Nancy - The Islands of the Blessed

The moon was at zenith, painting the earth with a pale radiance, but a small slice had been taken out of its side. Jack saw Schlaup, Skakki, and the others clustered together for warmth. He was so cold, he couldn’t move. “You’ve done extremely well,” the Bard said. “Talking to the dead is one of the most difficult tasks a bard has, and one of the most dangerous. In my opinion, you’re ready to take on a draugr .”

No thanks, thought Jack. No draugrs. He was unable to speak. His arms and legs were numb.

“I’ll raise a fire,” the old man said. Someone must have gathered firewood earlier, because there was a large heap of it near the gate. The Bard thrust his staff into it and a flame shot up.

“Thank Freya,” groaned Thorgil. “Dragon Tongue wouldn’t let us have a fire earlier. What were you doing over there, mumbling all that time?”

“N-N-Nothing,” Jack managed to say, annoyed that she didn’t appreciate his bravery.

“Certainly looked like it. Someone kick Schlaup. He’s got his head on the cider keg.”

Jack slowly came back to life. He took a grateful swig when the cider keg was passed. “We freed the spirits in the wall,” he said. “What’s next?”

“Cleaning out the hall,” said the Bard. “Are you up for a little gate-pulling, Schlaup?”

“Sure,” said the giant, taking an enormous drink of cider. He went straight to the gate and began tugging on it, his large legs firmly planted on the ground. Jack could hear each lock as it popped out of its holder. With a dreadful splintering of wood, Schlaup wrenched the gate from its hinges and threw it to one side. Excited voices came from the ruined hall beyond. Torchlight shone from the gaping hole where the hall’s roof had been, but no one ventured outside.

“Good. They think the wall’s still haunted,” said the Bard.

“Should we storm them? Or wait for the villagers to arrive?” said Skakki.

“They’d only get in the way. Schlaup, attend to the iron door,” the old man said. The giant went to work and tore it out easily. This time there was a reaction from inside as arrows flew through the opening.

“Hunh! Bee stings,” said Schlaup, picking an arrow from his arm.

“Come back,” the Bard told the giant. “I want you to hear what happened to Thorgil last night.”

“Wait a minute,” said Jack. “I thought we weren’t supposed to tell him anything. You said the last thing we needed”—he glanced at the giant—“was a shape-shifting half-troll.”

“Perfectly true. That is the last thing we need. We’ve done everything else. Thorgil, proceed.”

“Excuse me, sir,” faltered Big Half. He had said nothing until now, and everyone had forgotten about his existence. He stood up in the flickering light and bowed to the Bard. “I know my brother’s been bad and I should hate him. But I can’t. He’s always looked after me, you see. I was wondering… before you do things in that hall… could Little Half come out?”

There was silence for a moment. Then Skakki said, “Your brother is responsible for many deaths.”

“I think he did it for me,” said Big Half. “I’m the one who always got us thrown out of places. I am an ox-brain, like he says. I forget to feed animals and they die, or I leave doors open or set things on fire. He could have abandoned me many times, but he didn’t. Sometimes he did bad things so he could take care of me.”

Skakki looked to the Bard for guidance. The old man shook his head. “There is always a choice between good or evil,” he said. “You chose to save Thorgil and Jack, showing that your heart is wiser than your brother’s. He chose, not once but many times, to drug travelers, knowing full well their fate. The answer is no.”

Big Half didn’t argue. “Then I want to join him.”

“You don’t have to. We’ll take care of you,” said Jack.

The big man smiled. “That’s awfully nice of you, but I’ve been with Little Half all my life. It wouldn’t feel right to leave him now that he’s in a tough spot.”

“You don’t know what’s going to happen,” Skakki said. “No one is going to survive in that hall.”

But Big Half couldn’t be persuaded, and eventually they gave him a burning branch from the fire. “Hold it up by your face so they know who you are,” said Thorgil. They watched him go through the ruined gate, cross the courtyard, and go inside.

Thorgil unfolded the saga of what had happened in Adder-Tooth’s hall as they sat around the fire. As she spoke, a change began to come over Schlaup. First, he panted like a man who has run many miles. Then he moaned and drummed his feet on the ground. The Northmen moved away from him. “My sister, my little sister,” he kept groaning.

“Everybody give him space,” said the Bard in a low voice. Jack had seen a half-troll fall into a snit only once before, when he’d made Queen Frith’s hair fall out. Frith’s body had bulged in a dozen places. Her features had rippled and twisted until he couldn’t guess what she was turning into—only that he didn’t want to find out. Northmen had fought one another to get through the door, whimpering in a most unheroic way.

Now Schlaup changed in an equally alarming manner. He swelled up, and his body turned lumpy and dark. He no longer looked remotely human, or remotely troll, either. Instead, he resembled a giant wave full of rocks. He towered up and up and up until he crashed over— SCHLAUP! —and flowed through the gate like an avalanche. On he went across the courtyard and into the hall, where they couldn’t see him anymore. But they heard the rumble of boulders dashing against the walls and saw flickers of light where rocks ground together.

The noise died away. Jack’s ears rang and his heart pounded. He found that his fists were clenched so tightly, his fingernails had drawn blood. Skakki, Rune, Sven the Vengeful, and the others seemed turned to stone. The Bard leaned on his staff, intently watching the hall.

“We really… must… let Mrs. Tanner see him do this sometime,” breathed Thorgil.

A figure stepped into the courtyard. It was Schlaup. He was slightly hunched over, a habit he’d acquired to apologize for his size. “The hall’s clean,” he said.

Jack didn’t want to see what lay inside. He’d seen terrible scenes before when Olaf One-Brow destroyed a village. He’d seen the Forest Lord demolish Din Guardi. He sat down next to the fire, hugging himself and shivering.

“You need to rest,” the Bard said. “We all do.” He raised his staff and murmured something Jack found familiar. It was a spell the old man had cast long ago when he’d pushed the boy too hard. Something dropped over Jack like a soft blanket. It felt safe and warm. He wanted to wrap himself up in it and never come out.

Others lay down close to the fire. Skakki stretched out his long legs as though he were on the most comfortable bed. Eric Pretty-Face curled into a ball with his thumb in his mouth. Thorgil pulled her cloak over her face. “I’d give anything to learn how you do that,” said Rune, yawning.

The Bard smiled. “It is the lorica of Amergin, the founder of my order—a warding-spell against harm. The words come when they are needed and cannot be spoken at any other time. They may not be memorized.”

And that was true, Jack thought, slipping into welcome sleep. He couldn’t remember anything about the lorica now, though he’d just heard it.

He woke wonderfully refreshed. Not only had the spell relaxed him, it had kept him warm. The ache that had crept out of the wall the night before was gone.