Troll Blood - Katherine Langrish

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Silkenhair, no older than Peer, had travelled that road. Harald had sailed across the world, proved himself in battles, been to places Peer would never see.

      He thought of Thorolf’s ship, his father’s ship, the Long Serpent, beached on the shores of Vinland far across the world, and felt a surge of longing. Life was a tangle that tied him to the shore. What would it be like to cut free, shake off the land, and go gliding away into the very heart of the sun? He closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was out at sea.

      “What are you doing?” Bjørn looked down at him from the jetty. Peer snatched his hand off the tiller, feeling every kind of fool for being discovered playing at sailing like some little boy.

      “Looking at the, oh, the workmanship.” He made an effort. “I don’t think the dragonhead’s as fine as the one my father made. But it’s still good work.”

      “Mm,” said Bjørn. After a moment he said, “And what do you make of Harald Troublemaker?”

      Their eyes met. Peer said, “He just picked a fight with me. For no reason at all.”

      “I know.”

      “What was I supposed to do? Stand there and take it? Did you hear what he said to me?”

      Bjørn blew out a troubled breath. “Peer, better to take an insult than a sword in your guts. You don’t have to play Harald’s games.”

      “How can your brother sail with someone like that?”

      Bjørn shook his head. “Arnë can be a bit of a fool sometimes.”

      “Let me get off this boat.” Peer climbed over the side and on to the jetty, feeling Water Snake balance and adjust as his weight left her.

      “Don’t play Harald’s games,” Bjørn repeated.

      “I won’t.” Half comforted, Peer straightened and stretched. “You’re right,” he added. What was the point of letting Harald get to him? Let him strut. Let Arnë have his evening with Hilde. Tomorrow they’d both sail away.

       CHAPTER 3 “Be careful what you wish for”

      Hilde rubbed tired eyes. It was almost too dark to see the pattern she was weaving. Draughts snuffled and whined under the door. The wooden shutters were tightly fastened. The fire smoked. She longed for a breath of air.

      Further up the room, in the glow of the long hearth, nine-year-old Sigrid was telling little Eirik a bedtime story.

      “So there was a terrible storm. And Halvor’s ship was blown along and blown along until he landed in a beautiful country. And then he got out, and he came to a castle where there was an enormous troll with three heads.”

      “Isn’t he rather young for that story?” Hilde interrupted. “He’s only two.”

      “He likes it,” said Sigrid. “Anyway, it’s keeping him quiet. And the troll said, ‘Hutututu! I smell the blood of a mortal man!’ So Halvor pulled out his sword, and chopped off the troll’s heads.”

      “Chop, chop, chop!” chuckled Eirik. Hilde rolled her eyes.

      “And he rescued a princess, a beautiful princess, and got married to her. And they lived in the castle together, ever so happily, till one day Halvor began to miss his poor mother and father, who would think he had drowned.”

      Hilde wove a few more rows, half-listening while the princess gave Halvor a magical ring which would carry him back over the sea, with a warning never to forget her. “‘Or I shall have to go away to Soria Moria Castle, to marry a troll with nine heads.’”

      Now there was less bloodshed in the story, Eirik lost interest. He lay kicking his legs in the air, then turned on his stomach and began squirming eel-like over the edge of the bed. Sigrid dragged him back. “Lie still, Eirik, or I won’t go on.”

      “Ma,” grumbled Hilde, “I can hardly see.”

      “Then stop,” said Gudrun. She was slicing onions, and paused with the knife in her hand to wipe her streaming eyes. “Thank goodness Elli’s asleep at last. I’ll be so glad when she’s finished teething. All that wailing really wears you out…”

      “Shall I finish the onions for you?”

      “No, go and help with Eirik, I’ve nearly done.”

      “Come on, Eirik,” said Hilde, “sit on my knee and listen to Siggy’s nice story. Better chop off a few more heads,” she advised Sigrid from the side of her mouth.

      “Halvor was so happy to get home that he quite forgot the poor princess was waiting for him,” said Sigrid rapidly. “And she waited and waited, and then she said, ‘He’s forgotten me, and now I must go to Soria Moria Castle and marry the troll with nine heads.’”

      “Excellent!” exclaimed Hilde, trying to stop Eirik slithering off her lap. “Nine heads coming off soon, Eirik.”

      “So Halvor had to find Soria Moria Castle, which was east of the sun and west of the moon, but nobody knew the way. Oh, Eirik, I wish you’d listen!”

      “Eirik,” said Hilde ruthlessly, “listen to the end of the story! The prince chopped off the troll’s heads. Chop, chop, chop!”

      “Chop, chop, chop!” chanted Eirik.

      “You’ve wrecked my story!” Sigrid cried.

      “I told you, Sigrid: he’s too little.” She let Eirik slide to the floor. “And he isn’t sleepy. He wants to play. I don’t blame him, either. I know how he feels.”

      Gudrun looked at her. “What do you mean?”

      “Nothing.” Hilde prowled up the room. “Just—I’m sick of being cooped up indoors. Peer’s having fun on the beach, building that jetty with Bjørn. Pa and Sigurd are on the fell with Loki and the new puppy. It isn’t fair. I wish something interesting would happen to me.”

      “Be careful what you wish for,” said Gudrun: “you might get it. It was interesting last summer when the house was attacked by trolls, but I wouldn’t want to go through that again. Life isn’t fair, and you may as well get used to it.”

      “You always say that!” Hilde wailed. “I’m so tired of being shut up in here, doing the same things, cooking and spinning and weaving, for ever and ever and ever.”

      “Hilde!” said Gudrun in surprise. She set down the knife and smoothed Hilde’s hair with a damp hand. “We all feel low at the end of winter. But spring’s here, and soon the weather will be warm again. Think of sitting outside in the long evenings.”

      “I suppose,” Hilde muttered.

      Sigrid said, “Now your hair will smell of onions.”

      “Well, thanks!” Hilde began, when there was a bang at the door. Alf, the old sheepdog, struggled up with a startled bark.

      Gudrun’s hand flew to her mouth. “Who’s this knocking after dark?”

      “Trolls?” said Sigrid apprehensively.

      Hilde got to her feet. “I’ll open it. And if there are any trolls out there, I’ll make them wish they hadn’t bothered.”

      “Chop, chop, chop!” shouted Eirik.

      With a nervous giggle, Sigrid hoisted him into her arms, and Hilde grabbed a broom and flung the door open. “Who is it, and what do you want?”

      Then she threw down the broom with a cry of delight. “Arnë!”

      Arnë Egilsson ducked in under the lintel, pulling off his cap, a broad smile on his face. “Hello, Hilde—don’t hit me! Is Ralf here? Gudrun, I’ve brought visitors.” He paused before

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