“So you can take what you want without fighting,” said Jack.
Olaf’s blow sent him sprawling. “What kind of honorless brute do you think I am? If I took Gizur’s wealth without engaging in battle, I would be no better than a thief. It would show him no respect—oath-breaker though he is.”
Jack sat up, trying to clear his head. He would never understand these monsters.
“There’s one more thing you must understand,” came Olaf’s voice through Jack’s spinning senses. “We’re about to drink the wolf-brew.”
The boy looked up to see a warrior remove a metal pot from the fire. Steam rose around the man’s face as the air brought a bittersweet odor to Jack’s nose. The hair stood up on his neck. He knew that smell! It had come from the box he’d found in the sea.
Is a berserker a man or a wolf? Jack had asked the Bard.
Most of the time they’re men, the old man had replied, but when they make a drink of this plant, they become as frenzied as mad dogs. They bite holes in their shields. They run barefooted over jagged rocks without feeling it. Neither fire nor steel can stop them.
“When we drink,” said Olaf, “we become…other…than what we are.”
“You become berserkers,” Jack said.
“We’re always berserkers,” Olaf explained. “We’re born that way. It runs in families, but we can choose the time of our madness…or most of us can.” The giant grimaced—almost, Jack thought, as though he were in pain. “Thorgil’s father was one of the finest, but madness fell upon him without his will. Before Thorgil was born, her brother Thorir was playing outside her parents’ house. He was only three years old. Her father went into a berserker rage and killed him.”
Jack was so shocked, he couldn’t speak.
“It wasn’t the man’s fault. The fit was on him, and the child strayed into his path. Anyhow, the lesson here is to stay out of our way.” Olaf shook his head. “When we’ve drunk the wolf-brew, I want you to rub yourself with the leaves. They’ll make you smell like us. When we turn into wolves, our sense of smell becomes very sharp. Anyone who is not like us is an enemy.”
The warriors squatted around the fire. As they passed the metal pot each man drank deeply. When it got to Jack, Olaf scooped out the leaves and squashed them over Jack’s arms, legs, and face. He poured the dregs over the boy’s tunic. The liquid was warm, but it rapidly turned cold in the sea breeze. The odor sent a thrill along Jack’s nerves. His heart beat heavily. He became aware of a dozen things at once: the rustle of a hare easing its way through a bush, the fussing of the waves along the shore, the smell— the smell —of dead fish, forest leaves, pine, and fire. Especially dead fish.
Jack wanted to roll in the rotten stuff.
He heard a strange noise and saw that the warriors had begun to pant. Their eyes gleamed yellow in the firelight and their tongues protruded from their mouths. Olaf gave a low moan that made Jack’s blood run cold—and excited him at the same time. He wanted to run and run and run. His hands and feet itched with the desire.
Olaf bounded from his place, and the others followed. Jack hadn’t a hope of keeping up, but he heard them coursing ahead, their heavy feet thudding on the sand. They veered from the beach and went over a grassy hill, splashed through a brook, and crunched over a field of bracken and sedge. Green odors rose from the ground. They arrived at the edge of a bluff and stopped abruptly.
Jack caught up, gasping for air. It had been a very long run. The berserkers were still panting. They jostled one another nervously, like hounds waiting for a signal to bring down a deer.
Below, scarcely visible in the moonlight, was a cluster of houses. The valley was full of the smell of cattle, horses, dogs, and people. It was a rich porridge after the clean odors of forest and sea. Jack found it delightful, although he couldn’t say why. Normally, the smell of barnyards repelled him.
Sven the Vengeful slipped down the bluff with the bag of rotten fish. After a few moments Jack saw his dark shape moving along the beach below the houses. Smaller shadows danced behind him, whining and begging for a share of the treat.
Olaf lit torches and passed them out to his men. His helmet gleamed red in the firelight. Its eyeholes were black and seemingly empty.
“Now!” he roared.
