‘Why don’t you ask him?’ said Roskva. ‘It’s his fault.’
Alfi’s face darkened. ‘By Thor, would you stop it?’
‘I was happy on our farm,’ said Roskva. ‘I never wanted anything more.’
‘Oh Gods, here we go again,’ groaned Alfi. ‘For the last time, I was hungry.’
Roskva continued as if he hadn’t spoken.
‘But no, you had to disobey Thor when he stopped at our home and slaughtered his magic goat for us to eat. He said over and over, “Be careful with the bones, throw them whole onto the goat’s skin,” but no, you greedy guts, you had to gnaw the leg bone and crack it, the goat was lame when Thor brought it back to life, and then it was scream and beg for mercy and goodbye Mum, goodbye Dad, goodbye little farm, hello being a bondservant for ever and ever to atone for the wrong you did. Not me. You.’
‘The Mighty One showed great mercy when he spared our lives.’
‘Some mercy,’ said Roskva. ‘He just torments us now instead of killing us then.’
‘Our farm was a dump,’ said Alfi. ‘Remember the stink? Remember how lonely it was? Remember that turf roof with the rats scrabbling about?’
‘I miss Mum,’ she said. ‘I even miss the cows.’
‘Mum’s been dead for thousands of years,’ said Alfi. ‘And Dad. And so would you be if Thor hadn’t taken us.’
Roskva sighed loudly.
‘At least I’d have had a life.’
‘No one can escape their fate,’ said Alfi.
‘I hope it’s my fate to kill you,’ said Roskva. She punched him lightly on the arm.
Alfi laughed.
‘And yours to be the mother of ogres.’
‘Meanie.’
But she smiled briefly as she blew on the embers. The flames crackled.
‘Where’s that berserk gone?’ muttered Roskva. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘What exactly does berserk mean?’ asked Freya.
‘It means we love a good fight,’ said Snot, appearing through the growing gloom carrying a dripping salmon speared on his sword. He whacked the quivering fish on the ground and chopped off its head. His eyes glinted in the firelight. Then he took out his knife and started hacking the fish into large chunks. He stuffed one raw into his mouth. ‘We are priests of war. When I fight I join the Gods. I feel no pain. Nothing can—’
Snot growled. He whipped off his cloak and beat out the flames.
‘Hey!’ said Roskva. ‘I—’
‘Get down!’ he hissed.
Freya froze.
‘Get down,’ said Alfi, pulling her.
They flung themselves into the sweet-smelling bracken.
‘Don’t move,’ said Snot.
‘What? What is it?’ whispered Freya.
‘Above us,’ muttered Roskva.
Freya looked. High overhead, an eagle circled the darkening sky.
‘It’s just an eagle,’ said Freya. ‘How can he harm us?’
‘The giant Thjazi can take the form of an eagle,’ said Roskva. The huge bird circled above them, its immense wings etched against the night sky.
‘The horse. He might have seen the horse,’ said Freya.
‘So?’ said Alfi. ‘It’s the All-Father’s horse. No great surprise seeing Sleipnir around Asgard.’
‘Let’s hope he didn’t,’ said Roskva.
The mighty eagle circled again, then, screeching, flew off back into the dark hills.
‘He’s gone,’ said Roskva, standing up and brushing herself off. ‘We can pray he didn’t see us. Now make yourself useful, Freya, and collect some wood,’ she added brusquely, re-lighting the fire. Freya noticed Roskva’s hands were shaking.
Freya gathered whatever pieces of wood were nearest and added them to the small heap by the fire. No way was she going into the forest alone.
‘Do you think that was Thjazi?’ said Freya. She felt terrified.
Roskva shrugged. ‘It could have been an ordinary eagle. Or …’
‘I’ll kill Thjazi in single combat,’ snarled Snot. His sharp sword gleamed. ‘I am a warrior from Valhalla.’ He threw a salmon chunk at Alfi.
‘Get sticks. Roast them yourselves.’
Freya looked at the bloody hunks of raw fish piled up by the fire. Her stomach heaved.
‘Umm. I don’t like fish,’ said Freya.
‘Then you won’t eat,’ said Roskva, threading a chunk of fish onto a stick and holding it above the flames.
‘One of my sons was a fussy eater,’ said Snot. ‘Not for long …’ His fingers played on his blood-washed sword. He sat with his back to them, weapons by his side, his body tense and watchful.
