of a word, her lips barely moving. “Peer?”

Just then Loki nosed his way around the door. He saw Hilde, flattened his ears, and threw himself at her with a yelp
of joy, tail wagging. Hilde shrieked. “It
is
you! It’s Loki! Oh,
Peer!”

She fell on her knees and gathered Loki into her arms, pressing her face against his fur. He wriggled ecstatically, licked her face, tore himself away to dash around the room, greeting people, and returned to Hilde again. But by this time, Hilde was on her feet, locked into Peer’s arms, her face buried in his shoulder.

Peer thought he could stand there forever, happiness blazing through him like a pillar of fire.

She looked up. “What’s on your face? Blood? Are you hurt?”

He’d forgotten how he must look. No wonder they’d been staring. “Paint,” he answered, rubbing at it. “I’ll explain later.” He looked around, realizing for the first time that something was going on. Why was Floki crying? “Where’s Gunnar? I’ve got a message for you all.”

Hilde drew a deep, deep breath and collected herself. “Gunnar’s dead.” By now the rest of the room was coming to life. No one could think Loki was a ghost. The men looked at Peer with a mixture of delight and disbelief. Tjorvi was beaming, Arnë shaking his head.

“Gunnar’s dead?” Peer exclaimed.

“Magnus is dead, too-oo-oo.”
It was a doglike howl of misery from Floki.

Peer’s scalp crawled. The men began yelling, “That’s right!”

“Harald killed him! Stabbed him to death in front of us …”

“Just now, before you came in. Look, he’s there on the floor.”

Shock punched through Peer. Magnus was sprawled on his back at the other end of the hearth, staring at nothing. His hands curled half open. His big toe stuck out through a hole in one of his socks.

“What message, Barelegs?”

Peer swung around.

Harald had picked up his sword. He was standing on the other side of the hearth, staring across the flames at Peer. Harald’s head jerked, and for a second Peer thought he was motioning him aside. But the jerking continued, and his mouth twitched. The fire danced in his eyes.