Thorfinn and the Gruesome Games

by David MacPhail

  “Ow … Ow … Ow … Ow.”

  It was Floki. He was nursing a badly bruised shoulder.

  “Mr Sea-Urchin, what happened?” asked Thorfinn.

  “I dived into the shallow lake,” replied Floki.

  There were two lakes on the island. Only one of them was deep enough for swimming.

  “But they’re both signposted,” said Velda.

  “Someone must have switched the signs. Tell the chief I’m sorry, I can’t swim today.” Floki groaned as the men carried him away.

  They found Harald slumped by the smouldering remains of the campfire, his head in his hands. He already knew about Floki, and he wasn’t surprised to hear about Hagar. “And Logrid too! What are we going to do?”

  “Logrid the Limb-Splitter, our axe thrower? What happened to him?” asked Thorfinn.

  “Someone bashed him on the head when he got up during the night to go to the toilet,” said Harald.

  “Oh dear, is he alright?”

  “There’s good news and bad news. The good news is he’s up and about and talking.”

  “And the bad news?”

  “He’s got concussion and thinks he’s a horse.” Harald pointed at the long line of horses standing by the fence, with their noses in a trough. At the end of the line stood Logrid, his nose also in a trough.

  “Mmmm. Oats, good oats,” said Logrid. They went over to see him.

  “Dearest Mr Limb-Splitter,” said Thorfinn, “wouldn’t you like to sit down for five minutes?”

  Suddenly one of the horses bolted into the field, and the others followed. “Hey, wait for me! NEIGH!” Logrid cried, cantering across the field.

  “Pull yourself together! You’re a man, not a horse!” Harald shouted after him.

  “I don’t think he’ll be doing much axe throwing today, do you?” said Velda.

  ***

  Back at the campfire, trouble was brewing.

  Magnus the Bone-Breaker had turned up, flanked by his men and his enormous son. He had a huge smug grin on his face.

  The purple-robed games steward, Sir Fergus, was also there, carrying a big book marked ‘Rules’.

  Harald was furious. “Magnus is to blame. He’s been taking out all my star players.”

  Magnus let out a gasp of astonishment so fake that even the actors would have been impressed. “Are you accusing me?”

  “You’re a liar!” cried Harald.

  “What proof do you have, eh? It’s just bad luck, that’s all.” Magnus folded his arms, and looked even more smug. “Of course, now you don’t have enough competitors to win the bet.”

  “Aha! So that’s your game, eh?” cried Harald. “Well, I’ll compete in all the contests myself. I can throw an axe, belch and swim better than anyone.”

  Magnus wagged his finger. “Ah, I don’t think so. You’re already down for sword fighting. According to the rules, the same man cannot compete in more than one contest.” He turned to Sir Fergus. “Isn’t that right?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said the steward. “Rules are rules.”

  “And you don’t have anyone to spare, do you?” smirked Magnus.

  Harald looked around his men. Each and every one of them had signed up for something. There was Leif the Tonsil-Impaler, but he was down for the pie-clobbering competition. Then there was Knut the Nun-Slinger, but he was down for wild-boar teasing. Even the cook was signed up. He was quite good at goat throwing.

  No one.

  Harald sunk to the ground. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Yes,” said Magnus, proudly admiring his fingernails. “And you know what that means, don’t you?”

  It meant they were about to get a new chief.

  “H-H-H-H-O-OOLLLD on there!” said Oswald the wise man, sounding like a camel with a tickle in its throat. He was still wearing his nightshirt and was nursing a large bruise on his forehead.

  He jabbed his cane at Magnus, and placed his hands on Thorfinn and Velda’s shoulders. “We do have competitors. Velda can throw an axe. Thorfinn is a very capable swimmer. And I was known to belch quite magnificently in my youth.”

  “What, you three? Are you joking?” Magnus and his men burst out laughing. “I’ve never heard anything so funny in all my life.” They started falling about and pointing.