Freya squared her shoulders and forced herself to touch a piece of salmon with the tips of her fingers. Ugh. So slimy. She impaled it on a stick, then sat down with Roskva and Alfi. Part of her wanted to scream, how can you talk about food when we’re about to be eaten?
The moon rose, casting a faint light. At least there’s still a moon, she thought.
‘Why do you think Loki never came back to Asgard?’ said Freya. Talking made her feel less scared.
Roskva grimaced. ‘Who knows? Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he got trapped by Thjazi. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’s dead.’
‘Loki is a shape-changer,’ said Alfi. ‘It’s impossible to know his true nature. One moment he is playful and fun, the next cruel and strange.’
‘You know what they say about him?’ said Roskva. ‘That come the end of days Loki will lead the armies of the dead and the giants and destroy Asgard.’
Freya shook her head. ‘I was taught Loki rescued Idunn and saved the Gods. And that was – a lie. What else is lies?’
No one answered.
Alfi mixed some grains in a small iron pot he’d taken from Sleipnir’s saddle-bag and filled with river water. He sniffed something, grimaced, and put it back in the pouch.
‘Aren’t you going to cook that?’ said Roskva.
‘Why?’ said Alfi. ‘At least it’s barley flour. We’ll be eating stale oat cakes and rotten herring and acorns soon so enjoy this while you can.’
Alfi slopped a spoonful of stuff into Freya’s hands.
She looked at the thin, watery glop. It was grey and sticky and lumpy. It looked like – it looked like – Freya didn’t want to think what it looked like. She sniffed it, then wished she hadn’t.
‘What is this?’ she asked.
‘Gruel,’ said Roskva, slurping up a huge mouthful.
Gruel?
Gruel sounded a lot like what Oliver Twist wanted more of. Gruel sounded like something you ate in Victorian England along with rats and old shoes.
‘How old is it?’ said Freya. She had a horrible feeling it might be past its sell-by date. Way past its sell-by date.
Roskva shrugged. ‘How old is Yggdrasil? How old is that mountain? How old? How old? It’s food. Eat it.’
Freya had a sudden memory of pushing away her dinner because her corn on the cob had touched her roast chicken. She liked to eat things on separate plates. She shoved the lumpy, horrible-tasting mess into her mouth and swallowed as quickly as she could. Then she picked up her stick of salmon and held it over the fire.
Snot slurped up his gruel in three quick gulps. Then he sat sharpening his huge sword blade.
Alfi flinched. ‘That sounds worse than someone edging a scythe on a stone,’ he said.
‘You don’t like it, block your ears,’ grunted Snot.
‘One thing I don’t understand,’ said Freya. ‘Why would Loki give Idunn to a giant?’
‘Why. Why. Why. Gods, do you ever stop asking questions?’ muttered Snot. He rolled his eyes.
‘Loki attacked an eagle who turned out to be the giant Thjazi in disguise,’ said Roskva. ‘Thjazi grabbed Loki and smashed him into boulders and thorns until Loki swore he would bring Idunn to him.’
‘Why did Loki keep his promise?’ said Freya.
‘You must understand something,’ said Alfi. ‘Loki’s father was a giant. So. Is he l
oyal to the Gods? Or to the giants?’
‘The Gods do what they like,’ said Roskva. ‘We mortals live with the consequences.’ She and Alfi looked at one another in silence.
‘The Valkyries snatched me from battle,’ said Snot. ‘I was fighting. I was winning. But Woden sent the Choosers of the Slain to take me and not the filthy son of a mare I was walloping.’ He shrugged. ‘If a man knew his fate he’d go mad.’
‘Your fish is burning,’ said Roskva.
Wrinkling her nose at the acrid smell, Freya withdrew the blackened chunk. Tentatively she took a tiny bite. The flesh was burnt on the outside, and raw on the inside. She forced herself to eat a bit more, her stomach heaving.
Freya felt them before she heard it. A thin, deep-pitched, hungry howl. And then another. And another.
Her skin prickled. She whimpered and edged closer to the fire. The other three grabbed flaming sticks and stood with their backs to the heat, facing outward. Freya caught a glimpse of glowing amber-red eyes. She had no idea what to do. Roskva pulled out her knife.
Snot ran bellowing into the trees, brandishing the burning wood and wielding his sword. Alfi hesitated and drew his sword, uncertain whether to follow or stay.
