The Vikings sniggered, apart from Thorfinn, who was much too polite to laugh at people’s names.
Mr Wibblish was so enthusiastic he didn’t even notice.
“You see, everyone is scared of the Vikings,” he explained, “but I’ve always thought, if I could give Vikings a more positive purpose in life – other than raiding and pillaging – they’d be less scary. I’ve made this my life’s mission.”
“What a clown!” declared Olaf loudly.
Velda jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. “Sssh!”
“People have laughed at me for years. I was almost on the point of giving up, but now you’re here!” said Mr Wibblish. He rubbed his hands together with glee. “Oh, this is so exciting! Now, first thing’s first… Let’s see… But of course!”
He pulled some parchment forms from a drawer, picked up a piece of charcoal and rolled his sleeves up. “I’ll interview you one at a time. You first, miss.”
He waggled his finger at Gertrude, who fluttered her eyelashes, which unfortunately disturbed the fly that was sitting there.
“Me? Miss?” She giggled and blushed. “Tee hee!”
“First name?” he asked.
“Gertrude!” she shrieked.
“Surname?”
“They calls me ‘The Grotty’. I don’st know why.”
“Date of birth?”
“Oh, I’m not sure, but I am only twenty-five, as you can see from my bea-oo-tiful skin.”
“Place of birth?” he asked.
“The cowshed,” said Gertrude.
“I was born there, too,” said Grimm. “And people wonder why I’m miserable.”
“Do you have any qualifications?” asked Mr Wibblish.
Gertrude stroked one of her favourite warts before replying, “Hmmm… I can wrestle giant dung beetles, threes at a time. POP! Into the soup they go.”
“And do you have any work experience?”
“I cooks, sir.”
The Vikings burst out laughing, but Mr Wibblish didn’t notice. “Oh, that’s wonderful,” he said. “Good cooks are always in demand round here.”
The word ‘good’ caused another outburst of laughter.
“OK – next!” said Mr Wibblish, putting Gertrude’s form to one side.
Grut was the next to take a seat at Mr Wibblish’s desk.
“And you? What’s your date of birth?”
“Not sure,” replied Grut. “Though it was during the Spring Festival, a feast that lasted twelve whole days.” His eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look. “Elk, oxen, horse meat, beef… mmm… all washed down with a vat of mead. That was my first meal.”
Harek raised his hand. “I was born during the Great Eclipse – the year of the devastating volcano. The harvests all failed and the trees turned black.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” muttered Velda.
Then it was Torsten’s turn. “What’s your occupation?” asked Mr Wibblish.
“Navigator,” replied Torsten proudly.
“Oh, that’s wonderful, and which ships have you worked on?”
Torsten began to count them off: “The Death Bucket, The Fish Fodder, The Jinx, The Jonah, The Mild Sense of Doom…”
Mr Wibblish scratched his head with a bit of charcoal. “Never heard of any of them.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Velda. “They’re all at the bottom of the sea.”
When it was his turn, Olaf puffed out his cheeks. “Do we have to go through this rubbish? No wonder Vikings don’t work. This is ridiculous!”
Once Mr Wibblish had completed a form for each of them, he turned to a drawer marked ‘VACANCIES’ and slowly thumbed through a pile of parchment. By this time the Vikings were climbing the walls with boredom. They couldn’t even get their swords out and practise fighting, as there wasn’t enough room in the office to move their elbows.
“Ah-ha!” Mr Wibblish said eventually. “It seems you’re in luck. There’s a big feast tonight at the castle. King Appin is entertaining the French Ambassador. They’re in desperate need of extra staff!”
CHAPTER 11
In his chamber in Dunadd Castle, King Appin admired himself in the mirror. His tartan robes were made from the finest cloth imported from Paris and Milan. He looked down at his bare feet and sighed with annoyance.
“Where’s that man I sent tae the cobblers?” he barked at his attendants, who all looked either confused or terrified or both. Only the smallest servant offered an explanation. He was wearing a quartered tunic, as was the pigeon perched on his shoulder.
