As the marketplace emptied and most of the townspeople went home, a few vendors remained with inferior animals. They watched the grove of trees with great attention. The shadows seemed to stir, and Jack clutched Lucy’s hand. Olaf stood in front of a bonfire, waiting.

It was clear the giant didn’t like the painted men, but he was there to make a profit. The Picts carried a clanking assortment of weapons and bags of ornaments as they made their stealthy approach from the forest. They spread these on the ground before the fire.

“Troll spawn,” murmured Thorgil. A strange light gleamed in her eyes.

Jack had to admit the weapons were beautiful. They were decorated with fanciful designs much like the patterns on the Picts’ skin. The jewelry—pins, brooches, earrings, and bracelets—was finer than anything Jack had expected from such wild creatures. Perhaps they weren’t so bad. But he looked into their brooding eyes and knew that nothing good could be expected from such folk.

The Picts examined the captives. They seemed uninterested in the scars on the men’s backs or the lameness of one of the women. They drew back when the other woman screamed at them but returned at once with secretive smiles. They were clearly delighted by the plump monk. They pinched him all over, exclaiming and hissing. Sven the Vengeful translated, setting a price for the lot.

Then it was Jack and Lucy’s turn.

A broad-chested Pict with a shaggy beard and drooping eyebrows inspected them. He seemed to be the leader. He felt Lucy’s fair hair and admired her small hands and feet.

Jack clenched his fists, longing to drive his head into the man’s stomach.

The Pictish leader smiled and brought out a weapon not displayed yet. It was a magnificent sword with a dragon etched along its shining blade. The handle was of dark wood inlaid with gold. Thorgil gasped.

“It’s your decision,” Olaf said in a low voice.

“Yes,” said Thorgil with that strange light in her eyes.

“You would please the queen if you kept the girl. You would please me, too.”

“I know.” Thorgil scowled and reached for the magnificent sword. She turned it over in the leaping light. She ran her finger along the dragon design.

“Dainty work. Not strong, but pretty,” commented Olaf.

“All right! All right! I know what you want me to do,” shouted Thorgil. She threw down the weapon and grabbed Lucy by the hair, pulling her away.

The Pictish leader replaced the sword in his bag and put out a small, cheaply made dagger. He pointed at Jack. Jack was obviously not worth much.

“You’re joking!” said Olaf. The Pict produced a blanket pin of some dull metal. “Better,” said the giant. They bargained back and forth until the dagger, the pin, and a thin copper ring lay on the sand. Olaf raised his hand to clinch the deal. He looked at Jack as if assessing whether he could get more.

No! No!thought Jack. He was about to be taken away from Lucy. He was about to go with theminto their dark forests and silent hill forts. All at once it came to him that he’d understood every word Olaf had said.

For weeks he’d been listening and translating. The Northman language was not that different from his own, but he’d been afraid to speak it. Afraid of being laughed at! How stupid could that be? “Don’t sell me,” he said.

Olaf put his hand down. “What?”

“I said, don’t sell me.”

Olaf One-Brow chuckled. “And why not?”

Jack cast desperately around in his mind. He knew better than to plead. Berserkers hated whiners. He had no skills to offer unless you wanted someone who could catch sheep. But wait! He did have a skill. He didn’t know if it would impress a berserker, but he knew music.

Without pausing to think, he sang a charm the Bard had taught him. It was in Saxon, but that couldn’t be helped. Sven the Vengeful could translate.

Olaf looked absolutely stunned. “Is that what I think it is?”

“A magic charm,” said Sven in a shocked voice.

“I’ve heard it before. I can’t think where,” said Olaf. “Is it likely to harm us?”

“I wouldn’t take a chance on it,” said Sven.

“Are you a bard?” Olaf asked Jack. For answerback sang the first verses of “Beowulf’s Saga”. It was one of his best pieces, full of adventure with a rousing melody. His voice was rather fine, he thought, even better than when he last sang for the Bard.

“Here! Take back your trash!” shouted Olaf, kicking the dagger away with a tinny sound. “Be off with you before I sharpen my axe on your skulls.”

The Picts carefully gathered up their goods. Olaf’s threat made no impression on them even though they were half his size. The giant hoisted Jack under his arm and strode off to the berserkers’ camp. The last Jack saw of the monk was his pale, unhappy face in the firelight.

They sailed the next day. The wind was strong, and the great sails filled and drove them along at a breathtaking pace. Olaf’s ship was by far the swiftest in a good breeze and left the others in the haze to the south. The land broke up into inlets and wide channels to their left, and the sea turned milky green. The air smelled fresh and wild. Gulls, terns, and puffins scattered before them, and even a few crows wheeled from the rocky islands as they passed.

“Odin’s birds,” said Olaf, pointing.

Jack nodded. The Bard had told him about that. The one-eyed god of the Northmen rarely left his fortress in the far north. Instead, his black-feathered servants flew far and wide to bring him news of war and bloodshed and other things that pleased their cruel master.

A gray bulge appeared in the water to their right. Eric Pretty-Face, a hulking monster with a scar running diagonally across his face, shouted, “Whale ho!”

“Turn! Turn!” roared Olaf. The warriors scrambled for the oars, which they had not been using because of the fine wind. They gave chase, and the gray bulge fled before them until it dived beneath the surface of the water. “We gave it good sport,” said Olaf, returning to his seat by Jack. “If we weren’t so laden, I’d hunt it down.”

“ Thatwas a whale?” said Jack. He’d heard of the creature. He’d never imagined how enormous it would be close-up.

“Quite right, young skald,” replied Olaf, using the Northman word for bard.“The trolls ride them for their horses. Fine sea ivory they contain, and lamp oil to light a village through the winter.” Ever since discovering Jack’s talent, Olaf had spent much time explaining things to the boy. He also taught him vocabulary and poetry. The giant had a wide repertoire of verses, though his voice was anything but sweet. “I want you to have the words when it comes time to sing my praises,” he explained.

Jack wasn’t sure he liked the attention, but it was better than being carried off by Picts.

He and Lucy were the only slaves left. The rest of the sad-eyed captives had been replaced by furs, pottery, metal tools, medicines, and bags of grain. This was in addition to the booty taken earlier. All the berserkers were going home rich and happy. All, that is, except Thorgil. She slumped hopelessly at her post in the stern of the ship. Sometimes she roused herself enough to pull Lucy’s hair, but most of the time Jack was able to protect his little sister. Olaf was inclined to listen to his complaints now that he knew Jack was a bard.