The Sea of Trolls Read online

  Also by the Author

  The House of the Scorpion

  A Girl Named Disaster

  The Warm Place

  The Ear, the Eye, and the Arm

  Do You Know Me

  Atheneum Books for Young Readers

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2004 by Nancy Farmer

  Maps by Rick Britton

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  First Edition

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Farmer, Nancy, 1941–

  The Sea of Trolls / Nancy Farmer.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  “A Richard Jackson Book.”

  Summary: After Jack becomes apprenticed to a Druid bard, he and his little sister Lucy are captured by Viking Berserkers and taken to the home of King Ivar the Boneless and his half-troll queen, leading Jack to undertake a vital quest to Jotunheim, home of the trolls.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-1432-7

  ISBN-10: 1-4169-1432-3

  [1. Mythology, Norse—Fiction. 2. Druids and druidism—Fiction. 3. Vikings—Fiction. 4. Bard and bardism—Fiction. 5. Saxons—Fiction. 6. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 7. Trolls—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.F23814 Se 2004

  [Fic]—dc22 2003019091

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonandSchuster.com

  To Harold, as always,

  for finding Mimir’s Well

  Acknowledgments

  Many heartfelt thanks to Kristin Johannsdottir, Icelandic scholar, for reading my manuscript and providing the Icelandic dialogue.

  Thank you to Dr. William Ratliff for getting me access to the Stanford University Library.

  Warmest appreciations to my son, Daniel, and my nephew, Nathan Stout, for providing me with the inspiration for Olaf One-Brow.

  Thanks, as always, to Richard Jackson for taking chances.

  Contents

  Cast of Characters

  Maps

  1. Gathering the Lambs

  2. The Apprentice

  3. The Shadow Across the Water

  4. The Valley of Lunatics

  5. Hrothgar’s Golden Hall

  6. The Wolf-Headed Men

  7. The End of Days

  8. The Rune of Protection

  9. The Rider on the Nightmare

  10. Olaf One-Brow

  11. The Shield Maiden

  12. The Slave Market

  13. Olaf Explains the Afterlife

  14. The Lost Bird

  15. Bold Heart

  16. Gizur Thumb-Crusher

  17. Rune

  18. The Sea of Trolls

  19. Homecoming

  20. The Wise Woman

  21. Golden Bristles

  22. Heide’s Prophecy

  23. Olaf’s Triumph

  24. The Quest

  25. Jotunheim

  26. The Dragon

  27. The Deadfall

  28. Glory

  29. The Frozen Plain

  30. Death from the Sky

  31. The Capercaillie

  32. The Ice Bow

  33. Fonn and Forath

  34. The Hall of the Mountain Queen

  35. Yggdrassil

  36. Mimir’s Well

  37. The Queen’s Gifts

  38. Spider Music

  39. Farewell to Jotunheim

  40. Freya’s Fen

  41. Lucy’s Return

  42. Jack and Jill

  43. Welcome Home

  Appendix

  The Holy Isle

  Northmen

  Icelandic Pronunciation

  Trolls, Jotuns, and Frost Giants

  Ivar the Boneless

  Berserkers

  Bards and Skalds

  Jack and Jill

  Sources

  Cast of Characters

  Humans (Saxons)

  Jack: Age eleven at the beginning of the book

  Lucy: Jack’s sister; age five at the beginning of the book

  Mother: Jack and Lucy’s mother; a wise woman

  Father: Giles Crookleg; Jack and Lucy’s father

  The Bard: A druid from Ireland; also known as Dragon Tongue

  Allyson: Thorgil’s mother

  Colin: The blacksmith’s son

  Brother Aiden: A monk from the Holy Isle

  Humans (Northmen)

  Olaf One-Brow: Leader of the Queen’s Berserkers

  Sven the Vengeful: Member of Olaf’s crew

  Eric Pretty-Face: Member of Olaf’s crew

  Eric the Rash: Member of Olaf’s crew; afraid of the dark

  Eric Broad-Shoulders: Member of Olaf’s crew; afraid of the dark

  Rune: A skald who can no longer sing

  Thorgil: A berserker wannabe; age twelve

  Thorgrim: Thorgil’s father; a famous berserker

  Egil Long-Spear: Captain of a ship, not a berserker

  Gizur Thumb-Crusher: Village headman; an oath-breaker

  Magnus the Mauler: Village headman

  Einar the Ear-Hoarder: Village headman; likes to collect ears

  Heide: Olaf’s chief wife; a wise woman from Finnmark

  Dotti and Lotti: Olaf’s junior wives

  Skakki: Heide and Olaf’s son; age sixteen

  Thorir: Thorgil’s brother

  Hrothgar: King of the Golden Hall

  Beowulf: A famous warrior

  Ivar the Boneless: Olaf’s king; married to Frith Half-Troll

  Tree Foot: Friend of Eric Pretty-Face; leg bitten off by a troll

  Pig Face, Dirty Pants, Thick Legs, Lump, and She-Lump: Thralls

  Hilda: Olaf and Lotti’s daughter

  Animals

  Bold Heart: A noble crow

  Cloud Mane: A horse whose sire came from Elfland

  Maeve: An Irish wolfhound

  Slasher, Wolf Bane, Hel Hag, and Shreddie: Maeve’s puppies

  Golden Bristles: A troll-boar with a filthy disposition

  Freya’s Cats: Nine enormous troll-cats with beautiful red-gold fur

  The Snowy Owls: A family of four Jotunheim owls

  The Dragon: A mother with a nest of dragonlets

  The Capercaillie: A turkey-size grouse with ten speckled chicks

  Ratatosk: Gossip-bearing squirrel that runs up and down Yggdrassil

  Jotuns (Trolls)

