Troll Fell (13 page)

“There's no fun for a man round here,” he grumbled,
tipping the bottle upside down and sucking the end.
“Nothing but work, work—”

“Let's have a dogfight,” suggested Grim suddenly. Peer
sat up in alarm.

“What with?” asked Uncle Baldur scornfully. “That
thing of the lad's? He wouldn't last a minute with
Grendel.”

“He's nippy,” offered Grim. “Bet you he'd last five.”

A grin spread over Baldur's face. “All right!” he said.

“NO!” shrieked Peer, leaping to his feet. “You can't!
You can't, you bullies!” He hurled himself at Uncle
Baldur, pounding him with his fists, kicking and biting.
It was like attacking a mountain. His blows did no good
at all. Uncle Baldur yanked him off the ground with one
hand and chucked him across the room. Peer scrambled
up, dazed but desperate and rushed forwards again.

“The boy's mad!” said Uncle Baldur. He grabbed Peer
and twisted his wrist up behind his back in a painful
arm-lock. “Keep still or I'll break yer arm,” he grunted.
“Go and fetch the dog, Grim. The boy might set him
loose.”

“Let go of me,” panted Peer, still struggling, as Uncle
Grim nodded and went out into the yard. “Let me go!”
He twisted and turned, but Uncle Baldur tightened the
arm-lock until Peer gasped with pain. Tears of fury and
terror filled his eyes.

Loki trotted in at Uncle Grim's heels, looking wary
and puzzled.

“They can't fight in here,” said Uncle Baldur over
Peer's head.

“No,” Grim agreed, “we'll have it in the yard. Take a
look at him. I give you ten to one he lasts a good five
minutes before Grendel grips him. He's quick, you see.”

“Done!” Baldur grinned. “Speed won't save him from
Grendel. One good crunch and it'll all be over!”

Peer couldn't believe they were talking about his
beloved dog.

“Loki won't fight,” he said defiantly. “He can't fight,
he doesn't know how!”

“Then I'll win my bet,” said Uncle Baldur calmly.

“Grendel will kill him!” cried Peer.

“The dog's no use anyway,” grunted Uncle Grim. “Can't
work.”

“I'll train him!” Peer begged. He knew it was no
good. Uncle Baldur dragged him outside with Loki,
while Uncle Grim brought Grendel along by the collar,
holding up a flaring torch in the other hand to light the
dogfight. The snow had stopped falling, but was blowing
about the yard chased by a cruel little wind. It was an
unbearably cold night.

Peer looked at the two dogs in despair Grendel
dwarfed little Loki. He was built like a wolf, but thicker
and taller, with massive head and powerful jaws. His eyes,
red with malice, were fixed on Loki in evil enjoyment.
He growled lustily, working himself up. The thick collar
disappeared into the deep fur at his throat as he strained
forwards.

Loki was scared. His tail curled between his legs, and
he trembled.

“Uncle Baldur! I know your plans,” shouted Peer
suddenly. “I know about the trolls' wedding, and your
horrible bargain! If you kill Loki, I'll never go! You
can't make me! And what's more, you'll never get
Hilde. She knows it all, too! I told her! You'll never get
Hilde without my help!” He stopped, wondering what
he was saying. Uncle Baldur's grip had tightened, but
he didn't move. Instead he laughed.

“Clever boy!” he sneered. “Cleverer than we'd
thought, eh, Grim? Thinks he knows a lot. But it makes
no difference. You've got no choice. You'll do as I say.”

“I'll run away!” shouted Peer, beside himself.

“Run?” Uncle Baldur mocked. “You haven't got the
guts. Where would you run? Who'd want you? Besides,
there's no time, you little fool. Midwinter is here!”

Peer could not suppress a startled jerk.

“Didn't you know?” jeered Uncle Baldur. “The famous
wedding is tomorrow night! And since you know so much,
you know we're going to be rich. Loaded with gold!”

“You may be rich,” Peer yelled, “but everyone will
still hate you!”

