by Lucy Coats
“Oof!” said Demon as it hit him right in the face.
“Score one for Team Thrud,” she shrieked, lobbing another one at him. Demon ducked, scooped up his own snowball, and threw it.
“Right in the hood,” said Thrud, laughing and shaking snow off herself. “Score one for Team Demon!” But just as Demon was starting to get into the swing of things, it all went horribly wrong. Suddenly, the bright diamond light began to dim, and as he looked up, he saw Goldbristle lurch and fall from the sky.
“Oh no!” Demon said, and began to run.
With a crash, the boar bounced off the corner of a roof, leaving it in splintered ruins, and dropped into a snowdrift. Frey leaped clear of the golden chariot as it shattered on the icy ground. It was as if night had fallen all in a minute.
Demon didn’t want to say I told you so to a god, but he felt like it, as he rubbed bruise-flower ointment into all Goldbristle’s sore bits and bandaged the leg he’d sprained in the fall. Frey was fussing around, getting in Demon’s way as he worked, and he just wished Frey would go away.
“It’s all my fault,” the handsome god said.
Demon closed his lips around a yes it is, keeping it in with difficulty.
Frey put a hand on his shoulder. “You can fix him, can’t you?” he asked, as Demon fed Goldbristle the other half of his medicine. This time the boar’s glow was much fainter, and he was groaning piteously again.
“I hope so,” he said. “But you can’t take Goldbristle out again, you know. He was lucky he didn’t get hurt much worse than he did.”
“I know,” said Frey, looking guilty.
He wasn’t the least bit like most of the gods Demon knew—he wasn’t scary at all.
“I think I’m missing something,” Demon said. “Have you ever heard of something like a darkness poison? Because that’s what my box thinks is wrong with him, and I can’t find anything else that fits.”
Frey sighed. “No,” he said. “I haven’t. But I’ll ask the other Asgardians if they have. I’ll go right now.”
A little while later, there was a patter of feet on the roof of the stable, then two heavy thumps and the screech of claws slipping on ice. When Demon heard the thud of a falling body hitting the ground and a loud shriek, he rushed outside.
Ratatosk the squirrel was sitting on his haunches, nursing one of his front paws. He was chattering angrily at two giant silver-black wolves, whose eyes shone like fire. They were on their bellies, stalking toward him with their tongues hanging out.
“Squirrel snacks,” growled one.
“Spy supper,” howled the other.
“Hey!” said Demon, stepping between them. “Leave him alone. Can’t you see he’s hurt?”
The wolves slunk away, snarling, before Demon even had a chance to find out who they were.
“What have you done to yourself?” he asked the squirrel. “Let me see.”
Ratatosk held out his paw, which was dripping with blood. “Horrid creatures,” he said. “Chasing poor Ratatosk like that.”
“Who were those wolves, anyway?” Demon asked.
“The All-Father’s nasty pets, Ravenous and Greedy. They eat all his food and don’t leave even a crumb for little Ratatosk.” The squirrel whimpered. “Poor Ratatosk, nobody likes him.”
“Well, I do,” said Demon, fetching a bandage and some ointment from his bag. “You seem like someone who knows everything. Maybe you can help me.” As he cleaned and dressed the paw, he explained about needing to find the right ingredients to cure Goldbristle.
“But I have no idea where to start,” he finished.
“Ratatosk will help,” said the squirrel. “Ratatosk will run very fast up and down the Great Ash and ask all his friends, even the scary worm. Ratatosk can find out anything,” he boasted.
“Don’t run too fast,” said Demon. “You take care of that paw, now.” But the squirrel had already gone.
Demon spent the next two days looking after Goldbristle and racking his brains for a cure. Thrud kept him company sometimes, but she wasn’t a big help since she knew nothing about medicine. The magic medicine box couldn’t seem to give him any more useful information, and his life wasn’t made any easier by Ravenous and Greedy, who had taken to following him around with their tongues hanging out, threatening to bite big chunks out of him unless he made some progress—fast. And the All-Father’s two ravens, Thought and Memory, were always hovering overhead, watching him. Altogether, it made him very nervous. What if he couldn’t find a cure? Would Odin freeze him into an icicle statue and use him for spear practice? Or would he just let the wolves and ravens tear him apart and eat him?
