Troll Blood (27 page)

Subdued, shivering, Hilde picked up the little box. The inside was smooth and empty.

You couldn’t keep a fly in a box.

So the fly was a
sending
. She’d heard it whispered of, the power of those skilled in
seidr
to send their spirits out in animal form. She looked again at Astrid, lying like a corpse, except that her fingers sometimes jerked. This was no joke. But could anything good come of it—this troll magic? Could it
work? And how long would it take?

She twisted uneasily, sitting this way, then that way. If she faced Astrid, she couldn’t see the door. If she faced the door, she couldn’t see Astrid. And there was something awful about the way she lay, neither alive nor properly dead. Her teeth showed. Her eyelids twitched occasionally, showing nothing but the whites, like hard-boiled eggs.

It was silly to be afraid. She thought of the child Astrid shivering by her mother’s bed.
If a little girl could do it, then so can I
.

Time passed, or crawled. The fire’s bright rags fluttered quietly. Nothing else stirred. Hilde rubbed her face with sticky hands.
This has to work. It has to. Peer, we’re looking for you. Oh, Peer, be all right. Please come back. Let us find you
.

A glittering green spark whirled in over her head and zoomed around the room, appearing and disappearing through the smoke. Hilde sprang for the little bone box and held it up foolishly, without much hope that the fly would settle.
I’ll never get it back
. Surely it wouldn’t want to be shut up again in this tiny prison?

But the fly circled down onto the rim of the box. Hilde flinched. It was so big and confident. Deliberately it walked into the middle of the box, cleaned its head with its two front legs, and sidled into a comfortable position. Hilde clapped the lid on.

With a second mighty yawn, Astrid pushed herself up. Hilde flew to her side. “Are you all right? Did it work? Did you find him?”

Astrid’s face was still bloodless. Her lips smacked together clumsily.
I saw him
, she mouthed. She sucked in another deep breath. “I saw him. It looks bad, Hilde. I think—”

The door scraped open and Gunnar’s shadow filled it. Cursing under her breath, Hilde slipped the box back into Astrid’s bag and tried to push the bag behind her skirt.

“Done too much,” Gunnar was muttering, standing in the doorframe, puffing. “Where’s Astrid? What’s this, what’s this?” he added roughly as Astrid tried to get off the bench. “What’s the matter, woman? Are you ill?” He turned to Hilde. “What’s wrong with her?”

Hilde’s wits deserted her. She stared at him, blank-faced and dumb. Astrid staggered to her feet. “Gunnar.” Groggily she held out her arms. “I’ve got something to tell you, Gunnar. I’m having a baby.”

Gunnar looked stunned. Then a slow smile appeared on his face. “Are you sure?”

When Astrid nodded, he turned around, threw open the door, and bellowed, “You men get in here, and quickly!”

It was his seagoing voice, bound to be obeyed. Looking stronger than he had for weeks, he crossed the floor to Astrid and wound an arm around her. She drooped against him like a snowdrop. “Is this certain?” he demanded again, looking at Hilde.

“She says so.” Hilde was grudgingly moved by Gunnar’s delight. His chest expanded; his eyes seemed younger and brighter. For a moment it was possible to see that, once, he
might have looked very like Harald.

The men crowded in with scuffling boots. Arnë wasn’t there. Except Harald, most of them looked apprehensive. Harald wore a slight frown, which altered to a scowl when he saw his father with Astrid.

“Good news, lads!” Gunnar squeezed Astrid’s shoulders. “The very best. Astrid’s having a baby!”

The men burst into cheers and whistles. They stamped their feet. “Go, Gunnar!” “Good work, Gunnar!” “Well done, skipper!”

Gunnar raised his voice. “So much for the curse, eh?” he shouted joyfully. “So much for Thorolf!”

Hilde nearly choked. Gunnar admitted it! In front of everyone, he admitted responsibility for Thorolf’s death. She saw with bitterness that no one looked surprised. Then what had Peer been fighting for?