There was a fractional silence. Then…

“Eat him, Grendel!” yelled Uncle Baldur, releasing
Loki. At the same moment Uncle Grim let go of
Grendel, who sprang snarling forwards.

Loki took one look and ran for his life. But Grendel's
long legs gained on him. At the edge of the sheepfold
Loki doubled back, his front and back legs crossing each
other in his efforts to escape, and his tail tucked in.
Grendel overtook him and the two dogs merged in a
rolling tangle near the barn wall, falling over and over in
a spray of snow. “Grendel! Grendel!” shouted Baldur and
Grim.

“Loki! Run!” screamed Peer, clawing his hair.
Grendel bayed and made savage worrying noises. Loki
yipped wildly in terror.

Suddenly an avalanche of snow slumped off the barn
roof on top of the two dogs, half burying them. There
was a moment's surprised silence as they struggled to
rise, shaking themselves free. Though his eyes were glued
to Loki, Peer caught a flicker of movement scampering
lightly along the eaves, and was sure it was the Nis.

“Oh… thank you!” he breathed.

Loki got his wits back before Grendel did, and
without a second's hesitation he jumped out of the drift
and raced across the yard towards the road. “Head him
off!” shouted Uncle Baldur. Grim tried to bar Loki's way,
waving the blazing torch. But Loki, with a speed born of
terror, whizzed between his legs and was out of the yard
and over the wooden bridge before anyone could stop
him. Grim staggered, slipped and went down, cursing.
Charging after Loki like a bull, Grendel trampled across
his master. Peer and Uncle Baldur ran past and followed
the two dogs over the icy bridge. Peer's freezing fingers
clung to the handrail as he crossed in desperate haste.
Where, oh where was Loki?

Then he heard a noise that raised the hairs on his
neck. A deep shivering howl of triumph, that quivered
up and up until it seemed to reach the frosty stars. It
lingered in the cold air and held him motionless till it
died away. Uncle Baldur too, was frozen in his steps.
Grim came limping up behind them, the blazing branch
held in one hand, the other hand pressed to his hip.

“He's got the little beggar,” he said in satisfaction.

Tears of horror rose in Peer's eyes. “No!” he cried
wildly, running forwards. Terrified of what he might
find, he stumbled along the kicked-up tracks leading up
the path to the millpond. His two uncles followed.
Baldur was grumbling.

“No fun at all – didn't get to see anything. Call that
a fight? Got any more good ideas, Grim?”

“Shut up,” snarled Grim. “At least he got the little rat.
And good riddance, I say.”

Peer blundered out of the bushes at the edge of the
millpond, and stopped dead.

A few yards away Grendel stood with his back to
Peer, hackles raised and head lowered threateningly. At
the very brink of the millpond, Loki faced him at bay.
Loki's head was up and he looked this way and that with
quick, desperate movements.

Peer could see why Grendel had howled in triumph.
Loki was trapped. There was nowhere for him to run. He
was standing at the end of a narrow tongue of land
between the millpond and the second sluice. On one side
the millpond reflected the starlight with a thin layer of
milky ice. On the other was the sluice, and a steep drop to
the rapidly freezing stream as it looped away to join the
mill race below the bridge.

Grendel looked round as Grim and Baldur lumbered
up. His breath steamed in hot clouds around his open
jaws. The flames from Grim's torch lit the snow to rosy
warmth, and glistened on every yellow tooth in
Grendel's head. He was clearly waiting for his masters to
watch him bring the fight to its end. Even across the
yards of snow, Peer could see Loki trembling. He turned
away, sick at heart.

“Good lad, Grendel,” puffed Uncle Baldur hoarsely.
“Go get 'im!”

Savagely, Grendel rushed forwards. Peer clapped his
hands over his eyes, but lowered them at a shout from
Baldur. Loki had turned and leaped out on to the ice.
Amazingly, it held him. He slithered across it, paws
scrabbling.

“Oh, Loki… go on, go on,” panted Peer.

Beside him Uncle Grim gave a bellow of alarm.
“Grendel! Stop!”