Demon wasn’t getting much sleep, either. That first night, Thrud had turned up at the stable again and shown him to his room, which was a tiny cubbyhole above Valhalla, lined with cozy sheepskins. Unfortunately, it was very noisy indeed, what with the warriors and the Valkyrie shield-maidens below him drinking mead and singing rude songs that made him blush. They also seemed to have a game where they threw axes into the ceiling. One had crashed through the floorboard by his foot, making him huddle in a corner till it was time to get up. In the end, he’d used some wax from his medicine bag to block his ears, and hoped that the axes would keep on missing him.
The only good news was that Demeter was somehow helping to make things grow again. She’d set up a huge greenhouse made of some kind of ice panels that didn’t melt, and had lit it with special lamps she’d borrowed from Helios. It shone like a lone beacon amid the darkness of Asgard.
By the third night, Demon was nearly in despair. He’d made no progress, and Frey wasn’t being any help at all. Apparently none of the gods and goddesses had ever heard of a darkness poison. Even Ratatosk hadn’t been able to find out anything. And then, with a great clangor of bells and horns, the alarm sounded.
“Frost Giant attack! Frost Giant attack!” shouted a great voice, and with a clatter of armor and swords and running feet, Asgard emptied. As Demon watched, a posse of Valkyrie shield-maidens flew past him, along with a band of warrior heroes, then Thor with his hammer at his belt, and a one-handed god Demon didn’t recognize. Soon all was silent.
“What am I going to do?” he groaned into his hands as he sat alone on his pile of sheepskins. Even Thrud, it seemed, had deserted him.
With a pitter-patter of delicate black-tipped paws, a white fox trotted into the room. It had eyes as red as rubies, and fur as soft as a cloud.
“I can help,” it said, sitting down in front of him and curling its tail around its feet.
“Who are you?” Demon asked. “Did Ratatosk send you?”
The fox cocked its head to one side, bright eyes watching him as its tongue lolled out in a foxy laugh. “You may call me Trixietoes,” it said. “And let’s just say a little birdie told me you needed some information.”
Demon leaned forward eagerly. “I definitely do need information. Can you tell me how to cure Goldbristle?”
“I can’t,” said Trixietoes, “but I can take you to someone who can. Have you heard of Fafnir?”
Demon shook his head.
“Shame on you,” said the fox lightly. “Not heard of the great ice dragon, Fafnir? The terror of the world? The collector of stories? Fafnir of the fearless soul, who guards his hoard of gold and gems with a fire so cold it burns?”
“No,” said Demon a little sourly. “I’m not from here.”
“Never mind. Fafnir knows everything. He will be able to find a cure for your little piggy friend. But the way is dark and dangerous. I can lead you there for a price.”
“What price?” Demon asked. This fox was not giving him a good feeling, and he wasn’t sure he trusted it.
“Now, where would be the fun in telling you that?” said Trixietoes. “Are you coming or not?”
“Coming,” said Demon, scrambling into his clothes and boots. He’d been in dark and dangerous places before. And after all, how bad could a fox’s price be? It would probably be like the griffin and ju
st want some extra meat. If it got him the ingredients he needed to cure Goldbristle, it would be worth it.
CHAPTER 7
SVARTALFHEIM
As Trixietoes led him through the back ways of Asgard, through narrow alleyways and then into a dark tunnel that led steeply downward, Demon suddenly remembered his dad’s warning. Don’t go anywhere near any dark ice caves. All at once, his stomach was full of icy prickles that flowed up over his shoulders and down his spine.
“Hey!” he called. “Trixietoes! Where, exactly, are you taking me?” But the fox had disappeared, and as Demon spoke, rough hands seized him.
“Help!” Demon tried to call, fighting with everything he had against the dark-cloaked figures that surrounded him. But despite his best efforts, a large sack was jammed over his head and body, and a sweet-smelling cloth was forced inside the sack. Demon felt his head begin to spin, and his cries slurred into mumbles. He was picked up and slung over a bony shoulder, and then he knew nothing more.
