Nancy - The Islands of the Blessed

Jack had only begun to build this lore when he used his staff to free Din Guardi. It had crumbled into dust.

“You used to have a staff. How did you earn that one?” said Thorgil.

It was when they were in Jotunheim, he told her, crossing the frozen waste to the Mountain Queen’s palace. Thorgil’s ankle had been broken and Jack went in search of wood to make her a crutch. He found an ash tree, a most unusual plant in such a cold place, with two branches exactly suited for his needs. One had a fork at one end for Thorgil to lean on. The other reminded him of the gnarled, blackened wood the Bard used. He decided to make himself a walking stick from it. It was only later he realized that the ash had been an offshoot of the great tree Yggdrassil.

“You see?” Thorgil said triumphantly. “The gods meant you to have that staff, and now you are meant to have this one.”

Jack wanted to believe it, but he was afraid. “I’m not worthy,” he said.

“Probably not, but you have to start somewhere,” Thorgil argued. “It’s like learning to be a warrior. You get knocked around a lot at the beginning.”

Jack’s hand hovered over the staff. He could feel a thrum of power in the air. “If it burns me to ashes, you’ll be sorry.”

“If you don’t do something soon, I’m going to die of hunger, and you’ll be sorry.”

Jack grasped the staff, and it was as though a sheet of light wrapped him from head to toe. He saw the entire island in a flash: the seas battering the shore, the stormy clouds, the dark mountain and forest on top. He saw men fighting one another with swords. Then the vision was gone. He slumped, still holding the staff.

“Well? Are you burned to ashes yet?” the shield maiden demanded.

“I’m not sure. I think the problem will be to avoid burning up other things,” said Jack. He felt dizzy. “I hope I’m strong enough to control this.”

“You’ll be fine. You’re Dragon Tongue’s successor.”

“Don’t say that!” A flame licked out of the end of the staff and left a black mark on the ceiling. “Oh, Freya! Don’t make me angry,” Jack begged. “I need time to get used to so much power. I meant to say that I’ll never be Dragon Tongue’s successor. I’m only his apprentice.”

Thorgil shouldered the pack carrying her wealth-hoard and went outside. “I’d say if we don’t get to the end of this tunnel fast, there won’t be anything left of that boar except bristles.”

Jack slung the cloak over his shoulders, and to his surprise it fit perfectly. It had seemed larger when he’d used it as a blanket for himself and Thorgil. The staff, too, was exactly the right height. The dizziness passed and Jack was able to walk steadily. The tunnel turned pitch-black only a few paces from the side cave. He called up a spell in a language he did not consciously know. He could not have repeated the words, but the meaning stayed with him:

Keep foot from fall, Hold head from harm. Drive dark from day.

A gentle light radiated from the staff to reveal the gray walls of the tunnel. A path of white sand went up before them.

“Now, that’s a trick worth learning,” said Thorgil, who had been about to walk into a wall.

“It’s not a trick, and I don’t know how I did it,” Jack said. “We’d better hurry, because I don’t know how long this spell will last.”

The smell of roast pork grew stronger the higher they went, and soon it was mixed with the odors of many other good things. “I wonder what they’re celebrating,” said Thorgil. “They’re certainly making a lot of noise.”

“That’s not a celebration.” Jack stopped her from going farther.

“By Thor, you’re right! I can hear swords.”

“I should have told you earlier—when I touched the staff, I had a vision of men fighting on this mountaintop. I thought it was only my imagination. How could a troop of men climb up here and still have the energy to fight?”

They heard cries and oaths. A man screamed as he was wounded. “Perhaps there’s another tunnel,” suggested Thorgil.

“That still leaves the question of why anyone would do such a stupid thing,” Jack said. “It’s so brainless, it could almost be berserkers.”

He expected Thorgil to argue—she always championed berserkers—but she grabbed his arm. “I know that voice!”

“Gaaaahhh! That’s the third time I’ve cut your head off today, Bjorn!” someone roared. “You’ve gone soft!”

“That’s Olaf One-Brow,” cried Thorgil. “I know it is! What’s happened to us? Are we dead and don’t know it?”

“Olaf! Watch your back!” shouted someone else whose voice was familiar.

“Arghh!” bellowed Olaf. “You think that’s going to stop me? You’ll need at least three spears to slow me down.”

Jack heard the sound of something being messily plucked out of flesh. “Pick up your head, Bjorn, or I’ll use it as a football,” said the voice he now recognized as Eric Broad-Shoulders’. Eric, Jack remembered, had been eaten by trolls.

“If you want to kick something, you’ll need two legs,” jeered Bjorn. Everyone laughed heartily at the joke. Someone blew a horn and the sounds of fighting ceased.

Thorgil had collapsed against the wall, trembling violently. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m sure we’re alive,” Jack said, kneeling beside her. He guessed that she was terrified of meeting the dead, and he wasn’t all that thrilled about it either. He’d run into a lot of unquiet spirits recently, from the draugr to the men trapped in the wall to the hogboon.

“I’m so afraid,” she moaned. “It’s like the night of the Wild Hunt. Olaf wouldn’t take me along because Odin wouldn’t let him. Oh, Jack, what if we go out there and he—he—rejects me?” She burst into tears.

Of course, thought Jack. Thorgil wasn’t afraid of a host of dead berserkers who, by the sound of it, had spent a happy day slicing one another to bits. She was afraid they wouldn’t let her join in. He could see the opening at the top of the tunnel. Night had fallen, but a bonfire nearby cast flickering light. A large figure suddenly eclipsed it.

“Don’t hang back now,” a man called. “We have food aplenty and the party’s just beginning.” He lumbered down the tunnel and picked up Thorgil. “You’re too dainty for a Valkyrie,” he rumbled. “Get on the outside of a haunch of boar and we’ll see you right.”

“Don’t touch her!” Jack cried, pointing his staff, but nothing happened. No fire sprouted out of the end, and the man was completely unaffected. He laughed good-naturedly, and Jack could see a line of red where his head had been reattached. So this was Bjorn.

“You come too, little skald,” said Bjorn. “I haven’t seen your kind since Dragon Tongue scorched the fur off Ivar the Boneless for marrying Frith. Plenty of boar to go around.”

“It’s all right,” said Thorgil, tucked under the warrior’s arm. Jack followed them up, feeling somewhat foolish. The cloak and staff of St. Columba ought to have earned him some respect. Little skald indeed!

They came out to a completely wild scene. The whole mountaintop was covered with warriors wandering among the trees to find parts of themselves that had been hacked off. They fitted hands back on to wrists, feet onto ankles, heads on to necks. When reapplied, only a line showed where they had been joined, and the scars faded quickly. Bjorn’s neck was already completely healed. Other men stuffed intestines into gaping holes in their stomachs, and the skin grew back.

Horses huddled in clearings, their eyes glinting whitely.