It was too late. Mad with rage, Grendel launched
himself after Loki. There was a splintering crash. Far too
heavy for the fragile ice, he went straight through it and
was struggling in the black water.

Grim ran to the edge of the bank. He plunged the
branch he held into the water. The flames sizzled out.
“Here, Grendel! Grip hold!” he shouted. But Grendel
took no notice. He tried to clamber out on the other
side, snarling murderously and raking at the ice with his
claws. It broke into crazy pieces. He could smash his way
across!

Loki had reached the far bank by now. He tried to
scramble up, but it was steep and slippery. He got halfway,
clinging desperately with his front paws, kicking himself
up with his back legs, but the loose snow collapsed under
him and he tumbled down on to the ice, which still held.
It must be stronger there, where the water was shallower;
but then it could hold Grendel too! Back on his feet, Loki
flung himself again at the bank.

Grim straightened up. He turned to Baldur. “Pay up!”
he said.

“He'll catch him yet,” said Uncle Baldur, watching
Grendel crashing his way through the brittle ice.

“The bet was, before five minutes!” Grim reminded
him.

Again Loki lost his feet. His twisting body fell back
on to the ice. Grendel was halfway over by now, his great
weight breaking a jagged passage. Peer could not stand it.
Without even thinking, he filled his lungs and ran
forward.
Granny!
he yelled, so loudly his voice cracked.
Granny Greenteeth!

The echo jumped to and fro between the mill and the
trees. Baldur and Grim glanced at him in angry surprise.
Then Baldur bit off an exclamation and pointed.

Something had happened to Grendel out there in the
middle of the pond. He was no longer forging his way
across, but writhed splashing in the water, biting at
something that seemed to have risen beside him. It was
hard to see in the bitter starlight. Peer strained his eyes.
Could those be skinny white arms twining about
Grendel's neck, pulling him under? And that strange lump
that broke surface for a moment amongst the floating ice
– was it a head? A dark stain rose and spread like oil across
the water; the chunks of broken ice danced and clashed;
there was another thrashing struggle just below the
surface, a choked-off bark – and Grendel was gone.

“
Granny Greenteeth!
” Peer whispered softly, hugging
himself and shuddering.

There was a loud wail from Uncle Grim. “Grendel!”

“She's got him,” said Uncle Baldur, shrugging, but his
mouth was set.

“I was
fond
of that dog!” moaned Uncle Grim, wiping
a tear from his eye.

On his third try, Loki reached the top of the bank and
hurtled away into the woods, out of sight.

“He'll never win another dogfight,” said Baldur
callously. Uncle Grim forgot his sorrow. “You still owe
me, Baldur,” he said sternly.

“I'll pay you when we're rich,” said Baldur. “And we'd
better get on with that!”

He stared at Peer, and Peer quailed, fully expecting to
be blamed for Grendel's awful fate. But it seemed that
Uncle Baldur had taken his shout as a warning, and
wasn't thinking of that.

“Tomorrow is midwinter's night,” he said softly, still
staring at Peer. “Don't forget, Grim, we're going to a
wedding! I think it's time we went to get the presents!”

Peer tried to dash for it, but Uncle Baldur caught him
by the arm. “You're not going anywhere, my lad,” he
said. “What shall we do with him, Grim? We don't want
to take him along with us, do we?”

Grim shook his head. “Lock him up,” he growled.

“Good idea. But where?”

“Shut him in the privy,” suggested Uncle Grim.
“There's no window and we can block up the door.”

They grabbed Peer and hustled him down the path to
the mill. Peer tried to fight, but he was utterly exhausted,
shaking with cold and shock, and in the end he just hung
limply and let them drag him along. Uncle Baldur hauled
open the privy door and thrust him inside. “You'll not die
of cold,” he said, joking roughly. “Where there's dirt there's
warmth.” He shoved the door shut and Peer heard his two
uncles piling logs against it to keep it shut. With a last
effort he beat his fists against the door, screaming, “Let me
out! Where are you going?”

