The Sea of Trolls - Farmer Nancy - Страница 28

• Предыдущая
• 28/77
• Следующая

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.

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 considerable 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.

• Предыдущая
• 28/77
• Следующая