Demon woke to find himself in pitch darkness, tied up hand and foot. His head felt as if it had been stuffed with scratchy burnt grass, and his mouth tasted like hundred-year-old hundred-armed monster dribble. There was a strange buzzing noise, right by his ear, as if a fly was hovering there. He tried to move, but as soon as he did, whatever was holding him burned his wrists and ankles with a hiss of freezing air.
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said an amused voice close beside him. “I’d hate for you to lose an extremity.”
Demon cracked open an eye and peered into the darkness, but he couldn’t see anyone or anything.
“W-who are you?” he whispered, trying not to let his voice shake with terror.
“Well, I suppose I should introduce myself properly,” said the voice, which had now moved in front of him. Gradually a sickly green light began to glow out of the walls, revealing a tall, thin figure with a pointy beard and a silver helmet with curly ram’s horns attached to it. Demon recognized him at once. It was the god he’d noticed right at the back of the line of gods and goddesses when the cloud ship arrived on Olympus. The one who’d been so hard to see properly.
“But you’re a god … ,” he gasped.
“Yes,” the god agreed. “I am, indeed. The god Loki, to be precise, Master Pandemonius. But if you like, you could call me Trixietoes.” In a dazzling flash of light, the white fox reappeared where the god had been, and then disappeared again to leave Loki standing there, a wild, wicked look of triumph on his face.
Tricksy, indeed, Demon thought, though he didn’t say it aloud, and with a sickening lurch of his heart, he remembered what Thrud had said about her uncle Loki. He’s a dangerous maniac … He’s threatened to take his revenge on all of Asgard.
“Why have you brought me here?” Demon asked.
“Oh, that,” said Loki carelessly. “Well, I couldn’t have you mending old Goldbristle, now, could I? After I’d gone to so much trouble to poison him, I mean.”
Demon was so furious that he lunged for the god, then hissed with pain as his shackles burned him again.
“How could you?” he yelled. The anger seemed to have chased all the fear out of him. “What has poor Goldbristle ever done to you?”
“Well, nothing, really,” said Loki. “But I was annoyed with Odin and the others, so I decided to take their light away.” His lips curled away from his teeth in an ugly snarl. “Nobody puts me in prison and gets away with it.”
Demon thought furiously. If he could flatter Loki into telling him what poison he’d used, maybe somehow he could escape and find a cure. He forced an admiring look onto his face.
“So you didn’t just trick me,” he said, opening his eyes very wide. “You tricked all the gods, as well. Nobody has a clue how you did it, so you must be very clever. I’ve never had a failure with curing a beast before—but you definitely beat me. However did you do it?”
Loki laughed evilly. “They don’t call me the Father of Lies for nothing,” he said. “But it wasn’t easy. I had to steal a drop of darkness, right from the heart of the earth. Once a creature of light has eaten that, nothing will cure it but a drop of old Fafnir’s blood, dripped onto an ice diamond, then ground up and mixed with some Fenrir wolf spit. Have fun finding those! Oh, wait …” He paused for effect, a sneer on his face. “You can’t. Because you’re going to be locked up down here FOREVER! Have fun with the dark elves, little healer!”
And with another evil laugh, he shimmered into a bright green fly and buzzed off through the bars of the silver gate that now appeared in the wall.
Immediately, two terrifying figures appeared outside. As they unlocked the gate and entered his dungeon, Demon cowered back, knowing that these must be the dark elves that had captured him. They wore black hoods that covered their faces, so all he could see were two pairs of white eyes with red pupils, and the bony green hands that now reached out for him, their pointed nails filthy and clotted with what looked like dark red blood.
“Leave me alone!” he cried, flinching as his shackles burned him for a third time.
“Don’t be foolish, boy from Olympus,” said the taller of the two, and Demon caught a flash of sharp teeth. “We’re here to take off your bonds. Hold still, or it will be worse for you!” Demon held still as the creature traced a complicated pattern over each of his bonds, which melted away into nothing.