“Excuse me, my dear sir,” Thorfinn said with a rosy-cheeked smile.
“How DARE you talk to me?” King Appin exploded. “You’re a wee pageboy. You don’t talk. Dae ye understand?”
Thorfinn smiled and bowed, before stepping back and doffing his helmet. “Pardon me, your majesty. I was just going to say that my good friend Torsten is a wonderful man, but perhaps not the best choice of person to navigate the streets of Dunadd, or indeed anywhere.”
The king kicked up his bare feet. “Och! What am I supposed to wear on my feet? This feast is already a complete disaster and our guests haven’t even arrived yet.” He clicked his fingers and led the troupe of men, including Thorfinn, into the great hall.
A table ran the entire length of the hall, and had been piled high with mountains of food. King Appin clearly liked to impress important people with big feasts.
There was one problem, though. Several of the platters were already empty.
The king stopped in his tracks. All that remained of his favourite dish, skewered partridge, were a few pathetic bones.
Grut the Goat-Gobbler was working his way up the table, demolishing platters one by one. And Grut was a messy eater: he scattered bits of food all over the floor and all over his tunic as he went.
“Hey YOU!” cried the king. “Just whit dae ye think you’re doing?”
Grut waited until he’d swallowed the whole chicken he was devouring before replying, “I’m your new food taster.”
“You’re supposed to be just tasting it, ye muckle great loon!”
Grut shrugged. “Can I help it if I swallow some?”
Thorfinn stepped forward again and bowed. “Ahem… your majesty…” He paused, before continuing, “My friend Grut is a cheerful and brave fellow, but he’s possibly the worst man in the world to put in charge of a feast, or even, for that matter, a plate of biscuits.”
“Wait a minute,” said the king, running his finger over the tabletop. “The table is filthy! Why hasn’t the room been cleaned?”
One of his attendants coughed. “The housekeeping staff all went home, Sire. They said they were depressed.”
Thorfinn interrupted yet again. “Excuse me, your highness…”
“WHAT? Why do you keep talking, wee boy?!” snarled the king.
“I was just about to suggest that my friend Grimm the Grim, while being a stout fellow of some ability, is perhaps not the kind of sparkling team player your already hard-pressed housekeeping staff needed.”
King Appin started to speak, but then he stopped abruptly, sniffed, opened the lid of a pot, picked up a ladle and sampled the dark brown stew inside. “EUCH!” He spat it out. “Whit’s this? It’s disgusting!”
“Midgie and dung-beetle stew,” said Thorfinn. “Freshly made by your new chef, Gertrude.”
The king turned green with horror and hurled the pot towards Thorfinn, who leapt nimbly out of the way.
“KINGS DO NOT EAT MIDGIIEEES!!!”
Just then horns sounded to announce the arrival of the French Ambassador.
CHAPTER 12
A door opened in the side wall of King Appin’s great hall, and in walked the French Ambassador: a tall, noble-looking man wearing exquisite clothes. Unfortunately, his appearance was somewhat ruined by the fact that he smelt very strongly of rotten cabbage.
An attendant leaned over to whisper into Thorfinn’s ear, “You’ll get used to the smell. The drains in French palaces
are terrible.”
“Welcome, Lord Camembert,” said the king, and the two men embraced each other warmly.
Camembert began to speak in French.
“Oh, crivvens,” said the king. “Where’s my translator?”
Oswald appeared at the king’s shoulder. “Oui?”
King Appin coughed a little, then held a silk scarf up to his nose to mask the ambassador’s awful smell. “Oof, whit a stench! Tell Lord Camembert how pleased I am that he’s here.”
Oswald nodded, turned to the Frenchman and spoke a few words, at which Camembert’s face turned red and he began to bellow angrily.
“Whit did ye say to him, ye great numptie?” the king demanded of Oswald.
“What you told me to say,” Oswald replied. “That he smells and that you’re pleased to see him.”