  The Mountain Queen: Glamdis, ruler of Jotunheim

  Fonn: The Mountain Queen’s daughter; speaks to humans

  Forath: The Mountain Queen’s daughter; speaks to whales

  Bolthorn: Fonn and Forath’s father; the Mountain Queen’s chief consort

  Unclassifiable

  Frith Half-Troll: A shape-shifter; daughter of the Mountain Queen and an unknown human; wife of Ivar the Boneless

  Frothi: Frith’s sister; a shape-shifter; mother of Grendel

  Grendel: A monster; his father was an ogre

  The Norns: Nobody knows exactly what Norns are, but they’re very powerful

  Chapter One

  Gathering the Lambs

  Jack woke before dawn and listened to the cold February wind lash the walls of the house. He sighed. It was going to be another rotten day. He stared up at the rafters, savoring the last minutes of warmth. He was bundled in a cocoon of wool blankets over a bed of dried heather. The floor
was deep, below the level of the ground. The wind that found its way under the door passed over his head.

  It was a good house, with oak pillars planted the root end up to keep damp from rising from the ground. Jack had watched Father build it when he was seven. Father had thought a child couldn’t understand such a complicated task, but Jack had. He’d paid close attention and thought he could build a house even now, four years later. Jack forgot very little of what he saw.

  At the far end of the long room Jack could see Mother stir up the cooking fire. The light danced on the loft. It was warmer up there, but smoky. His parents and sister slept up there. Jack preferred the fresh air near the door.

  Mother scattered oats into boiling water and stirred the porridge vigorously. She added honey—Jack could smell it. A poker glowed in the coals to heat the cups of cider Mother lined up on a shelf.

  “It’s so cold ,” complained Lucy from the loft. “Can’t I have breakfast in bed?”

  “A princess isn’t afraid of a little thing like cold,” said Father.

  “Princesses live in castles,” Lucy pointed out.

  “Ah, but that isn’t true of lost princesses.”

  “Don’t encourage her,” said Mother.

  “Am I really lost, Father?” said Lucy. Jack knew she loved this story.

  “Not for long. You were found by us,” Father said fondly.

  “I was lying under a rose tree with a gold coin in my hand.”

  “You were born in this house, not in some airy-fairy castle,” Mother snapped. She plunged the hot poker into the first mug of cider. Jack could smell the rich tang of apples. He knew Lucy wouldn’t listen to Mother. It was far more interesting to be a lost princess than a farmer’s brat. The gold coin was real, though. Father had found it while digging in the garden. It showed the head of a man, who Father said was a Roman king.

  “Someday a troop of knights will come riding by,” Lucy said.

  “They’ve been searching for you ever since the trolls carried you off,” said Father. “The trolls were going to eat you, dearest—but being trolls, they started fighting among themselves.”

  “‘Shall we roast her with an apple in her mouth?’” said Lucy, repeating the often-told tale. “‘Or shall we make her into a pie?’”

  “‘Pie! Pie!’ roared half the trolls,” said Father. “The other half shouted for roast baby. They began to fight, and soon they had knocked each other senseless. That’s when I came by and found you.”

  “Someday the knights will knock at our door,” said Lucy. “They’ll bow to me and say, ‘Come and be our queen.’”

  “Why do you fill her up with this nonsense?” Mother said.

  “What’s the harm in it?” said Father.

  Jack knew Mother had lost two babies before he was born and two afterward. She thought she would never have another, but to everyone’s surprise, she produced this last, perfect child.

  Lucy had golden hair that made you think of sunlight. She had eyes the color of violets that grew in the deep forest. She was light as thistledown, merry as a lark. And because, at age five, she had always been loved, she loved everyone back. In spite of everything, Jack couldn’t dislike her.

  Right now she was being carried down the ladder by Father. She was too big for it. Jack could see pain flit across his father’s face as he stepped clumsily from one rung to the next. But he also saw joy—joy that was rarely present when Giles Crookleg looked at his son Jack.

  Jack threw back the covers and stood up, stretching to let the new day flow into his body. Like everyone else, he slept in his clothes so there was no problem getting dressed.

  He pulled away the wool plugging the door crack and climbed outside. A gray light was creeping over the eastern sea. It seeped into the moors and died abruptly in the dark forest to the west. The sky was the color of black ice. It was going to be a miserable day.

