The Islands of the Blessed

First, he had been a farm brat chasing sheep. Then he became the Bard’s apprentice. He had been carried off to the Northland with his sister and had won their freedom. He’d had to set forth again when she was kidnapped by the Lady of the Lake. Each adventure had led to new adventures, with periods between to rest up. Now he had only one task left: to rescue the Bard’s daughter. What would he do when that was accomplished?

He wasn’t ready to be a bard. True, he could do a few tricks and remembered some of the recipes for elixirs. But it was depressingly clear to him that he wasn’t much better than the third-rate skald Adder-Tongue had hired to sing praises. Would that be his fate—to go from hall to hall like Big Half and Little Half until people got tired of him and threw him out?

Thorgil, too, was immersed in gloom. She wouldn’t recite her bloodthirsty poetry even when Eric Pretty-Face asked her nicely to sing about freezing to death. She was closed in, not accessible to anyone except Seafarer. The bird sat by her constantly, crooning softly. “He is mourning his lost flock,” she translated on one of the few occasions she consented to talk. “They are lost in the far south and he will never see them again.”

Jack knew she was thinking about her shattered dream of becoming a Valkyrie.

The ship sped before a swift wind, and soon they had passed Edwin’s Town and were approaching the Holy Isle. Jack saw a few campfires on the isle after dark and guessed that monks were trying to rebuild the monastery.

They arrived at Bebba’s Town in the middle of the night, the only safe time for a shipload of berserkers and a half-troll to dock. “I wish I didn’t have to leave you,” Skakki said as they silently rowed to shore. “I’m afraid to wait. I can smell ice on the wind. As it is, we’ll be lucky to get Egil to Horse Island before winter sets in.”

“Don’t worry about us,” Thorgil said listlessly.

“I do worry, little sister. Why don’t you come with us?”

“I’ve given an oath to save Dragon Tongue’s daughter.”

“But what will you do afterward?” Skakki asked.

“If the snows hold off, we’ll go on to the village,” said Jack. “If not, we’ll spend the winter with King Brutus.” The boy had no enthusiasm for either path. He would be an embarrassment to the village, not skilled enough for a bard and too educated for a farm brat. King Brutus would put up with him for a while, but the Lady of the Lake was obviously more to the king’s liking. Eventually, Jack would have to move on.

“I don’t like this,” said Skakki.

“It is our fate,” Thorgil said. “In the spring look for us again, or if you don’t find us, we’ll meet in Valhalla.” She looked away. Jack knew she had no real hope, or desire, now to go to Valhalla.

“Little sister,” rumbled Schlaup, planting a large kiss on the shield maiden’s head, “you can stay with me.”

“Perhaps I will,” Thorgil said sadly. Jack knew she didn’t belong there, either.

The ship pulled into the dock, and Schlaup lifted both of them out. “Be careful. I’ll look for you in spring,” said Skakki. The ship pulled away, and Jack watched it disappear in the darkness. Gone were his friends Rune, Sven the Vengeful, Eric Pretty-Face, Eric the Rash, Skakki, and Schlaup. For a moment he felt as though he had been sealed into a tomb. Then he scolded himself for self-pity. 

Chapter Forty-two FLYING VENOM

“I told Seafarer I was going to look for a nesting site,” said Thorgil. “He understood that. His kind do it every year. Skakki will take him to Horse Island, where there are dozens of rocks covered with seabirds for company. Perhaps a lady albatross will be blown there someday.”

They carried their belongings along the dock, and Jack noticed that there were no ships in the harbor. He found this odd. Bebba’s Town wasn’t as important as Edwin’s Town, but it was still a thriving port. Even in winter, there should have been a few vessels waiting out the storms.

They found a secluded beach and made camp under some trees above the high tide line. But they slept fitfully, for in places with many people, thieves were possible. “I suppose it’s safe to build a fire,” said Jack as the wet fog surrounding them turned pale with dawn. In spite of St. Columba’s robe, both of them were cold and damp. The wood they gathered was damp too, but Jack was able to call up fire with the new staff. “Does that work better than your old staff?” Thorgil asked. She spread her travel cloak out to dry.

“It’s different.” Jack had used it to call up fire, drive away annoying flies, and summon a wind—things he’d already learned. But sometimes St. Columba’s staff had a mind of its own. On the way to Bebba’s Town, Eric Pretty-Face had complained about a hangnail. Jack had impulsively grasped the warrior’s hand. Warmth had spread from the staff to both of them, and when he let go of Eric’s hand, the hangnail was gone.

The Northman was spooked by this. So was Jack. He didn’t like powers he couldn’t control.