Gunnar was repeating the curse:
“A cold wife and a cold bed
. Well, that part’s wrong, isn’t it? So what’s the rest of it worth now? Nothing!” He beckoned, sawing his short arm through the air in an excited gesture. “Where’s Harald? Here, Harald. Stand with me.”

Harald pushed to the front. His face was white as linen, but Gunnar seemed not to notice. He flung his maimed arm around Harald’s neck, linking his wife and his son.

“I’ve beaten the curse!”

He began to cry. Tears trickled down his face and hung glistening in his sandy beard. “I’ve got it beat. I’ve a good wife
and a fine son, and soon another son to follow him. A son like Harald!”

He squeezed Astrid again. She stood tall beside him, face flushed, eyes bright.

“Give her a kiss!” bawled Magnus.

“Give her a kiss!” The men took up the shout, clapping, as if, swept along by Gunnar’s delight, they forgot they’d ever been wary of Astrid.

“Good idea!” Gunnar turned and pulled Astrid against him. He pressed his bristly lips against hers. Smack! Hilde winced, but Astrid was laughing. She cupped a hand to Gunnar’s cheek and kissed him back.

“Troll!”

It was a high yell from Harald. The laughter and cheers thinned like smoke, and a bench fell over with a bang as someone backed off. Gunnar turned in amazement.

“Get off my father, troll!” Harald grabbed Astrid’s arm and jerked her roughly toward him. Astrid shrieked.

“Tell him.” Harald shook her. “Tell my father what you are. Tell him.” Again he shook her. “Tell him!”

“Stop it!” Hilde pulled Astrid away just as Harald shoved her aside. Astrid toppled into Hilde’s arms. Gunnar stared, bewildered and angry as a baited bear.

“She’s a troll, Father,” Harald panted. “I found out weeks ago. Couldn’t bear to tell you. None of us could. She’s deceived you. Troll magic, troll trickery. No wonder you’ve been ill. And now this. Passing off some troll whelp as your son?”

Gunnar blinked painfully. He seemed to gather his wits. He said in a mild, almost pleading voice, “But Astrid’s father is an old friend. Grimolf’s daughter can’t be a troll.”

“No?” Harald snatched Astrid’s goatskin bag and upended it, shaking the contents all over the floor. Astrid and Hilde both cried in protest, but everyone else craned to see. Out clattered the little bone box and cracked under Harald’s foot. Out fell packages of herbs, balls of red and white thread, a spindle whorl of rock crystal and another of jet.

“Look at this stuff.” Harald ripped the packages and threw them down. “Poison, for all we know. Look!” He grabbed the spindles, holding up first the crystal and then the jet. “What does she want two for? For spinning spells. White ones—and black! She’s not been curing you, Father. You haven’t been getting any better, have you? She wants to keep you ill, weak, womanish. Did you never wonder where she learned all this magic? She sucked it in with her mother’s milk. Her mother was a troll, too. Of course Grimolf didn’t tell you. It was the shame of his house. But ask any of the men, and they’ll tell you. They call her the witch girl, the troll wench. I’ve heard them talking.”

Astrid choked. Hilde sprang to her feet. “Astrid’s no troll! I come from Troll Fell, Gunnar, and I know what trolls are like. They’re cruel and heartless and selfish. They’re the opposite of us. They can’t tell wrong from right. They think night is day and black is white.” She turned on Harald. “That makes
you
more of a troll than she is!”

Harald ignored her. He stared at Astrid. “You can actually see it when you look at her,” he marveled quietly. “Something about the eyes, I think.”

Gunnar had turned a terrible color—bluish red like undercooked meat. His pale eyes bulged. Between gritted teeth he said, “Astrid?”

Astrid faced him, bone white. “I’m not a troll.”

“And your mother?”

“There was troll blood in her family,” said Astrid with difficulty. “Generations back.”

“Troll blood will out,” Harald sneered. “What will your baby be like, Astrid? Will it have a little …tail?”

“Gunnar!” cried Astrid. “Don’t let him speak to me like that!”

Gunnar slapped her.

