Troll Blood. Katherine Langrish

means you,” Einar chortled, pointing. “Anyone else around here with no breeches on?”

      Barelegs? Peer turned round and met the light, cold gaze of a boy his own age—a youth of sixteen or so, wearing a dark chequered travelling cloak wrapped around his shoulders and pinned with a large silver brooch. Because the jetty was higher than the ship, his head was currently at about Peer’s waist level, but this disadvantage didn’t seem to bother him. He tilted up a tanned face as smooth as a girl’s, but wider in the jaw, heavier across the brow. Loose golden hair fell about his shoulders and cascaded in a wind-whipped tangle halfway down his back. But his eyes…they reminded Peer of something. Einar once had a dog with eyes like that, odd milky blue eyes—wolf eyes, he’d called them. And the dog was treacherous; you couldn’t get anywhere near it.

      The boy snapped his fingers. “Are you deaf? I told you to help my father up on to the jetty. He’s not well.”

      He took the elbow of a man standing beside him. This must be the skipper, the famous Gunnar Ingolfsson. He was a powerful figure, short-legged and barrel-chested, but he did look ill. His face was flushed and glistening. When he glanced up at Peer, his eyes were the same pale blue as his son’s, but the rims were slack, and the flesh under them was pouchy and stained. Impatiently, he stretched up his hand. Gold arm-rings slid back to his elbow.

      Peer hesitated, but the boy’s rudeness didn’t seem enough reason to ignore his father. He reached down. Gunnar’s grasp was cold, and slick with sweat. And then Peer saw with a shock that Gunnar’s other hand was gone. The left arm swung short; the wrist was a clumsily cobbled-together stump of puckered flesh with a weeping red core. One hand, look, only one hand… the whisper ran through the crowd as Gunnar dragged on Peer’s arm, trod hard on the ship’s gunwale, and pulled himself on to the jetty with a grunt of effort. He let go of Peer without a word, and turned immediately to join his wife.

      The boy sprang up after him. “That’s better, Barelegs,” he said to Peer.

      “My name’s not Barelegs,” said Peer, his temper rising.

      “No?” The boy’s eyebrows went up, and he glanced deliberately around at the villagers. “Does he actually own a pair of breeches?”

      Einar snorted, Gerd giggled, and Einar’s eldest boy made things worse by shouting out, “Yes, he does, and they’re over there!”

      There was a burst of laughter. Peer went red.

      The boy smiled at Peer. “Now why did you have to take those trousers off in such a hurry? Were you caught short? Did our big ship scare you that much, Barelegs?”

      Peer struck out, completely forgetting the hammer in his hand. The boy twisted like a cat, there was a swirl of cloak and a rasping sound. Something flashed into the air. With a shout, Bjørn grabbed Peer’s arm, forcing it down. He wrenched the hammer away and hurled it on to the beach.

      Peer bent over, rubbing his numbed fingers. “I’m s-sorry,” he stammered to Bjørn. “I lost my—I wouldn’t have hurt him—”

      “No,” said Bjørn in a savage undertone, “you’d have been gutted.” And he nodded at the boy, who stood watching Peer with dancing eyes, holding a long steel sword at a casual slant.

      Peer gaped. He’d never actually seen a sword before. Nobody in the village was rich enough to have one. Subtle patterns seemed to play and move on the flat steel surface. The frighteningly sharp edges had been honed to fresh silver.

       That could cut my arm off.

      At the edges of vision he half-saw the crowd: Gerd disapproving, Harald worried; Einar and Snorri, their grins wearing off like old paint; the sailors from the ship edging together, watchful, glancing at their leader, Gunnar; the tall girl, Gunnar’s wife, looking on with cool disdainful eyes, as if nothing surprised her.

      Then the boy pushed the sword into its sheath. He tossed his hair back and said in a light, amused way, “He started it.”

      “And just who are you?” demanded Bjørn before Peer could reply.

      The boy waited for a second as if he expected Bjørn to add, “young master”, and Gunnar interrupted. “He’s my son, Harald Gunnarsson, my first-born.” His voice was gruff, thick with pride, and Peer saw, without surprise this time, that he too was wearing a sword. “My young lion, eh, Harald?” Affectionately he cuffed the boy’s head with his sound right hand. “I’ll get me other sons one day, perhaps, but none to equal this one. Look at him, pretty as a girl, no wonder they call him ‘Harald Silkenhair’. But don’t be fooled. See this?” He lifted his left arm to show the missing fist, and turned slowly around, grinning at the villagers. “Seen it? All had a good look?” His voice changed to a snarl. “But the man who did it lost his head, and it was my boy here who took it off him.”

      There was scattered applause. “A brave lad, to defend his father!”

      “A fine young hero. And so handsome, too!” Gerd clasped her red hands.

      “‘Bare is back without brother behind’,” old Thorkell quoted in pompous approval.

      “Well said, Grandad.” Gunnar nodded. “And a good son will guard your back as well as any brother. Quick with his sword, and quick with his tongue too; he can string you a verse together as fast as any of the king’s skalds.”

      “A little too quick with his tongue, perhaps,” said Bjørn drily.

      Gunnar hesitated. Then he burst out laughing, his red face darkening as he fought for breath. “All right,” he coughed, “all right. We can’t let the young dogs bark too loudly, can we? Harald—and you…What’s your name—Peer? No more quarrelling. Shake hands.”

      “Yes, Father,” said Harald, to an appreciative mutter from the villagers. He stepped forward, holding out his hand. Peer eyed him without taking it. His heart beat in his throat, and his mouth was sour with tension as he met Harald’s bright gaze.

      Harald grinned unpleasantly. “Hey, come on, Barelegs. Can’t you take a joke?”

      Peer nearly burst. He turned his back and shouldered his way along the jetty, leaving Bjørn and the others to deal with the newcomers. Down on the shingle, he hastily pulled on his breeches while Einar’s little boys peeped at him round the posts of the jetty, giggling and whispering, “Barelegs, Barelegs.” He pretended not to hear, but it was the sort of name that stuck. He would never live it down.

      Bjørn called to him, “Arnë’s taking Gunnar up to Ralf’s farm. Why don’t you go with them? It’ll be sunset soon, anyway.”

      “No,” said Peer gruffly “I’ll be along later. I’ve work to finish here.”

      He watched them pick their way across the beach, heading for the path to the village. Gunnar’s young wife Astrid clung to his arm, mincing across the pebbles. Probably her shoes were too thin, Peer thought sourly. How would she ever make it up to the farm, a good two miles of rough track? But perhaps they’d borrow a pony.

      He walked slowly back along the jetty, taking his time, unwilling to talk even to Bjørn.The tide was full. Water Snake had risen with it.

      Against the sky the knob of the dragonhead stood black, like a club or a clenched fist. The angry wooden eyes bulged outwards as if likely to explode. The gaping jaws curved together like pincers. An undulating tongue licked forwards between them, the damp wood splitting along the grain.

      The ship was empty—the crew had all disappeared to the village. Peer glanced about. No one was looking. He quietly jumped on board.

      The ship smelled of pinewood and fresh tar.The rope he clutched left a sticky line on his palm. There was decking fore and aft. The waist of the ship was an orderly clutter of crates and barrels: luggage and supplies. A white hen stuck its head out of a wicker crate and clucked gently.

       Fancy a trip to Vinland, Peer?

      He