“To pay a little visit to Ralf's farm, of course,” came
Baldur's muffled voice. Peer caught a stifled sob from
Grim and a hiccup of, “Poor Grendel!” Then their feet
clumped away, leaving Peer to gasp for his breath in the
cold and stinking darkness.

“There's a storm brewing,” Eirik said to Gudrun. “I can
feel it in my bones.”

Gudrun gave a vicious slap to the dough she was
kneading. “And what if there is? I don't have to worry
about storms any more. Not since that accursed longship
sank!”

Hilde, pulling on her thick fur-lined boots, looked
uneasily at her mother. Gudrun was very pale these days,
and her temper had worn to a thread.

“I don't think it's snowing, Grandpa,” she said
peaceably. “It's just freezing hard.” She stood up and
pulled on an old jerkin which had belonged to Ralf. It
was much too large for her: the sleeves came down over
her hands and kept them warm, which was why she
liked it. She belted it in with a piece of string, threw a
cloak over it and took the lantern down from its hook.

“I'll light this and go to feed the cows,” she
announced.

Eirik, rocking dreamily by the fire, looked up. “I'll
help,” he offered.

“Oh, I don't need any help, Grandpa!” said Hilde,
dismayed.

“Don't be an old fool, Eirik,” Gudrun said, adding in
a more kindly voice, “You just sit still and have another
nap.”

Eirik's head came up. “When I was a young man,” he
said stiffly, “I could do three men's work in a day, and I
had enough left over to thrash anyone who gave me a
fight and dance all night in the Long Hall when there
was a feast on!”

“Drink yourself under the table, more like,” sniffed
Gudrun. She poked the dough crossly. It took the
imprint of her finger meekly, and slowly began to ease
the dent out.

“And I wasn't asleep,” added Eirik sulkily. “I was
composing.”

Gudrun's expression showed that she thought the two
were identical. She rolled her eyes and looked at Hilde.

“Well it's all right,” said Hilde hastily. “Sigurd and
Sigrid can come out with me and Eirik can keep an eye
on them. Let them have some fresh air.”

She strode over to the sleeping benches where Sigurd
and Sigrid were playing some game that involved
tunneling under the blankets, and dragged them out
shrieking and resisting. She told them fiercely to keep
quiet or else, pushed their boots on to their feet, and
pulled on their woolly hats.

“We don't want to go out,” wailed Sigrid.

“You'll do what you're told!” hissed Hilde.

“Can we have a snowball fight?” asked Sigurd.

“Certainly, if you don't go out of Grandpa's sight,”
said Hilde briskly.

“I don't want to,” began Sigrid, but stopped when
Hilde scowled at her.

“All ready, Grandpa?” she asked. Eirik nodded. While
Hilde had been getting the little ones ready, Gudrun had
been wrapping Eirik up to the point when, if he fell on
the ice, he would hardly even bruise himself. He was
almost circular with wrappings.

Alf lay curled up at the fireside. He raised his head and
pricked his ears at the sight of all this activity, but Hilde
told him, “Stay!” She did not need the old sheepdog just
for tending the animals, and it was very cold outside. She
wanted to look after him. He flicked his tail politely and
laid his head back down.

Hilde filled her pockets with stones – she kept a small
pile by the door, handy for throwing at trolls – picked up
the lantern and an armful of hay, and bundled the little
ones ahead of her out of the door. They immediately
screamed with delight and slid off across the icy yard.
Gudrun appeared in the doorway supporting Eirik, who
shook her off irritably and stepped after Hilde. He
staggered and she dropped the hay to help him.

“Pick it up, pick it up, girl,” he shouted angrily,
“dropping good fodder all over the yard! I can manage.”

“Sigurd, Sigrid,” screamed Hilde, “come back here
and pick up this hay!”

“Now Father-in-law, do take care!” shrilled Gudrun
anxiously.

“Women, women,” shouted Eirik, really losing his
temper, “cluck, cluck, never leave you alone. I wish my son
was here. He'd know I'm not in the grave yet!” He slipped
on a particularly glossy patch of ice and sat down hard.