“Here,” said the other, shoving a stone plate at him that held a glowing mound of something black and slimy, together with a mug of oily water. “The best Svartalfheim cuisine! Enjoy!” It chuckled like a stream running over knives.
“I-is that where I am, then?” Demon asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
“Why, yes, young master. It is. And we are your personal jailers, Grod and Cinder.” The creature bowed with a mocking flourish.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Demon stoutly. Maybe he could persuade them to let him go if he was polite enough.
“Ooh!” said the one he thought was Cinder. “Listen to its lovely manners!”
The other dark elf put its face near Demon. “Lovely manners don’t open locks,” Grod hissed. “So don’t think you’ll get around us that way.”
Faster than a midnight whirlwind, they spun away from him and out through the gate, locking it behind them.
“Bye for now,” they jeered. “Don’t go anywhere!” And then they were gone.
Demon walked around his dungeon, trying not to panic. There was a kind of rough pallet of rags in one corner, but there were no windows, and when he touched the silver bars, they threw him backward to the other side of the cell in a welter of scarlet sparks. He hit the glowing green wall with a thump and slid down it, landing on his bottom on the rough stone floor, trying to control his breathing, but it was no good.
“Help!” he screamed angrily. “Odin! Thor! Thrud! Someone, help me!” But all he heard as he lay there, choking back tears of rage, were echoes of his own voice, and then silence.
Eventually he sat up, wiping his nose with his hand. Somewhere in the scuffle back in Asgard, he had lost his sheepskin mittens, and now his hands were freezing. He tucked them under his armpits to try to warm them.
Come on, Demon, he thought. There has to be some way to get out of this. He looked in the pouch at his waist. His dad’s pipes were no good—he knew that. Olympus was too far away for them to reach. And there was nothing else in the pouch but a few pinches of dried herbs, an acorn, a scrap of parchment he’d made some notes on, and a stub of charcoal.
Then all at once he became aware of a pulse of warmth in the middle of his chest.
“Of course! The phoenix feather!” he gasped, suddenly remembering that he had it with him. But then he looked around his cold, dank dungeon, and his momentary joy ran out of his toes like water. The phoenix had told him to throw the feather into a sandalwood fire if he was ever in great danger—and then help would come. Well, if ever he’d needed help, it was now. But how was he going to light a fire in this dark, damp place? There
were no torches, not even any light except for the green glow in the walls, and what remained of Hestia’s fire was back in Asgard, eaten up by the magical medicine box. He didn’t even have a flint with him to strike a spark.
“How could I have been so stupid?” he groaned. “I’m a total idiot.” What hope did he have now of escaping this terrible place?
CHAPTER 8
THE BLOOD OF FAFNIR
Demon looked around his dungeon one more time, just in case, but again he saw nothing that might help. He stumbled over to the rag pallet in despair and sat down. Right away, there was a cracking sound, and he leaped up again with a yelp. He’d sat on something sharp. Rubbing the bruise on his bottom, he lifted up the rags, which smelled horrible, like something had died on them. Underneath was a spike of shiny black rock with the tip broken off. That must have been what snapped. Demon looked at it. Maybe, just maybe, it was the answer to his prayers.
Scrabbling frantically with his cold fingers, he picked it up and looked at it, then scraped it experimentally against the rough gray rock of the floor. It made a satisfying scritching sound.
Hands trembling with excitement, he fumbled under his clothes for the little pouch of sandalwood shavings and the feather. Then he ripped a bit of sheep’s wool off the lining of his coat and made it into a tiny ball, putting some of the sandalwood on top.
Scritch-scratch-scritch went the black stone against the gray rock. Demon could feel it getting warm.
“Come on!” he said. “Make a spark!” But however hard he willed it to come, no spark appeared.
Despair settled into him like a deep gray fog, but just as he was gloomily gathering up the fire ingredients and the feather again, he heard a tiny pattering sound and a loud sniff. Quickly, he shoved everything inside his coat. Someone—or something—was here, and he wasn’t going to risk his one hope of escape being discovered.
“Who’s that?” he whispered, hoping it wasn’t Cinder and Grod again.