  That was, until Harald whipped out his sword, raised it high over his head, and brought it down with a mighty roar onto a bench. The bench split in two and somersaulted into the air, crashing down around them. He glared at Magnus and his men, his eye twitching menacingly.

  “You’ll be laughing on the other side of your faces in a bit,” said Harald. “Because the bet is still on, and thanks to these three WE ARE GOING TO WIN!”

  CHAPTER 10

  An hour later, the Vikings flung open the gates of their stockade and marched out. Their helmets, swords and belt buckles were polished and gleaming. Led by men blowing battle horns, they trooped down to the games area at the centre of the island. Velda and Thorfinn walked alongside Oswald, who had decided to put Logrid to use as a horse and was riding on his back.

  “Onward, my brave steed!” cried Oswald.

  “NEIGH!” cried Logrid.

  The other stockades opened too, and out marched the tribes representing the other peoples of the west. There were the Angles, a proud, wealthy and civilised race. There were the Scots, wearing tartan and led by pipers. There were the Britons, who all had moustaches and wore plaid trousers. Some were driving brightly painted chariots. And finally there were the Picts, a wild people whose language no one else could understand.

  They always seemed to be fighting each other. Their faces were painted blue and their bodies were covered in tattoos.

  All the tribes assembled around the games area. Then a man on the battlements of the fort blew a giant horn, signalling the start of the Gruesome Games. With that, the day’s competitions began.

  The day began well for Harald’s team. Erik the Ear-Masher won the hammer-tossing contest, while Harald himself won at sword fighting. They were already ahead of Magnus’s team in points.

  Oswald’s belching event was held in a large hollow in the ground.

  “It helps to amplify the belching sounds,” explained Thorfinn, as he and Velda squeezed into a seat among the spectators on the bank.

  The competitors were lined up in the centre of the amphitheatre. Each of them had their very own technique for producing the finest burp. One of them used pickled herring, another used his granny’s lentil soup, and a third used extra frothy ale. The crowd applauded and cheered.

  At last it was Oswald’s turn. He stepped onto the stage carrying a bucket. He put it down, then dunked his hand in and pulled out a tiny live fish. He held it in the air for a moment for all to see, and then popped it in his mouth.

  “Yuck!” said Velda.

  “The fish swims about and stirs up the stomach gases,” explained Thorfinn.

  Oswald stood for a second in silence, his hands clasped behind his back. The hubbub grew as the spectators waited for something to happen.

  Oswald held up a single finger, then a look of concentration came across his face. He leaned back, opened his mouth, and…buuuuuurrrrp!

  The crowd applauded, surprised by how good a belch it was.

  “Go Oswald!” cried Velda.

  Oswald bowed to the crowd, coughed up the fish, held it in the air for all to see again – it was still alive! – and then popped it back into the bucket.

  And sure enough, it kept them ahead of Magnus’s team.

  ***

  Next it was Velda and the axe-throwing competition. Her first contest was against Fritz the Angle, who, like Logrid, was tall and skinny, with long arms for throwing. As Velda stepped onto the green by the castle, the crowd laughed.

  “Such a small girl,” they said.

  “Such skinny arms.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  But Velda paid them no attention. She stepped up to the mark and bowed to her opponent. Then she spat into he
r hands and picked up her axe.

  It was quite something to see a very small girl throwing a very large axe. She span faster and faster on the spot, before finally letting it go with an ear-splitting yell.

  The axe didn’t just hit the target – it hit the bull’s-eye! The crowd erupted. No one had seen anything like it. Neither had the other competitors, who all crowded round her, demanding to know where she’d learnt her throwing style.

  “Who taught you? Was it Philippe the Axe Master of Paris?”

  “The screaming Earl of Munster?”

  “Ethel the Lady Knight of Basingstoke? Tell us!”

  Velda shrugged them all off and headed straight for Thorfinn and Oswald, who had been watching from the sidelines.

  “Quite brilliant, old friend!” said Thorfinn.

  “A great showing!” cried Oswald. “Logrid would be proud of you. If he didn’t think he was a horse.”