“WHITTT!?” Now it was the king’s turn to go red. “You told the French Ambassador he stinks? Ye great eejit! Tell him I’m sorry – right this minute!”
Oswald turned back to Lord Camembert and said something else. This time the Frenchman reacted even more angrily and gripped his sword.
“What did you say to him this time?”
“I told him you’re sorry that he stinks.” Oswald shrugged. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“You fool! You’ve embarrassed my guest!”
“He should be embarrassed,” said Oswald. “That smell is revolting.”
“Get oot ma sight!” yelled the king. “You’re the worst translator ever!”
Oswald shrugged and walked out.
Before the king could do anything to calm his guest down there was a colossal crash from the fireplace, and the whole hall was engulfed in soot.
“AAARGH!” he yelled, coughing. “Whit now?”
Black dust settled over everything, including their fine clothes, the king’s bare feet and all the food. Something small and Viking-shaped climbed out of the fireplace, wafting away the soot. It was Velda.
“Wotcha! I’m your new chimney sweep.”
There was another colossal crash as a set of chandeliers smashed onto the table from above. Great piles of food, including coal-dust-flavoured quail and soot-blackened lobster were catapulted into the air and splattered all over the tapestry-covered walls.
A man’s head poked out of a hatch in the roof. “Oops, butterfingers!”
“That’s my good but slightly clumsy friend, Harek,” interrupted Thorfinn. “Perhaps not the best person to be in charge of lighting.”
There were tears in the king’s eyes now. “My feast is ruined!” He turned to the ambassador and tried to explain in his best French. “Er, moi, er, verray sorray!”
The ambassador barked and waved his finger at the king, before storming out.
King Appin’s shoulders slumped. “At least none of the other guests are here yet to witness this disaster.” Then he checked himself. “Wait, where are my other guests?”
At the king’s cue, an attendant threw open the main door at then end of the great hall. Outside it, Olaf was nursing his knuckles, standing on top of a mound of very well-dressed but also very unconscious nobles.
“You told me to get rough with anyone who tried to get in,” said Olaf.
“NO!” cried the king. “NO! NO! NO! NO! I said anyone without an invitation, not just anyone.”
“Oh, right, sorry.” Olaf shrugged.
The king sank to his knees and wept in despair. “Whit is wrong with you people? How could this happen to me?”
Thorfinn placed a hand on the king’s shoulder. This time King Appin couldn’t even be bothered to shout at him.
“There, there, your majesty,” he soothed. “It’s not all bad. I mean, look…” Thorfinn pointed out the figure struggling up the stairs towards them, breathing heavily and dragging a box behind him. It was Torsten, back from the cobbler’s at last.
“Here’s your shoes, your highness!” he declared.
King Appin shook Thorfinn off and got to his feet, yelling, “You’re all fired, the lot of you! Now GET OUT!!!”
CHAPTER 13
The following day, on the outskirts of Dunadd City, Thorfinn and his friends sat round a table in the tumbledown wooden shack they now called home.
“It’s not much fun being unemployed, is it?” said Torsten, slumped with his head in his hands.
“Pity. Food-tasting was the best job I ever had,” said Grut wistfully.
“It’s the only job you’ve ever had,” said Olaf.
“I loves’d them castle kitchens,” said Gertrude. “They hads a lovely supply of juicy slugs.”
During their brief stay at King Appin’s castle, Thorfinn had set the crew to work scouring every corner for the treasure, but they had found nothing. Velda had been planning to hide in chimneys and eavesdrop, and Thorfinn had been intending to listen in at discussions during the feast. But, of course, thanks to Olaf, no guests had made it to the feast. And there was still no sign of the missing galley.
Finding new jobs was proving difficult. Mr Wibblish had finally realised that his Viking Job Centre had been a complete waste of time because Vikings were totally and utterly unemployable.
“No one wants to touch us with a longship oar,” whined Oswald.
“Can’t we just go home?” suggested Torsten.
Thorfinn stood up. “My dear friends, we might have run out of leads for finding the treasure, but there’s still time – we have a few days before we need to set sail for Indgar. We must stay positive and watchful – and most importantly we need to eat to stay strong and healthy!”
