“As all know, that means the troll was angry and wanted a fight,” Einar whispered to Varg. “Trolls are very territorial.”
Varg nodded.
“I must confess,” Svik said, “I was scared at the sight of this troll. I had only seen fourteen or fifteen winters, and this troll was bigger than Einar, and I could clearly see that he meant me harm. In my fright I just stood and stared at the creature, still holding on to the cheese.”
Varg looked around. There was at least a score of Bloodsworn gathered close, more joining them, eating their porridge and listening with smiles on their faces. Skalk was there, with Olvir and Yrsa, the three of them listening intently.
“The troll was striding towards me, but then it stopped,” Svik continued. “It just stood there, staring at me. More precisely, staring at my hand. I looked down and saw that in my fright I had made a fist, and in my fist was the cheese. I was squeezing it. In fact, I had squeezed it so hard that the whey was pouring from it, making a pool about my feet. The troll blinked. ‘You are strong for a small one,’ he said. ‘I have never seen someone crush a rock to dust with their bare hands.” Svik smiled at them all. “Trolls do not have the most clever about them,” he said, tapping his temple with one finger, “and this one thought that I had crushed a rock in my fist. Thinking that this could work to my advantage I did not enlighten him to the truth. Instead I explained, very politely, that I was cutting wood for my winter store and that it was best not to make me angry, or late. The troll was so scared that I would turn my rock-crushing fists upon him that he offered to help me.”
Laughter rippled around the ring of warriors, loudest from Olvir and Yrsa. Varg found a smile splitting his own lips.
“What happened then?” Einar asked, excited as a bairn the morning of his name-day.
“You know what happens next, you oaf,” R?kia said rolling her eyes.
“I like the way Svik tells it,” Einar grunted.
“After we had cut and split all of the wood the troll invited me back to his cave for some porridge,” Svik said. “I feared to insult him by saying no, and so I went with him. His cave was big and dark and damp, but there was a store of treasure within it: weapons, coins, rings of bronze and silver that he had taken from the warriors he had slain. The troll put a pot of porridge over the fire, and soon it was ready to eat. ‘How do you fancy a competition?’ the troll says to me, a cunning look to his eyes. ‘Let us see who can eat the most porridge?”
“‘Of course,’ I answered, knowing that if I declined I would insult the troll and enrage him, but inside I was shaking, as I knew that if I lost the competition the troll would see that as weakness and most likely kill me.” He looked around; all were leaning forward now, their bowls of porridge forgotten.
“When the troll went about finding two bowls and spoons for us to eat from, I quickly took the hemp sack that my cheese had been in and stuffed it up my tunic, the bag’s mouth hidden close to my neck. The troll returned with two bowls, each as big as that pot there.” Svik pointed to their porridge pot, as big as Varg’s shield. Warriors whistled and shook their heads. “The troll filled mine and gave it to me. It was so heavy I could not lift it, so I let the troll just set it between my legs on the ground. And then we began to eat,” Svik said. “I could see the troll was enjoying his meal very much, making all kinds of slurping sounds, and soon I was feeling full. So, I checked that he was not keeping a close eye on me, and then I poured a spoonful into the hemp sack under my tunic. I did this time and time again, until the hemp sack was bulging, and still the troll continued to eat.” Svik pulled a face. “I was at a loss, frightened for my life, and full to bursting as well. And then I had an idea.” He held a finger up, looking at each face around him.
“‘I am so full,’ I said to the troll, ‘I do not think I can eat another mouthful.’
“The troll smiled at me, porridge dripping from his teeth. ‘There is a fate for winners, and one for losers,’ the troll said, and I knew full well what he meant by that. Slowly, I put my hand to my belt, where I had a small sharp knife. I drew it. The troll frowned at me and tensed, ready for my attack. But instead I turned the knife on myself and stabbed myself in the belly.”
There were gasps around the circle and Svik re-enacted the strike, pretending to plunge a blade into his gut and saw it across his belly, doubling over, his face twisted in pain. Then he sat straight and smiled. “But instead of my entrails falling out, all that spilled on to my hands was porridge. I had stabbed through my tunic into the hemp sack below, then sliced it so that porridge poured out.”