  “NEIGH!” said Logrid, who was standing behind them, munching hay.

  Velda managed to get through two heats before she was knocked out in the quarter-finals. Unfortunately Magnus’s man, Argrid the Door-Chopper-Downer, made it to the semi-finals, which put Harald’s team behind on points.

  By the afternoon, attention turned to the swimming lake. It was Thorfinn’s turn.

  CHAPTER 11

  Thorfinn got through his heat easily. His opponent in the semi-final was a Pict whose name no one could pronounce, though someone said it sounded like a sheep being tickled to death. He fell asleep halfway through swimming and had to be rescued. He claimed it was down to stomach flu but everyone knew the real reason: the Picts had been drinking too much honeyed mead, as they always did. Sometimes they even fell asleep halfway through battles.

  The final was going to be very different though. Velda, Oswald and Harald were among the crowd at the lakeside as Thorfinn stepped up next to his opponent.

  “Come on, Thorfinn!” yelled Velda.

  Magnus the Bone-Breaker sidled up to Harald with an unusually-smug-even-for-him look on his face.

  “Of course, you do know who your son’s opponent is, don’t you?”

  Harald nodded grimly. It was last year’s Champion of Champions, the winner of the Gruesome Games, Brendan the Briton. He was tall, muscular and broad-shouldered, with a face like a cliff edge. Swimming was his speciality.

  “He beat his opponent last year by drowning him – did you know that?” asked Magnus. “I dread to think what he’s going to do to that teensy little boy of yours.”

  Harald bristled with anger, but he knew his opponent was right. Brendan the Briton was eyeing up Thorfinn like he was a morning snack.

  Brendan growled at Thorfinn. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to have you for breakfast.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” said Thorfinn.

  “In fact, I’m going to have you for breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

  Thorfinn’s face lit up. “How nice of you to offer to have me over for all that food. I should be delighted to meet you for breakfast tomorrow if convenient.”

  “Oh, smart guy, eh?” snarled Brendan. “Well, watch this!” He grabbed a piece of raw fish from a nearby basket. He bit into it and then noisily spat out the flesh. “See that, pipsqueak? That’s what I do to all small sea creatures like you.”

  “What excellent teeth you have,” said Thorfinn. “I would have cooked that fish first though. It’s not very hygienic to eat it raw.”

  “Oh yeh? Oh yeh?” Brendan was getting annoyed that his taunts were being ignored. “Well tonight you are going to be SLEEPING with the fishes.”

  “Really?” Thorfinn scratched his head, puzzled. “I can’t imagine sleeping in the lake will be very comfortable. But, I promised my father that I would do everything I could to fit in, so I’m happy to try.”

  “READY! SET…” The steward blew his whistle.

  Thorfinn dived neatly into the water, while Brendan dived not-so-neatly on top of Thorfinn.

  Brendan made a grab for him, but Thorfinn wriggled out of the big man’s clutches.

  The crowd watched as Thorfinn swam to the other end of the lake, cutting through the water with ease. Compared to Thorfinn, Brendan was like a big floundering whale.

  Thorfinn smiled and waved over at Velda and the rest. “Good day, one and all!” This brought a huge cheer from the crowd. Everyone loves an underdog.

  As Brendan closed in on him, Thorfinn dipped under the water again. Brendan looked around, treading water.

  Then Thorfinn’s head appeared again, this time in the shallower end. Brendan was furious. He chased after him, thrashing through the water.

  Thorfinn’s head ducked under the water, but this time Brendan went under too.

  The water was still, then after a moment there was lots of thrashing around just under the surface.

  “Brendan must have caught him,” said someone.

  “The boy is in for it now.”

  Harald broke out in a cold sweat, and felt terribly sick. What if something happened to his little son? He could never forgive himself. He was about to jump into the water, when suddenly the thrashing stopped. Two heads appeared and began bobbing towards the finishing point.

  As they drew closer it became clear that Thorfinn was dragging an unconscious Brendan the Briton behind him.

