Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
Indgar was like any normal Viking village, with sword fighting in the morning, wrestling in the afternoon, and at least three big punch-ups before dinner. And that was just for the old folk.
Around lunchtime the women of the village gathered round the well with their laundry. Not that they ever did any laundry. Usually they just catapulted it into the fjord. It would almost always wash up on shore the next day, slightly cleaner than it had been when it went in.
One of the women spotted the chief’s son – a boy called Thorfinn – stepping out from behind a large sheet covering the great hall.
“What are you up to, Thorfinn?” she asked.
“Good day, dear ladies,” said Thorfinn, removing his helmet. “You’ll be the first to see my new surprise. Ta da!” He pulled the sheet away.
The women’s screams could be heard on the other side of the village.
Thorfinn’s father, Harald the Skull-Splitter, Chief of Indgar, sat alone in his chamber, wrapped in furs. He was writing down a list of the village’s competitors for this year’s International Gruesome Games. It did not make good reading. The only contest they had a chance of winning was belching.
Harald scratched his head and looked around his private chamber. The walls were adorned with stags’ heads, trophies and souvenirs from his many adventures. Harald eyed the village’s ceremonial sword, Whirlwind. He had carried it into battle many times. It was a symbol of his power as village chief.
His eyes moved slowly to the empty space next to it, where his ceremonial shield, Sword-Blunter, used to sit. Whirlwind and Sword-Blunter belonged together, but the shield had been lost in battle many years ago. The chief of the neighbouring village, Magnus the Bone-Breaker, had it now.
Magnus would be at the games too, thought Harald. He would be gloating over the shield and showing it off to everyone. Harald would do anything to get it back.
Suddenly, half the men of the village stormed into his house, yelling over each other and trying to get through his chamber door.
“Chief!”
“Boss!”
Their faces pressed together as they all became stuck, their eyes bulging out of their heads, their arms sticking out all over the place.
“Eek!”
“Huuyyyyy! Boss, listen!”
“Bleuuuugh! Chief, quick!”
Harald did not like to be interrupted. He rose from his seat, glaring at the men with venom. Harald was famous for his incredibly twitchy eye. It could strike fear into the heart of anyone, even the fiercest of the fierce. And it was quite useful at times like this.
He deployed the twitch. The men froze in the doorway, terrified.
“WHAT is the meaning of this?” Harald roared. “Barging into my house, my own private chamber. Well, what do you have to say for yourselves, you fish-faced idiots?”
For a moment nobody spoke. Lots of eyes just looked round at one another. Then, it was as if a spring had been released, as the men exploded through the door and fell in a heap at Harald’s feet.
“S-s-sorry, Chief,” said one of them sheepishly. “B-b-but it’s your son, Thorfinn.”
“He’s gone too far this time,” said another.
“You’ve got to stop him,” said one more.
Harald sank into his throne, his head in his hands.
“Ugh!” he sighed. “What has that boy of mine been up to now?”
CHAPTER 2
Harald marched down to the marketplace, leading his men.
“Look,” they told him, “we know Thorfinn is clever and has saved the village many times. But we can’t put up with his behaviour any more.”
Harald dreaded to think what he was going to find. This morning he had asked Thorfinn to tidy up the market place and clean out the cowshed. Two simple jobs. What could have gone wrong?
An angry crowd had gathered outside the great hall. They were led by Erik the Ear-Masher, Harald’s second in command. He had only one eye (the other was covered by an eye patch) and a face like a bashed cauliflower. The two of them fought often, and it looked like he was in the mood for another fight right now.
The crowd was standing in a circle looking on in horror at Thorfinn.
Erik bounded up towards Harald. “Look! Look what that son of yours has done to our horrible, unwelcoming village!”
Harald saw what they were angry about right away.
Thorfinn had painted the great hall a new colour – bright purple.
Harald was a man who knew very little fear. He’d fought the ferocious Vandals of Valhalla Island, the cannibal Cossacks of Minsk, and even the One-eyed Warrior Monks of Lindisfarne, and none of them had truly scared him. But now he was scared. If other Vikings saw this, the village would never live it down.
“PURPLE!” he cried. “PURPLE! You painted our hall PURPLE?”
“Good day, dear Father,” said Thorfinn, whose pet pigeon, Percy, was perched on his hand. “I just thought it would brighten the place up a bit.”
“PURPLE? PURPLE!”
“Actually, it’s more like mauve,” said one of the villagers.
“No,” said another. “There’s more of a reddish hue if you ask me.”
“You’re both wrong. That’s magenta,” said a third.
“No, orchid!”
“That’s mulberry, you idiot!”
“ENOUGH!” cried Harald in his hugest, boomiest voice. “Vikings DO NOT have arguments about colour schemes.” He turned to Thorfinn. “And Viking villages DO NOT have purple walls. Do you understand? Now, repaint the hall.”
“Of course, Father,” said Thorfinn. “I’ll do anything to help. But what colour should I paint it?”
“What do you mean, boy?!” Harald was spitting with rage. “Paint it back to the colour it was before.”