The berserkers shrieked. They charged down the bluff, slipping and sliding on the stones. They raced for the houses, still screaming, and hurled the torches onto the roofs. The thatch went up in flames in a dozen places. A door opened, and a villager rushed out, trying to draw his sword. He was felled by rocks. The berserkers had helped themselves to free ammunition on the bluff. More villagers staggered out. They were clubbed or speared or run through or brained with axes. It happened so fast, Jack couldn’t think straight.
Nor could the villagers. They were bewildered by the sudden attack. They reeled about, calling for help. Instead, the berserkers threw them to the ground and chopped them up. Blood poured everywhere—black in the dancing firelight.
Now the houses burned fiercely. Cries came from within, from women and children. Some attempted to escape, but they were treated with the same ferocity. Jack stood on the bluff, unable to move, unable to look away. He saw Olaf behead a young woman and throw her child back into the flames. He saw the roofs cave in with fountains of sparks. He saw the berserkers drive forth cattle. Their rage unquenched, they fell upon the animals and slew them as well.
He didn’t know how long he stood there. When he came to his senses, he saw that the sky had turned pink with dawn. The houses had collapsed into smoldering heaps. Berserkers poked around the ashes, digging for buried silver. They had salvaged bags of grain and dried fish from the storehouses that had not been burned. Three cows were tied to a tree. One magnificent horse, white with a black stripe along its backbone, still lived.
And that was all.
Jack had listened to the monk from the Holy Isle. He’d heard the dreadful tale of its destruction, but it hadn’t sunk in. It was merely a story, like the gruesome stories of saints Father liked to recall. Or Beowulf’s battle with Grendel. This was real.
He climbed down to the beach and walked into the water. He could swim out to where the sky met the sea, going farther and farther until he got too tired to stay afloat. And then, going by paths known only to departed souls, he might find his way to the Islands of the Blessed. The Bard would be sitting there with his harp. Hello, lad, he’d say. It’s a beautiful day. Only, the Bard would be more likely to say, What’s the matter with you, leaving your sister in a fix?
“She’ll be all right,” Jack told the old man as the cold water foamed around his legs. “She’s so pretty, even the Northmen like her. Thorgil’s going to give her to the queen.”
Did I hear you right? said the Bard. Are we speaking of Grendel’s Aunt Frith?
Jack walked farther into the sea. A wave knocked him over, and he went down with the bitter salt filling his nostrils. The rune of protection swung up and hit him on the mouth. Its heat was as shocking as the cold. He fought to the surface, coughing and spluttering, and treaded water as the heat spread throughout his body.
A flock of swallows circled in the early-morning clouds overhead. One of them swooped down, swift as an arrow, and came close enough to turn its head and look straight into Jack’s eyes. Then it beat the air with its sharp wings and returned to its companions in the sky.
Death must be fought with life, and that means courage and that means joy, said the Bard from his place beneath the apple trees.
“Nobody told me life would be harder than death,” muttered Jack as he fought his way out of the sea. He sat on the beach and let the warm sunlight dry his clothes.
“I hope you’re thinking of nice things to say about me,” said Olaf One-Brow, flopping down to clean the blood from his sword with sand.
Chapter Seventeen
Rune
Jack watched the Northmen celebrate on the shore from the relative safety of the ship. First they laid out the new booty to admire. A co
nsiderable hoard of silver had been unearthed. Bags of dried beans and barley were lined up on the sand. Sven the Vengeful moved them into different patterns, stepping back to judge the effect. He settled on a wide arc of grain bags framing the silver hoard. A row of wineskins decorated the front. Eric Broad-Shoulders, who was afraid of the dark, was not at all afraid to slay the three surviving cows. Eric the Rash dug a deep pit in which to roast them.
The most interesting find had been a cache of dirty white loaves under the roof of a storehouse. At first Jack thought they were a strange kind of bread, but the warriors’ excitement showed they were something quite different. “Salt!” cried Olaf, dancing around with one in each huge hand.
“Salt! Salt! Salt!” screamed the others. They tossed them back and forth, pausing to take licks.
“Salt!” shrilled Thorgil as she balanced one on her head.
“What’s so special about that?” whispered Lucy. She was pressed up against Jack. He put his arm around her.
“They’re just crazy,” he said.