  There was shocked silence among the crowd, and some men helped lift Brendan out of the water. They laid him down and thumped him in the middle of the chest. Brendan coughed up water, then came round slowly. “Urgh. What happened?”

  “He’ll be fine,” said one of the men.

  Thorfinn nodded, then he climbed out of the water and stood on the pier, smiling and looking with some puzzlement at the gawping faces around him. “My poor friend Brendan is indisposed. Would anyone care to join me for another swim?”

  The crowd erupted. “All hail Thorfinn!” They started chanting his name over and over again.

  “That’s my son,” cried Harald, proudly pointing him out. “That’s my boy, you know.”

  The other Vikings picked Thorfinn up and carried him off towards camp. “How did you beat him, Thorfinn?” they asked. “Tell us your secret!”

  CHAPTER 12

  “Reeds,” explained Thorfinn. “The poor man’s leg got caught in the reeds, so all I did was dive down and free him. Did I do anything wrong?”

  They were back at their camp sitting round the fire. The other Vikings were listening to Thorfinn’s story. Now they all burst out laughing.

  Erik the Ear-Masher shouldered his way through the crowd to Harald’s side. “Did you hear the news? We’ve finished joint top of the leader board. Beating Brendan the Briton won us loads of points.”

  There was a ripple of excitement among those gathered round.

  “What?! Joint top with who?” said Harald, hoping for a second that he’d beaten Magnus and won his shield back.

  “Magnus of course.”

  “It’s hardly a surprise,” said Oswald. “Magnus cheated in almost every contest.” It was true. Most of his competitors weren’t from his village. In fact they weren’t even Vikings. Magnus had hired them from all over Europe and beyond.

  Harald breathed a huge sigh of relief. He hadn’t lost the bet. The village was still his, and that was the most important thing.

  “We must celebrate!” cried Harald, and they held a great feast. They toasted Thorfinn, along with Velda and Oswald.

  ***

  It wasn’t until the feast was dying down that Magnus showed up once again. He still looked smug, even though he hadn’t won. Sir Fergus was at his side, cradling the rule book.

  Magnus stretched out his hand to Harald. “Well, I just wanted to say well done. I don’t know how you managed it, but you did.”

  Harald slapped Magnus’s hand away. “You rat! You weasel! You snake!”

  Magnus shrugged. “Fair enough.” He turned to go, but then stopped. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in one last challenge? The steward here says a fight o
ften happens to settle a draw.” Sir Fergus nodded.

  Erik grabbed Harald by the shoulder. “Don’t listen to him. It’s another trick.”

  “We’ve had enough of your bets!” said Harald.

  “That’s a shame.” Magnus took off the shield and rubbed the shiny bronzy bits with his finger. “I would have loved to give you a chance to win back Sword-Blunter.”

  Harald trembled with rage and gazed longingly down at his old shield.

  Magnus continued: “A clean sword fight. Your champion versus mine.”

  Harald’s eyes lit up. “A sword fight?”

  “Have you lost your mind?” said Erik. “It’s a trick.”

  “But what trick could there be?” asked Harald. “He said it himself. A straightforward sword fight.” He jabbed himself in the chest with his thumb. “I’ll pick myself. And I hope you pick yourself, Bone-Breaker. I’d love to get the chance to bash your bones in once and for all.”

  “Excellent!” Magnus turned to Sir Fergus. “Did you hear that? We’re on.” The steward nodded. Then Magnus turned back to Harald, grinning. “Though I’m afraid it won’t be possible for you and me to meet.”

  “What?” asked Harald. “I’m the chief. I pick the champion. That’s how it works.”

  “Ah, but you’re forgetting that games rules apply here.” Magnus turned back to Sir Fergus. “Isn’t that right?”

  Sir Fergus opened his book. “The rules are clear. In matters of single combat to decide the Champion of Champions, the trial is to be contested between the two competitors on each side with the most points.”

  “So who is my champion?”

  The smuggest possible grin spread across Magnus’s face as he turned his eye on Thorfinn.

  “WHAT?!” cried Harald.