Hilde rushed to pick him up. Sigurd and Sigrid threw
hay about, quarrelling. Gudrun leaned half out of the
doorway, clinging to the doorpost and shouting
instructions. Eirik sat puffing with shock.

“It's your fault, girl,” he said to Hilde. “You distracted
me.”

Someone gave an apologetic cough. “Can we help?”
Hilde looked up to see Arnë and Bjørn climbing over
the gate. The household stood around in embarrassed
silence while the two young men pulled Eirik to his feet
and dusted the snow off him tactfully. Eirik dabbed at
himself shakily, muttering things.

“Ah – it was the ice,” explained Hilde awkwardly. “It
was so slippery that he – he slipped.”

“Ah yes, it's slippery stuff, ice,” said Arnë with a grin.
He became serious again. “Are you all right now, Eirik?
We've brought some news for you.”

“What – again?” snapped Gudrun from the doorway
before she could stop herself. Then she looked sorry and
stood back into the room, holding the door open and
saying, “Come inside, then. You'll all freeze standing out
there. For goodness' sake, hurry! I'm losing all the
warmth.”

They trooped into the house, Arnë and Bjørn at the
rear. Once inside they stood nervously, stepping sideways
hastily as Gudrun came past them after shutting the
door.

“Sit!” she told them sharply. “You're in the way. Hilde,
where's your manners? Fetch Arnë and Bjørn some ale.”

“In some houses,” Eirik grumbled under his breath,
“it's the man who calls for ale!”

Looking sheepish, Bjørn opened his mouth to speak,
but Gudrun stopped him.

“Not a word! Not a word of your news do I wish to
hear till we've shown you some hospitality. Goodness
knows this house has had enough trouble since Ralf left,
but we still know how to welcome our neighbours. That
is—” she stopped in her tracks and stared at him,
worried, “it isn't
bad
news, is it?”

Bjørn shook his head and Gudrun was reassured.
Hilde passed the ale round and it was drunk in an
atmosphere of polite discomfort.

“It's nothing much,” said Arnë when Gudrun finally
allowed him to speak, “only we spoke to the Grimsson
boys today. We came on from the mill, in fact. Baldur
Grimsson has heard about Ralf. As you know they were
never – um – friends, so he was – celebrating, I'm
afraid.”

“Boasting how he was going to take Ralf's land,”
Bjørn explained.

“We wanted to wipe the smile off his fat face. We told
him we're on your side, Gudrun. I'm sure most people
are.”

“We told him to leave you alone,” added Bjørn.

“Did you see Peer? Was he all right?” Hilde asked
quickly.

Bjørn looked thoughtful. “Yes, he was there. I hope
he's all right… There was a little bit of noise going on
when we left, and I forgot to speak to him.”

“Bjørn lost his temper,” Arnë grinned.

Gudrun's eyes were moist. She mopped them quickly
with her apron. “You're such good friends!” she
exclaimed, stretching out her hands to them. The young
men flushed.

“So we'll keep an eye on the Grimssons for you!”
Arnë went on hastily, “if Eirik has no objection, that is?”
Gudrun and Hilde, slightly startled, turned to Eirik.

“What?” said Eirik. “No, er – of course not. Keep an
eye on them for all you're worth, young fellow!”

“Good,” said Arnë. “If they start any trouble, let us
know.” He stood up.

“I'll come out with you,” said Hilde eagerly, and
slipped out ahead of them as Bjørn and Arnë said
goodbye to Gudrun. She crossed into the yard and
surprised three small trolls stealing the scattered hay.

“Drop it!” she yelled, scrabbling in her pocket for
stones. They bolted under the gate, dropping armfuls as
they went. Hilde knelt to gather it up. As she stuffed it
under her arm and started for the cowshed she met Arnë
and Bjørn coming away.

“Are you all right? We heard you shout,” Bjørn asked.

“Quite all right, Bjørn, thank you. I was frightening
away a few trolls.”