The Northmen nibbled at the salt cakes until their mustaches were powdered white. So much would have made a normal man sick, and Jack hoped to see them vomit, but they didn’t. After a while the salt madness left them and they reverently packed the loaves away.
The rotten food from the ship was dumped. A cloud of seagulls descended on it, along with crows. Bold Heart competed with the best of them. It was strange how Jack could pick him out from the mob of jostling black birds, but Bold Heart was faster, smarter, and, well, bolder than the others. “I suppose he’ll leave now,” said Jack.
“No, he won’t,” declared Lucy. “He’s been sent to us from the Islands of the Blessed.”
Jack didn’t say the bird had landed on the ship out of exhaustion, but he thought it.
All day the warriors partied. They devoured roast cow and drank sweet red wine from a place called Iberia. They bellowed songs about the gods, who seemed to be as fond of debauchery as their worshippers. One long poem was about a party much like the one Jack and Lucy were observing. Aegir, the sea god, had brewed a cauldron of beer. Not only did everyone get drunk, they got into an insult competition with Loki, the god of dirty tricks. Loki called Odin a liar, and Odin called him a pervert. Then Loki said Freya, the goddess of love, farted when she got scared and that Njord, the god of ships, had been captured by trolls who used his mouth as a chamber pot. Each new verse was greeted with howls of laughter. The Northmen pounded one another on the back for joy.
“What kind of people need a god of dirty tricks?” said Jack, watching from the ship as night fell.
“That kind,” yawned Lucy. For the first time in weeks she had eaten a full meal, and her head kept drooping. Bold Heart had fed well too, and he was perched on the rail with his eyes closed. “Should we escape now?” said Lucy.
“Where would we go?” Jack said bitterly.
“I don’t know. Ooh.” Lucy yawned again. “Maybe to that village they raided.”
“The villagers ran away.” Jack had not told his sister what really happened to Gizur Thumb-Crusher’s people.
“They’d help us if we could find them.”
“We’ll never find them. Just go to sleep, dearest.” And Lucy obediently curled up on a heap of furs.
Night was falling, but the revelry showed no sign of ending. The poetry was so disgusting now, Jack was glad his little sister was asleep. The crudest of all was Thorgil, who pretended to be Freya by yelling, “Oh! Oh! I’m so scared!” and farting.
“Olaf will want his song soon,” came a whispery voice behind Jack. He whirled and saw Rune standing by the mast. The light was so dim and the man so skinny, he almost seemed part of the mast. Bold Heart opened his eyes and clacked his beak.
“Why aren’t you out there with the rest?” said Jack.
“The bone-ache,” said Rune simply. “And I no longer enjoy the pleasures of pillaging.” He stopped to breathe hoarsely. It was obviously an effort to speak. “Maybe it was Dragon Tongue’s fault. He was always one for enjoying life. I guess he corrupted me.”
Jack turned back to the revels on the beach. Olaf One-Brow was pretending to be a lovesick troll-maiden. Bold Heart sidled along the railing until he was next to Jack. He pulled at the boy’s sleeve and bobbed in the direction of Rune.
“That’s quite a pet you have,” whispered the aged warrior. “Dragon Tongue used to talk to crows.”
“He taught me the art,” Jack said. No point wasting a chance to look important.
“He was a good man,” Rune said suddenly. “He was completely unlike us but a true warrior.”
Jack said nothing. His eyes filled with tears.
“I know you can’t write a song for Olaf,” said the old Northman. Jack turned and looked at him—or as much as he could see of the man’s figure in the dim light. “Dragon Tongue could never praise people he hated. He was too honest.”
“What will Olaf do to me?” Jack didn’t argue with Rune’s conclusion. He felt sick every time he thought of the blood-bath in Gizur’s village.
“Feed you to the fish,” Rune replied. “Also, you don’t know our language well enough. You’re good, but you make mistakes.”
“Are you telling me to run away?” Jack didn’t know why he trusted the old warrior, but he instinctively did. There was something deep about him, something almost as compelling as the Bard.