‘Oh, give me that,’ screamed Roskva, snatching his blade and edging towards the forest.
‘Oy! I was just about to—’ spluttered Alfi, grabbing it back, when Snot reappeared from the darkness.
‘The wolves have gone,’ said Snot. The firelight glistened on his bloody sword. ‘But not for long. We’ll keep watch tonight. Now that they’ve smelt us, they won’t leave us.’
They huddled close together by the fire, the night around them thick and black as the clouds hid the half-moon. Freya bit her lip hard to stop herself bursting into tears.
‘Anyone know any poetry?’ said Alfi. His voice trembled. ‘What about Egil Skallagrimsson?’
‘Who?’ said Freya. Her voice was also shaky.
‘You’ve never heard of him?’ said Alfi.
‘Nope,’ said Freya.
‘Unbelievable,’ said Alfi. ‘What about Eyvind the Plagiarist?’
Freya shook her head. ‘I know a bit of Shakespeare … we studied Hamlet in school.’ Her voice quavering, she recited:
To be or not to be; that is the question:
whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer—
‘Who?’ interrupted Roskva. ‘He’s terrible.’
‘What about Audun the Uninspired?’ said Snot. ‘I always liked Audun.’
‘Let’s hear it,’ said Alfi.
Snot stood, sword drawn, left hand on his hip, and recited, his gravelly voice low:
Oh battle bright warrior
How the gold of your brooch-goddess gleams
Too soon raven’s food litters the blood-soaked ground
Wolf’s teeth stained with blood.
Alfi clapped. His sword, Freya noticed, was clutched tight in his hand.
‘Do you know anything more cheerful?’ said Freya. The thought of bloody wolf’s teeth was a little close to home at the moment.
‘Cheerful!’ Snot spat. He thought for a moment. ‘There’s always that funny poem of Eyvind’s …
My sword, flame of battle
Digs deep in enemy ribs.
Wound-sea pours red from the trailing guts
My shield-splitting arm
Hacks him to pieces
Ready for the eagle’s snack.
Snot laughed. It sounded more like a rasp than a laugh.
‘It’s good, no? I especially like the phrase “eagle’s snack”.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘I write a bit of poetry myself.’
‘Go on,’ said Roskva.
‘I’m no Eyvind …’
And then Snot stood up again, threw back his grizzled head, and recited:
Eagle food
Raven food
Warriors all end up as bloody food.
When you’re a wolf meal
No point in gold then
A dead man gathers no wealth inside the wolf’s belly.
‘True,’ said Alfi.
AAAAAARRRRGGGHHHH! thought Freya. Did every poem have to be about being eaten by eagles and wolves?
Snot glowered. ‘You don’t need to pretend. I didn’t say I was a good poet, I said I wrote a bit of poetry. But a king did give me the gift of my own head once for that verse.’
Alfi looked puzzled.
‘He pardoned him,’ said Roskva.
Snot smiled faintly. ‘I think I must have been happy then.’
They were silent. Freya watched the flames and listened to the howling river. Her shoulders tensed. Any moment a giant could burst out of the darkness and trample them to death. Or a wolf could tear them to pieces. She could feel her heart banging against her chest, its quick-quick beats reverberating inside her. How could the others be so calm when they could be killed at any moment?
‘Roskva, what charms did the All-Father give you?’ asked Alfi, poking the fire.
‘Calming waves,’ said Roskva.
‘I can tell men the names of all the Gods and all the elves one by one,’ said Alfi.
‘That’ll be a help against Thjazi,’ said Roskva. ‘Maybe he’ll challenge you to a naming contest and whoever wins gets Idunn.’
Alfi brightened.
‘Do you think so?’ he said.
‘NO!’ said Roskva. ‘Only stupid dwarfs fall for that one.’
‘You never know what’s going to help,’ said Alfi. ‘What about you, Snot?’
Snot spat.
‘I can quench any fire,’ said Snot. ‘He could have taught me how to blunt an enemy’s sword, or how to strengthen a band of comrades so they walk unscathed from battle. But no. I’m a bloody fire-fighter.’ He spat again.
‘If I see a hanged man in a tree I can make him come down and talk to me,’ said Freya. She shivered. ‘Oh wait. I didn’t get anything. The All-Father forgot the last part of the rune.’