Arnë looked at her admiringly. “So you know how to
deal with them?”

“I'm a pretty good shot,” Hilde boasted.

“But where are you going with the hay? Feeding the
cow?”

“Yes, I'm going to do the chores.”

“Can I help?” asked Arnë. Bjørn grinned and nudged
him.

“No, no!” said Hilde quickly, blushing. “You should
get home. Grandfather's bones tell him a storm is
coming.” As she spoke, she realised that it had begun to
snow again. “And it looks as if he's right!” she added.

Arnë and Bjørn said goodnight and hurried off, while
Hilde dived into the dark cowshed, shutting the door
firmly. Smiling to herself, she threw her armful of hay
into the manger and hung the lantern on a hook. The
light was feeble. Close by, a black shadow heaved itself to
its feet and mooed gently.

Hilde worked quickly, cleaning the two stalls and
throwing down fresh straw. When she had made Bonny
and the calf comfortable, she left the shelter of the cow
shed and tramped across the wild white yard. Banging
three times on the farmhouse door, she waited shivering
while Gudrun took down the heavy wooden bars on the
inside. Then she jumped inside, gasping and laughing and
brushing snow off herself.

“Brrr! Shut the door, mother! Whatever are you
waiting for?” she asked, seeing Gudrun hold the door
ajar.

“For Sigurd and Sigrid, of course. Aren't they with
you?”

“No!” said Hilde, alarmed. “Weren't they with you?”

Gudrun slammed the door. “I thought they went out
after you the second time. They went out just before
Bjørn and Arnë.”

“They never joined me. I've been mucking out.”

They looked at each other silently.

“Listen,” said Gudrun in a low voice. She pointed at
Eirik asleep by the fire, snoring gently. “Don't wake him
yet. Take the lantern and go round the steading – call
them. They may be building a snow fort or something.
If not – ah!” She moved her hands despairingly. “What
then?”

“What
next
?” said Hilde grimly. “Don't worry,
mother. I'll find them.” She grabbed the lantern and
plunged back out into the darkness.

The cold wind flung her cloak out behind her. The
lantern shone on to snow whirling on the ground,
picked up and flung about by the wind. It was hard to
walk straight.

“Sigurd?” she shouted, “Sigurd!” adding under her
breath, “miserable little scamp!

“Sigrid, where are you? Come in at once. Come on,
supper's ready!

“Sigurd! Come here
now
!

“Children! I'll smack you if you don't come!”

No answer. A nightbird shrieked – what bird would
be out in such a night? “
Huuu –
huuuu!
” She shivered
in recognition: the trolls were out. The wind flicked a
handful of snow into her face. She wiped her eyes and
followed the cow shed wall round to the sheepfold.
Snow was drifting against the fence on the windward
side. She waded into it and leaned over the rail,
swinging the lantern. The sheep lay huddled together
in the shelter of the fence, half-melted snow on their
backs. They chewed steadily; one stood up, hoping
for food.

“You've been fed,” Hilde told it. “Sigrid! Sigurd!”

No answer.

She had a new idea and held the lantern close to the
ground, searching for tracks. But the snow was filling
them up rapidly. Her own tracks were obvious, going to
and from the cow shed, and there were a lot of larger half-
covered prints, which must belong to Bjørn and Arnë.
The small light tracks of the two little children seemed to
have disappeared as completely as they had themselves.

“Oh, where
are
you?” she shouted despairingly, tears
pricking her eyes. The wind gusted and her cloak
flapped. There was no reply.

Suddenly she saw two small gleams, close together and
low down. Staring, she noticed stealthy movements. Trolls
were creeping up to the very edge of her lantern's pool of
light, and their eyes reflected flashes of green and red.
Hilde stamped her foot and shouted. They scattered, but a
moment later a snowball curved through the air and
splashed against her ear. Another followed, and then a hail
of snowballs flew at her, some weighted with stones.
Covering her eyes she stumbled back to the house.

Gudrun opened the door quickly.