“You mean, mud?”
“Yes. Mud,” said Harald. “I mean, what’s wrong with mud as a colour anyway?”
The Vikings all agreed that mud was the colour for them. They hastily arranged a work party, who smeared armfuls of wet mud all over the walls.
“But that’s not all,” said Erik. “Come and look at this!”
He and the other villagers led Harald to the entrance of the village. Harald wondered what new horror would await him there.
A stretch of hillside next to the village had been dug over and replanted with lots of tiny flowers. They were arranged in huge letters to read:
Harald clasped his hand to his mouth. He trembled with fear and rage. The rest of the villagers started wailing like they were at a funeral.
“Thorfinn, THORFINN! What is the meaning of this outrage?”
“Father dear,” said Thorfinn, appearing at his side, “I’ve entered the village in the ‘Norway in Bloom’ competition this year.”
“Norway in Bloom!” Harald croaked. “Get this through your skull – Vikings don’t enter flower competitions. And Vikings don’t put out welcome signs. We’re ruthless barbarians. We HATE visitors.”
“Yes,” the villagers echoed. “Death to all visitors!”
“Except my Auntie Madge,” said one.
“And Bert the oil salesman,” said another.
“And the travelling druid of Oslo,” said a third.
Harald unleashed his tw
itchy eye on them to shut them up.
“Oh yes,” said Thorfinn, rubbing his chin. “I keep forgetting that bit about being ruthless barbarians.”
Harald sighed. He knew Thorfinn would never understand. Besides, one glance at his son’s mild, well-meaning eyes was enough to drain the anger from anyone – even he, a man who was known across Europe as ‘The Terror of the North Sea’.
“Come with me, son. We need to have a little talk.”
“Of course, my dear old dad,” said Thorfinn.
Harald put his arm round his son and led him away from the angry crowd.
Behind them, yet another work party was frantically rearranging Thorfinn’s flower display. Now it read, in big bold letters:
CHAPTER 3
Harald slumped on a rock and plonked Thorfinn upon his knee.
“Look, boy, tomorrow we set sail for Uraig for this year’s Gruesome Games.”
Uraig was a distant island in the Scottish sea where the annual games were always held.
“I know,” said Thorfinn, “and I’m very much looking forward to it.”
“You’re the smartest of us all, so we couldn’t go without you. But you must try to fit in. Do you understand?”
“Of course,” said Thorfinn. “I’ll certainly try anything for you, Father.”
“I know you will,” said Harald, though he wondered if Thorfinn could ever be different. Like any Viking man, all Harald had ever wanted for a son was a normal, ferocious barbarian thug. Someone he could teach in the ways of pillaging, plundering and burning stuff to the ground. Somehow Harald had ended up with the nicest, most polite boy who’d ever lived. A boy who’d earned himself the name: Thorfinn the Very-Very-Nice-Indeed. A boy whose idea of a good time was baking scones, who went round the village doffing his helmet to everyone and saying, “Good day.” It was no sort of behaviour for a Viking, never mind a chief’s son.
Suddenly another voice spoke from behind a woodpile.
“I might be able to help with that.”
It was Thorfinn’s friend, Velda – a skinny girl with curly hair, trailing a massive axe behind her.
“What you need is someone to turn him into a good Viking, bring out his inner fury,” she said, leaning up against the woodpile and folding her arms. “Let me become Thorfinn’s anger coach.”
Harald laughed. He’d been trying to turn Thorfinn into a good Viking for years and failed miserably. He doubted this tiny girl could do better.
“Don’t believe me? Watch this.” She suddenly screamed. It was a scream so loud and terrifying it could wake the hounds of Helheim. She picked up her axe and swung it against the trunk of a small tree. The axe split the tree neatly in half. The top half came crashing down next to them, throwing up a cloud of dust and blowing off their helmets.
“I bet you didn’t think I could get that angry, eh!”
She wasn’t wrong. Harald was amazed by the fierceness of this small girl, but he still doubted that she could help. “Yes, but how are you going to coax that sort of anger out of Thorfinn?”
Velda tested the blade of her axe with her finger. “I’d never reveal my tricks to a customer.”
Harald laughed again. “Maybe that’s because you don’t have any tricks.”
“Maybe I do,” she replied. “And maybe you don’t have any choice.”
Harald stroked his beard. What did he have to lose?
“Okay, you have a deal,” he said.
“Good.” Velda spat into her hand and stretched it towards Harald’s massive paw. “Of course, it means I’ll have to come with you to the Gruesome Games,” she said.
Aha, thought Harald, here was the real reason for all this. Velda was determined to go to sea to find her father, Gunga the Navigator. He was the worst navigator in the history of the Vikings. He once got lost just trying to find his way out of the fjord. One day he left to seek a mystical land across the great ocean and was never seen again.
“It will never be allowed,” said Harald. The other Vikings thought her family was cursed, and girls didn’t usually go on Viking voyages.