  Jack ran to the privy. He bounced up and down to keep the frozen ground from sticking to his shoes. The Bard said the frost giants lie in wait for unwary humans, stunning them with their misty breath. You could never lie down outside in the dark of winter, no matter how tempting it was. That was how the frost giants got you, whispering of warmth to be found in sleep.

  Jack ran back to the house, sliding on a patch of ice he hadn’t seen. He banged through the door and stood, steaming and stamping, to get the feeling back into his feet.

  “Cold, eh?” said Father. He was sitting next to the fire with Lucy on his lap.

  “Cold as a troll’s—”

  “We’ll have none of that language,” Mother said sharply.

  Jack grinned and flopped down next to the fire. Mother gave him a mug of cider, and he warmed his hands on that.

  “The ewes will be lambing,” Father observed.

  “Oh, aye,” agreed Mother.

  “I love little lambs,” Lucy burbled, cradling her cup of cider.

  “You don’t have to go out and find the little beasts,” said Jack.

  “It’s God’s way,” Father said. “Adam sinned, and so the rest of us must earn our bread by the sweat of our brows.”

  “Amen,” said Mother.

  Jack wondered why something that had happened at the beginning of the world still plagued them. How long did it take for the punishment to run out? Wouldn’t it make sense, after a thousand years or so, for God to say, All right, that’s enough. You can come back to Eden? But Jack didn’t say that aloud. Father had a very short temper where religion was concerned.

  Father had wanted to be a priest, but his family had not been rich enough to pay the entrance fee to the abbey. It was a constant sorrow to the man, for his deformed leg made it hard to do the chores of a farmer.

  Father’s finest memory was of having visited the Holy Isle as a youth. He’d been taken there in hopes of a cure, and the sight of the monks going about their peaceful lives had filled him with awe. They didn’t have to drag a plow through a stony field. They didn’t have to cut wood in a terrifying forest, listening for wolves or—worse—the goblins that devoured boys.

  Alas, not even the kindly monks could heal Giles Crookleg’s injury. The best they could do was feed him soft, white bread and roast lamb flavored with rosemary. They prayed over him in a chapel with a stained-glass window that shone with the colors of the rainbow when the sun was behind it.

  “I thought I’d mend the barn roof today,” Father said.

  Jack frowned. That meant the nasty chore of hunting for lambs fell on him. He shoved last night’s bread into his porridge. If it wasn’t soaked, it was too hard to eat. Jack’s teeth grated on the sand that was always a part of the dark, dense loaves Mother baked.

  “Can I watch, Father?” asked Lucy.

  “Of course, darling. Just don’t sit under the ladder. It’s bad luck.”

  It’s bad luck because Father might drop a hammer on her head, Jack thought. He didn’t say this aloud either.

  “It’s our turn to feed the Bard this week,” Mother said.

  “I’ll do it,” Jack said quickly.

  “Of course you will,” said Father. “Don’t think you’re going to weasel out because of lambing.”

  Isn’t that just typical? Jack thought. Here he was, offering to help, and Father had to put the worst face on it. But Jack was too pleased by his new task to stay irritated.

  Very soon he finished his bread and porridge, swigged the hot cider, and prepared himself for the long day. He stuffed wool into his thin shoes to keep his toes from freezing. He wrapped an extra layer of cloth around his legs, put on an extra shirt, and covered it with a cloak. The cloak was oiled with tallow to keep out rain. It was heavy, but the warmth was worth it. Last of all, Jack shouldered a pack of food.

  “Mind, you’re not to hang around the Bard making a nuisance of yourself,” Father said as Jack went out the door.

  The wind whipped the cloak over Jack’s head. He pulled it back down and wrapped it close. Frost crackled under his feet as he walked. Everything was cry
stal bright, and Jack could see mountains to the west beyond the forest and the cold sea to the east. On a cliff overlooking the shore was the old Roman house where the Bard lived. Jack saw a tendril of smoke being shredded by the wind.

  He wondered why the old man chose to live there. The house was in such bad repair, no amount of wood could quell its chilly dampness. Perhaps the Bard liked being near the sea. He had come to them from there, in a little coracle bobbing up and down like a child’s toy. It was a wonder he’d survived, but perhaps the Bard had kept his boat safe with magic.

  Jack’s heart beat faster. He knew, of course, about the small magic his mother practiced. He had learned from her how to talk to bees and how to soothe frightened animals with song. But the Bard knew important things. It was rumored he could drive enemies mad by blowing on a wisp of straw. And he could call up the north wind and talk to crows.

  The old man had come to the village two years ago and had immediately set about giving orders. In no time, he was settled in the Roman house with a bed, a table, a pile of blankets, and a store of food. No one questioned his right to these things.

  “Sir, I’ve brought supplies,” Jack called at the door of the ancient house. He listened for the old man’s step. Presently, he heard a sigh and the thump of a staff. The Bard pulled the door open, and his face lit with pleasure.

  “Jack! What a treat!”

  That was one of the reasons Jack liked him. He didn’t say, What, you again? He actually seemed pleased.

  “Do you want me to heat the cider?” Jack said.

  “Ah! Your mother’s wonderful work,” said the Bard. “She has wisdom in her fingers, boy. Mark my words.”