“So what should we do?” they asked.
“Why, we’ll bake scones,” he replied. “Baking always makes me feel better.” And so, they set about building a fire and baking some scones. They soon ate them, and as they still had nothing to do, they baked some more.
“Hmmm,” said Velda, biting into her sixth scone. “Why don’t we try and sell these scones?”
They set up a makeshift market stall in the streets. When they’d sold out, they baked even more scones. Loads and loads of them. They sold so many they had to move into a disused baker’s shop, where they baked hundreds and hundreds of scones. They hung a sign over the door that read:
“Right! I’m in charge of this operation,” said Velda, staring out at everyone from under the rim of her helmet, “so I need a job title. I’ll be the CSO – Chief Scone Officer.”
“Oh, goodie, can we all have job titles?” asked Thorfinn.
Grut was first to thrust his arm in the air. “Ooh, ooh, ooh! Can I be ‘Scone Salesman’?”
“Salesman? Ha!” yelled Olaf. “You’re rubbish at sales – you just pretend you’ve sold them and then eat them all yourself!”
Thorfinn decided they would draw lots to decide their job titles.
Harek went first, yanking a piece of parchment out of Thorfinn’s helmet. He stared down at it blankly. “I can’t read.”
Thorfinn took it for him and read it out: “Harek, congratulations, you are now our Health and Safety Officer.”
Everyone burst out laughing, except Harek, who fumed. “What are you laughing at?” He tripped over a sack of flour and collapsed spreadeagled on the floor.
Oswald drew the next piece of parchment from the hat. “I’m our Office Manager, in charge of paperwork. Oh, good, that means I can have a nice sit down.”
Next was Grimm, who warily handed his piece of parchment to Thorfinn.
“My dear friend,” said Thorfinn, “you’re our Events Manager, in charge of organising our staff night out.”
“Oh,” said Grimm sadly. “There’s an undertaker along the street. Maybe we could hold the staff party there?”
Then came Torsten. “You’re our Delivery Man,” said Thorfinn.
“You must be joking! He couldn’t deliver an envelope, never mind a batch of scones,” said Olaf.
Thorfinn himself drew Head Chef, along with Gertrude the Sous Chef and Grut the Pot Washer. Thorfinn’s main task was trying to sto
p Grut from eating the scones.
“Oh, can’t I just taste another one?” asked Grut, making a sign with his thumb and forefinger. “Just a leetle one?”
“How abouts a beetle one?” Gertrude offered, which soon shut him up.
Sales went through the roof, although that might have been down to Velda’s selling technique. She stood in the marketplace, a tray of scones hanging round her neck. “Oi! Grandad!” she cried at one passing old man. “I said buy my scones – or else!”
“But I’ve got nae teeth!” replied the man.
“So?!” she replied, thrusting two scones into his hand. “You can suck on ’em!”
***
That afternoon, Velda sat in their office with her feet on the desk, counting pennies. “We’re making money,” she said, “but we’ll never have enough to pay back Magnus the Bone-Breaker! We need to find that treasure.”
At that moment Harek burst through the door, breathless. “Velda, come quickly! You must see this.”
She leapt to her feet. “What is it?”
“A massive boat with forty oars just arrived in the harbour.”
CHAPTER 14
Velda grabbed Thorfinn, who was covered in flour, and Olaf, who was skulking around outside the back door looking for someone to beat up.
They followed Harek down to the harbour, where they hid behind some barrels and peered at the ships.
“There, see!” Harek pointed out a galley just a hundred metres away.
“That’s definitely the same boat,” said Olaf.
A horse-drawn wagon stood on a jetty alongside the ship. It was carrying a heavy load hidden under a large black cover.
“And I bet that’s our treasure,” said Velda.
Armed men wearing hooded cloaks were stepping off the boat. They looked around suspiciously, as if ready for trouble at any moment.
Thorfinn and the Terrible Treasure Page 3
