The Islands of the Blessed

“I imagine most of them return to the village before dark,” said the Bard. “I suggest we do the same. There’s something wrong here, and I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“I should get Bjorn’s permission to camp on the beach,” Skakki argued. “Besides, he may have useful information about Notland.”

“The only information he could possibly have is a warning to stay away from the wretched place.” The Bard was getting tired and cranky. He thumped his staff on the floor. “Where is that so-called king?”

As if by magic, Little Half appeared. “I’m dreadfully sorry, honored guests. The king was called away to tend to a dead sheep. A terrible bird came out of the sky and frightened it into a ravine. They’ve gone off to retrieve the body. He sends his most sincere apologies and hopes you will accept his hospitality tonight.”

“Unfortunately, we must return to our ship,” said the Bard, rising to his feet. But at that moment a horn sounded and servants streamed into the hall bearing platters of food. They began setting the tables with trenchers of bread, wheels of cheese, pots of yellow butter, and a variety of roasted meats. A drinking horn was set up on a metal stand at each place.

At the same time, the village workers filed past and disappeared through the iron door. But when the Bard, Skakki, Jack, and Thorgil tried to follow them, they found a row of grim Northman warriors blocking their way. “Where did they come from?” said Jack.

“I’ve been a fool,” the Bard said. “All that waiting was a trick to keep us here. I don’t know why, but the reason can’t be good.”

“Bjorn was Olaf’s best friend,” protested Skakki.

“We’ll see,” the old man said. There was nothing to do except sit down and try to look cheerful about it. The tables were laden with food, yet no one arrived to eat it. The sun slid below the cliff. Seagulls wheeled in great flocks before going off to wherever they would spend the night.

The servants lit the fireplace and set fish-oil lamps in alcoves along the walls. They fitted bundles of straw into the windows and fastened sheepskins over them to keep out drafts. The air quickly became stale.

At last, just before sundown, the iron door opened. A tall man wearing a leather helmet and vest came in. The helmet covered most of his face, so Jack couldn’t tell what he looked like, but he guessed it was Bjorn Skull-Splitter. Behind the king came several men carrying the flayed carcass of a sheep.

“By Thor!” cried the king to Big Half, who quickly ran to help him. “I never saw a bird of its like. It could have scared me into a ravine.”

“Did you manage to shoot it?” Big Half said.

Jack held his breath. He was certain the giant bird was Seafarer, who was only trying to find them.

“The rotten thing kept the sun at its back,” said the king. “I shot at it but kept getting blinded. Never mind! I’ll kill it tomorrow.” Big Half unlaced his master’s vest and removed his boots. The king himself took off the helmet and shook out his hair. “So you’re Olaf One-Brow’s brat,” he said, turning to Skakki. “If you’ve come here for vengeance, you’re seeking an early grave.”

“I thought you said he was a friend,” whispered Thorgil.

“Bjorn Skull-Splitter was a friend,” said Skakki, rising to his feet. “Einar Adder-Tooth wasn’t.” 

Chapter Twenty-six THE HOGBOON

“I’ve taken you by surprise,” said Adder-Tooth, “but never fear. The rules of hospitality hold. I never kill a man without giving him a good meal.” He clapped his hands, and a servant darted out with an ale-horn. The silent warriors sat down at the tables, and now all the ale-horns were filled. The men set about carving themselves chunks of meat and cheese with the knives people carried for this purpose. Servants ladled stew onto the trenchers.

“Eat up! You never know where the next meal is coming from—or if you’ll be here to enjoy it,” Adder-Tooth said heartily. He dug his thumb into a pot of butter and smeared it on a chunk of bread. “Bjorn thought his last moment had come when I dumped him into the sea. He lived to eat many a fine meal, thanks to Olaf, curse him, but no longer.”

Skakki laid his hand on his knife. “Kindly refrain from insulting my father. He died a hero’s death in Jotunheim and was given a funeral pyre worthy of the gods themselves.”

“Oh, I heard about it. No one’s questioning his honor. Bjorn, on the other hand, would have been better off drowning. At least he’d be feasting with Ran and Aegir instead of roaming the icy halls of Hel.”

“I knew Bjorn,” said Skakki. “He would not meet a coward’s end.”

Adder-Tooth waved his ale-horn at him. “Sit down! You’re making me nervous, and that isn’t good for your health.”