Velda leaned back against the woodpile and drummed her fingers on her chin. “Hmmm. Let me ask you a question. What’s it like having Thorfinn meet other Vikings? Or, even worse, non-Vikings? Because I can stop him embarrassing you.”
Harald thought about all the embarrassment Thorfinn had caused, and how much more he was capable of, and it sent a shiver up his spine.
“But how is that even possible?” cried Harald.
“I’ll shadow Thorfinn everywhere,” said Velda to Harald. “I’ll stop him being nice and polite. Watch this!” She turned to Thorfinn again. “Thorfinn, stand up. We’re going to try some role playing.”
“Oh, great,” said Thorfinn. “I do love pretending. What role am I playing?”
“You are playing yourself.”
“Oh, I rather thought I might play someone else, but never mind.”
“And you, Chief,” she turned back to Harald. “You are a Viking chief.”
“But I AM a Viking chief.”
“I know. Another Viking chief, I mean, not you.”
“And who do you get to play?” asked Thorfinn.
“I’m me.”
“Right,” said Thorfinn. “So we’re all just being ourselves.”
“Role playing is rubbish!” said Harald.
“Now shoosh!” Velda said. “Imagine we’re at the games. You bump into Thorfinn here, who you’ve never seen before. Say something.”
“What?” said Harald. “Oh, er, you there. What’s your name?”
Thorfinn’s hand reached up to his helmet. He was about to take it off. His mouth opened. He was about to utter those words Harald hated to hear: “Good day, dear sir.” When suddenly Velda jumped on Thorfinn’s back and clasped her hand firmly over his mouth. The look on her face was deadly serious as she replied, “My friend, sir, cannot speak his name, for if he did it would strike such terror into your heart you would surely DROP DEAD!”
Harald almost fell over. He applauded. “Brilliant!”
The girl might be cursed, but she was coming with them.
CHAPTER 4
That night, a farewell feast was held in the newly-painted-and-then-splattered-with-mud-again great hall.
Erik was rabble-rousing. “Thorfinn will show us all up! Why are we taking him with us? We should leave him at home.”
Harald leapt up onto the table and snarled. “You dog! You snake! You worm! We need Thorfinn and you know it. He’s coming with us, and that’s that.” Harald whipped out his sword and chopped the head off a roast hog to make his point.
Meanwhile, in the corner by the hearth, Oswald, the wise man of the village, was telling stories about the Gruesome Games. All the children were gathered around him.
“Tell us about the Gruesome Games, Oswald!” they asked. “What’s the most dangerous contest?”
Oswald stroked his long, white beard. His voice was incredibly loud and whiny. “Hmm, well, without doubt that would have to be the spear tickling.”
“Spear tickling?” They laughed. “But that sounds funny, not dangerous.”
“Unless what you are tickling is a hungry mountain lion.”
“Tell us another story,” asked the children.
“I could tell you the story of the Great Sword Fight,” said Oswald.
“Oh, yes, sword fights!” said Velda.
“You see, if the Gruesome Games ends in a draw, they hold a duel between the champions of the two teams. The winner is declared the Champion of the Games.
“Many years ago there was a sword fight between Oga, a Pictish knight, and Macduff, a Scottish prince. But Macduff took ill and couldn’t fight. So an unknown knight took his place.
“The two men faced each other on the field, clad in armour and iron helmets. The fight lasted all day. They duelled like tigers all over the island, up hills and across sea cliffs. The crowd followed them, placing bets and cheering them on.”
“Who
won?” cried the children. “Who won?!”
“Finally Oga the Pict tumbled off a rock and broke his sword arm, and the unknown Scottish knight won. When he was offered the trophy of the games, the Great Hammer, he took off his helmet and revealed who he really was: a humble sailor called McGill. ‘I am not the nobleman you think I am,’ said he, ‘so I can’t accept this prize.’
“In those days the penalty for a commoner pretending to be a knight was to be buried up to his neck in sand while the tide was out. And that’s what they did to him.”
“Did he die?” cried the children eagerly.
“No, he didn’t,” replied Oswald. “For as dusk fell and the tide crept in, his defeated foe, Oga the Pict, dug him up. The two of them lived as brothers thereafter, fighting side by side, the Scot and the Pict.”
Everyone cheered Oswald’s excellent story.
***
Afterwards, Velda turned to Thorfinn. “Does nothing make you angry?” she asked.
“Why of course, old friend,” replied Thorfinn. “I remember once, when an important chieftain visited the village, my dear pet pigeon, Percy, flew into the air and pooed on the man’s head. I was pretty angry that day, let me tell you.”
“I remember. I was there with you. All you did was tell Percy he was a naughty bird.”
“Well exactly,” said Thorfinn.
“And then you fed him some nuts.”
“I was, well, perhaps not so much angry as a bit peeved.”
“Thorfinn, that’s not anger!” said Velda. “How about if I do this?” She pinched Thorfinn’s nose.
Thorfinn twiddled his nose for a bit, then sneezed. “Thanks, dear friend. I needed that. You unblocked my nose for me.”
Thorfinn and the Gruesome Games Page 1