The blow landed with a loud crack and snapped Astrid’s face to the right. She reeled and her fingers flew to her cheek. A bright scarlet print sprang out on her ear, mouth, and cheekbone. “You’ll be sorry you did that,” she said in a low, deadly voice.

They stared at each other. Gunnar looked away first. His gaze fell on the men standing goggle-eyed and openmouthed. “What are you all staring at?” he shouted. “Get out of here!” The men broke for the door, shoving and pushing.

Gunnar turned away. After two steps he stumbled, and Harald was there, supporting him, leading him away toward the bedchamber. Astrid waited till they were in the doorway.

“You’ll be sorry you did that, Gunnar Ingolfsson!” she screamed, and folded over on the sleeping bench, burying her face in the sheepskins and uttering gasping sobs. Hilde tried to comfort her. Astrid struck her arm away.

It was dark inside the house, now the door was shut. It must be nearly sunset. Slowly Hilde got down, and on hands and knees began picking up the torn packages and spilled herbs that Harald had strewn across the floor. He came out of Gunnar’s chamber while she was doing it and said, “Throw it all on the fire.” His face was hard and pale, and Hilde wondered how he was enjoying his triumph. Didn’t he realize he’d shamed Gunnar as well as Astrid?

He went out. Then Hilde saw the Nis, peeping down from a crossbeam. “It’s all right,” she murmured, deathly tired. “It’s safe to come out. He’s gone.”

The Nis ran down the wall. In big-eyed, solemn silence it picked up a few of the broken things. It kept glancing at Astrid, where she lay facedown, with jerking shoulders. It sidled closer—and at last hopped up to crouch beside her. It shook its head, tutting, and timidly reached out long, knobbly fingers to pat her hair.

Hilde’s eyes blurred. She remembered making the same gesture with Peer—was it only yesterday? She remembered the touch of his hair, cool and thick and silky.

She shuffled along the floor, still picking things up—whatever Harald said, she wanted to save as much as possible—and came across the little bone box, splintered
and crushed. The fly was gone. Whatever magic Astrid had made with it, for good or ill, she would never make it again.

“I did find him.” It was Astrid’s voice, drenched in tears. She was sitting up at last, her eyes red with crying. The bruise on her cheekbone was turning a shiny purple.

“I did find Peer. But I think he was dying. I’m sorry, Hilde, I’m so, so sorry. I’m sure by now it will be too late.”

CHAPTER 19
Down the Dark River

P
eer wakes …

… to the sharp sound of Loki barking. It’s still night. His head pounds, and his arm throbs. Loki barks again, angry growling barks as if he’s holding something at bay. There’s a dreadful smell, sweet and rotten. And a strange noise, a twittering, giggling sort of noise. Peer lifts himself painfully to see.

He’s lying in a steep, secret gully, roofed with trees as thick as thatch. To his left, a few feet away, the creek pours past. To his right is the dark side of the gully, riddled with even darker irregular holes, each with a spoil heap of earth at the mouth—some kind of animal lair.

But the noise from the holes doesn’t sound like animals. It’s a nasty shrill chattering that stings the senses. Deep within, small eyes gleam white, like tiny pearls.

Loki dashes recklessly forward, then cries and yips. Stones rattle into his face. He turns and bolts away, tail low. The next second Peer is hurled back. His head cracks on the rocks. He cries out. The things scramble all over him, snickering—scrawny things with puffed chests and nipped waists and cold scratching fingers. Their white eyes look sightless, like the eyes of a cooked fish. Pinching hands grip and roll him over. The stone grazes his face. Again he’s rolled, this time onto damp earth covered in twigs and pine needles.

And they fasten him down, forcing twigs into the soft earth between every finger, stretching out his arms and legs, tugging back his hair. They ram a forked stick over his neck and use more to pin down his wrists and ankles. Peer struggles, but he’s weak and dizzy, and there are so many of them, clinging to him, crawling over him. Soon he can’t lift a finger. He rolls his eyes and shouts, and one of them slips a sharp piece of wood into his mouth and twists it, propping his mouth wide open.