“You’d never survive. To the south lies Magnus the Mauler’s country. To the north is Einar the Ear-Hoarder. Einar has a collection of dried ears he wants to enlarge.”
“I see,” said Jack.
“I will give you songs,” said Rune. “I was a skald once. I wasn’t as great as Dragon Tongue, but I was still good. Day after day the poems bubble up in me, and I have no voice to give them. You will be my voice.”
The shouts of the feasting warriors seemed far away. The world shrank until it contained only three people: Jack, his little sister, and this amazing new ally. “I guess Olaf won’t mind,” Jack said.
“Don’t tell him!” This outburst caused a fit of coughing that went on for a long time. Jack shifted from one foot to the other, not knowing what to do. Finally, Rune recovered and drew several shuddering breaths. “Olaf wants his own personal skald. He wants you all to himself, as he wants that horse of Gizur’s. It adds to his fame. If he thinks you can’t perform, he’ll kill you.”
The steed the old warrior was speaking of was tethered next to the silver hoard. It was a beautiful creature, white like the salt cakes, with a strange black stripe along its backbone. It gazed at the reeling Northmen with dark, intelligent eyes.
“Then…I thank you.” Jack was grateful, but at the same time he hated the idea of being property.
“Let’s begin,” whispered Rune.
The lesson lasted for hours. Bold Heart went back to sleep, and Jack wished he could join him. He’d had no rest the night before, and the whole day had been spent working. Eventually, the fire on the beach sank down to coals. The Northmen went to bed. It gave Jack a chill to see them lay out cloths and lie down in orderly rows. It meant that they could appear thoroughly stupefied and still behave like warriors.
Finally, Rune pronounced himself satisfied with Jack’s progress. The boy fell onto a heap of clothes and was asleep almost before he landed.
They sailed north along the coastline. After they passed Einar the Ear-Hoarder’s lands, they camped on shore. From here on, they would meet no one who would dare attack.
Olaf and his crew were in no hurry. They felt they had earned a vacation. The noble horse, which Olaf named Cloud Mane, was balanced in the middle of the ship. He was led ashore each day to feed on fresh grass.
The warriors hunted in the dark forests that lined the shore, bringing back deer and wild boar. They netted trout in the streams. Eric the Rash ground up one of the salt loaves for seasoning. Jack noticed again how eager the Northmen were for salt. They craved it more than wine, and that was saying a good deal.
“W
e don’t have it at home,” Rune explained.
“We dry our salt from seawater,” said Jack. “Why can’t you?”
“Not enough sunlight,” said the old warrior, turning away. He refused to waste his breath on such idle talk and saved his voice for poetry. Every night he drilled the boy out of Olaf’s sight. Jack was amazed at how complicated the verses were. Nothing was called by its true name, and the more variations you could work in, the better. A ship was called prow-beast , ocean’s steed , and Njord’s swan in the same verse. Instead of saying battle , you said a meeting of mail-coats and sword-tips. It was very confusing and, to Jack’s mind, pointless.
“No!” Rune wheezed when Jack said The king sailed over the sea to battle instead of The giver of gold rings drove Njord’s swan upon the whale-road to a meeting of mail-coats and sword-tips. “No! No! No!” Rune doubled over in a coughing fit, and Jack felt ashamed of teasing the old man.
“No,” said Rune when he had recovered. “You’re not merely singing here. You’re working magic.”
“Magic?” Jack immediately woke up.
“Surely Dragon Tongue told you. Each song draws its power from Yggdrassil, the great Tree that rises through the nine worlds.”
“I never heard of Yggdrassil.”
“Dragon Tongue would have called it the life force. It gives you the power to create. Now you’ve worn me out and wasted my time.” Rune stopped speaking and gave his attention to breathing. It was a terrible sound, harsh and painful. Each time, the old warrior paused as if to gather strength for the next breath.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Jack.
Rune waved him away.
Jack returned to the campsite with a hundred questions buzzing in his mind. The Northmen weren’t all consumed with slaughter and pillage. They believed in this thing called Yggdrassil, which was another name for the life force. Did the Tree really exist? And if it did, what a wonderful thing to see! Who could he ask about it?