Chapter 2

Two: The Dream

A quarter of an hour later found them toiling up the dark slope behind the farmhouse, with spades and picks in their hands and bags over their shoulders. A rope linked them together in case they should get into any difficulties on the mountainside. Ahead of them, at the top of the ridge, which now seemed much further than it had when Thorir saw it from the farm, the uncanny fire glowed with an alien light. Around them and above them spread the clear night sky, and as Thorir strode onwards, he could make out all the northern constellations: Aurvandil's Toe glowing brightly near the horizon; Thiazi's Eyes up and to the left; Loki's Brand below them; Frigg's Distaff to the right; and the great white road of Bifrost sweeping across from one black horizon to the other.

'How much further?' panted Ketilbjorn from the back, where he was weighed down with picks and spades, bags and sacks. Thorir had somehow ended up carrying far less equipment, and he strode effortlessly up the hill ahead of him. For some reason, the Halogalander had lost much of his initial enthusiasm.

'Not far!' Thorir called gaily over his shoulder. 'Having second thoughts?'

'No,' Ketilbjorn muttered grimly. 'Not at all...'

They trudged on in silence up the slope. The witch-fire of the mound seemed to dance ahead of them, forever out of reach across the sea of scree, as if it were a will-o-the-wisp, beckoning them on to their doom. Above them the stars wheeled, beneath their feet the ground sloped towards the gleaming light...

'What are you going to do with your share of the treasure?' Ketilbjorn asked Thorir. The Icelander stopped, and turned to stare at him.

'I hadn't really thought,' he admitted. Then he scowled. 'Anyway, that's not the point. Don't think like a merchant, Ketilbjorn. It's the glory we should be after, not the treasure.'

'Decent bit of treasure would come in handy,' Ketilbjorn muttered.

'I'll probably buy myself a nice new longship or two,' Thorir went on, as they moved off up the mountainside. A wind began to moan and sigh among the rocks around them. 'Something a bit flashier than the one we've got now...'

Ketilbjorn tried to reply, but his words were whipped away by a harsh gust of wind. Rushing clouds blotted out the stars above them, and began to rain down on the two figures. The wind whipped and battered against them, driving the rain into their face.

Thorir set his face into a scowl, and forged ahead relentlessly. Ketilbjorn stumbled on behind him. Soon they were both soaked to the skin. The storm grew stronger and stronger, and they had to struggle to remain standing.

Ketilbjorn staggered up to Thorir and tried to speak to him, but the wind was so loud that his words were inaudible. He reached out and shook the Icelander, who turned round, frowning, with the wind whipping his long, wet hair into his face. He pushed it back, and mouthed a question at the Halogalander. Ketilbjorn indicated the lashing rain and howling storm around them, nodded in the direction of the burial-mound - now obscured by sweeping curtains of rain - then jerked his head at the way they had come. His meaning was plain, but Thorir's refusal was equally obvious. The Icelander turned angrily away from Ketilbjorn and forged grimly forwards, dragging his less steadfast companion along with the rope.

And so they continued, two small dark figures creeping slowly up the vast bowl of the mountainside, buffeted by the keening wind, lashed by the rain that poured from the pitch-black sky in torrents. All the elements seemed to join together to remind them of their insignificance in a blind, implacable universe ruled solely by the iron will of Fate. And yet they trudged on through the wind and rain, drenched to the skin, battered but unbowed.

But finally there came a squall that even this indomitable pair could not stand up against. With a roaring sound like the flapping of the wings of a gargantuan eagle, the storm took off, and both Thorir and Ketilbjorn - still linked together by the rope around their waists - went flying back down the mountainside.

Thorir caught a brief glimpse of the whole dark world flying past him, while the howling scream of storm-clouds blotted out every coherent thought. Then in an instant he felt the breath being knocked from his body as he crashed down against a mountain rock, some way down the slope. Dazed, and with his ears ringing, he shook his head to clear it. Peering round muzzily, he caught sight of Ketilbjorn on the other side of the rock, equally confused. Thorir shook his head. He was exhausted.

'Ketilbjorn...' he gasped weakly.

'Thorir?' the Halogalander replied in similar tones.

'We'd better get moving...' Thorir murmured, trying to focus. 'Can't... stay here...'

His head fell back, and he sank into a deep sleep.

Beside him, Ketilbjorn struggled to get to his feet, but soon he too was snoring beneath the dark sky - now empty of clouds. The storm, too, had vanished with uncanny swiftness.

Thorir dreamed, and in his dream he seemed to see the mountain slope stretching out around him, a tumble of rocks and boulders, with occasional scrubby patches of heather and sparse grass. Though it was dark, a mystic silver light subtly illuminated the scene. Thorir glanced instinctively in the direction of the burial mound.

The mound lay open, and Thorir saw a dark figure clambering out of its glowing heart. Fascinated, he lay beside the boulder as the figure glided down the slope towards him. As it came closer, Thorir began to make out details of the mound-dweller. It was a large man, who had clearly been a strong warrior in life, though now his body was blue-black with the sheen of death. Marshlight flickered in the hollow pits that had once housed his eyes. Nonetheless, the undead being carried himself with majestic hauteur and a stateliness seldom seen in men in these latter days. He wore fine clothes: a red kirtle swathed his skeletal midriff, and he wore a gold-chased helmet upon his bony head. A scabbarded sword was in his gloved hands, and a knife hung from his finely worked belt.

As he reached Thorir, he gazed with ghastly wrath down at the sleeping Icelander. He prodded Thorir in the ribs with his sheathed sword.

'It is an ill man who would rob his kinsmen,' he intoned in sepulchral tones. 'But I shall treat you far better than justice would deem right.'

'Rob my kinsmen?' stuttered Thorir in amazement.

'Indeed,' replied the ghoulish figure, 'for I am your father's brother.'

'Neither my father nor my uncle has ever mentioned a troll in the family,' Thorir returned defiantly.

'I have a different father,' Agnar told the lad. 'And because my mother is your grandmother, I will not treat you as I treat other thieves. I will give you gifts if, in return, you turn back and look for treasure elsewhere.'

'What gifts?' Thorir demanded, only half aware that this was just a dream.

'You shall have this good kirtle, on which no fire or iron can bite. And with it, I will give you this helmet and sword. And these gauntlets shall be yours, and you will never have seen anything like them. They have magic healing properties, and with them you may heal your comrades by stroking their bodies with them. I shall also leave here my knife and belt, and give you twenty silver marks and twenty of gold.'

Thorir sneered churlishly. 'This seems a small bribe from so close a kinsman - and anyway, I won't turn back for this! Furthermore, I was unaware that any foul trolls were so close to me in blood. If it was not for our kinship, you would not survive our encounter.'

Agnar's lips writhed in a skeletal grin, and he spoke again.

'It will be long before you see much treasure. And you may forgive me for my cupidity, for you shall know the same feelings before your life is over.'

Thorir looked the hogboy straight in his flickering eyes.

'I don't care what you prophesy for me,' he replied arrogantly. 'But I'll accept your offer to show me where I may look for better treasure, if you want to save your own plunder.'

Agnar's bones rattled as he shrugged. 'I would rather do that than quarrel with you. Let me tell you my story.