‘You got the falcon skin,’ said Roskva.
‘So I did,’ said Freya. Her fingers felt in her pocket for the feather. Her eyes felt heavy.
Alfi was also struggling to keep awake.
‘We should sleep,’ said Snot. ‘I’ll take first watch.’
Alfi wrapped himself in his cloak and stretched out by the crackling fire. ‘Oh, my aching legs,’ he murmured, pulling off his hairy leather ankle boots and rubbing his pale feet.
There was a strangled cry.
‘Roskva!’ he said. ‘Look.’
Freya stared. There was some sort of creamy chalk on both Alfi’s feet up to his ankles. He tried to rub it off, but the mottled colour remained.
Roskva took off her boots.
‘It’s happening to me too,’ said Roskva quietly.
Her heart pounding, Freya pulled off her own shoes and socks. There was the same mottled ivory-brown colour creeping up her feet to her ankles. She touched her toes. They felt exactly the same, but they tingled, and her skin had changed colour.
‘What’s happening to us?’ whispered Freya.
‘I think … I think we’re slowly turning back into ivory,’ said Roskva. ‘Bit by bit. If we haven’t restored Idunn to the Gods by the ninth night—’
She didn’t need to complete the sentence.
‘We don’t know that,’ said Freya. ‘It might be something else. It might be gone by morning.’
‘It might,’ said Roskva. She fixed Freya with a dark look. ‘And Sleipnir might talk.’
Roskva spread her heavy cloak on the ground, sat down on one side and beckoned to Freya. ‘Here. We can share.’
Freya hesitated. The night wasn’t cold, but she had nothing to put on the ground.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
Alfi already lay snoring beside them. His pale bare feet stuck out from the end of the cloak he’d wrapped himself in. Snot sat brooding over the fire, poking at the embers and singing tunelessly: ‘Thor’s lost his hammer/ Oh look it’s in your head.’
Freya gazed
at the glittering stars studding the blue-black sky. They didn’t look like any stars she’d ever seen before, grouped in unfamiliar patterns. Her parents would never know what had happened to her. Bob would do his rounds, maybe peer into the case housing the Lewis Chessmen, never realising that … that …
I won’t think about it, she decided. I’ll just try to get through tonight and hope I survive tomorrow.
Freya huddled down on the dusty fur and tried to get comfortable. It was impossible. She needed to sleep in a bed. She could feel stones dig into her back.
Freya tossed and twisted. Tears stung her eyes. She’d never get to sleep.
5 Jotunheim
‘Wake up! The quick catch the prize!’
Freya startled awake and opened her eyes. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. Then she saw Snot’s ugly face and sniffed his horrible smell and it all came back to her. She jolted up and inspected her tingling legs, just visible in the pre-dawn light.
The bleached ivory colour now snaked past her ankles up to her calves.
It was as if her feet were already corpses. Freya trembled.
Roskva and Alfi were already up and Sleipnir, steaming and glistening, saddled. His eight legs were mottled-ivory to the knees. The early dawn sky was tinged pinky-orange on the edges of the horizon. Restless ravens circled overhead crying kraa kraa kraa and wisps of mist rose from the chilly ground. The damp air smelled faintly of pine.
‘We want to cross into Jotunheim as quietly as possible,’ said Roskva. ‘If we get over the River Irving now, we can hopefully reach the forest without being seen.’
Alfi crammed a few acorns and berries into his mouth. Roskva gnawed on some wild leeks. Snot ate some dried fish that looked like stiff dirt.
Roskva opened Sleipnir’s saddlebag and rooted around inside.
‘Eat,’ said Roskva, passing her a crumbling prehistoric oat cake.
Freya was about to say she wasn’t a breakfast person but decided not to. The oat cake tasted like dusty cardboard. Freya slipped the remains into her pocket. Her fingers touched a bar of chocolate. She gazed at the smooth red wrapper. No. She’d keep it for later. She felt something smooth and round, and her face flushed. It was the silvery pot of pink lip gloss she’d bought with her pocket money. Clare forbade her to wear make-up so Freya always kept it hidden. She also found her squeaky duck keyring which emitted a tiny light when she pressed the beak, the ugly tortoiseshell hair clip Clare liked her to wear, and her black mobile phone. She put the clip into her hair, then pulled out the mobile.
The Sleeping Army Page 6
