Streaks of a grey dawn appeared over the cliffs in Midgard, but Whetstone was too busy running to appreciate it. Knee-high wet heather ripped holes in his already holey trousers, and the boggy ground sucked unpleasantly at his boots. Behind him he could hear heavy footsteps and bloodthirsty yells.
‘COME BACK HERE, YOU DIRTY STINKING WORM!’
Whetstone grinned and sped up. Tucked safely under his cloak was the magical cup he had stolen from the Great Hall.
Now, some magic cups were filled with never-ending mead (a Viking’s favourite drink); other cups sang beautiful songs of great Heroes and battles. This cup had a different speciality. In a squeaky metallic and VERY LOUD voice, this cup recited poems like:
I once had a good friend named Blot,
Who liked to eat toenails and snot.
It made him feel funny,
So he scratched at his tummy,
And out came an enormous great clot!
Or:
I once drank a cup full of paint,
At first I thought I would faint.
I let out a fart,
Now my pants look like art,
On the whole I think it looks great!
‘Will you shut up?’ Whetstone panted. ‘You’re going to get me caught!’
‘Then why don’t you take me back?’ whined the cup in a voice that sounded like a finger being run around the top of a glass. ‘It’s not too late.’
Whetstone risked a glance behind him: Awfulrick’s Viking horde seemed much closer now. Axes and swords glinted in the weak sunlight. ‘Yeah, because Vikings are a really forgiving bunch.’
The cup paused for a moment, then began another poem.
There once was a young man who came stealing,
But he had the most peculiar feeling
What he was doing was wrong
When he first heard this song,
If they catch him, he’ll be nailed to the ceiling!
‘You are not helping!’ Whetstone pulled the cup out from under his cloak. It blinked ruby eyes in the weak sunlight. Whetstone wrapped his hands around it. ‘Listen, you gobby mug. I have stolen you, and I am going to take you to Cloggibum, where minstrels will make up songs about me and I’ll be famous. Got it?’
The cup opened its mouth to reply.
‘And if you don’t stop with those poems,’ Whetstone threatened, ‘I’m going to take off my slimy socks and stick them in your mouth.’
That seemed to work. The cup fell silent for a moment, but then it started to HUM. Whetstone watched it in disbelief.
‘No poems,’ the cup explained smugly. ‘So no socks.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure if I was you.’ Whetstone stuffed the cup back under his cloak and tried to ignore the complaints about the smell.
Flat and marshy land stretched all around him, dull in endless shades of brown until it ended suddenly at the cliffs, and the rough grey sea began. Seagulls screamed at him and rabbits skittered away. Up ahead Whetstone could see a small collection of low wooden buildings with heavily thatched roofs. He jogged towards them. Only Vikings would choose somewhere as stupid as this to live. But buildings meant hiding places, and a hiding place was exactly what he needed right now.
A flying axe zipped over the top of his head. Whetstone rolled to the ground, breathless. Seeking shelter behind a large half-buried boulder, the boy came to a stop. His fingers traced the runes carved into the rock.
Ivor the Nose Grinder’s farm was small and stuck unhelpfully against the side of the cliff. Whetstone could hear the waves crashing below. One wrong move and he would be fish food.
Thunder crackled loudly and raindrops began to crash down. Whetstone tried to tuck himself further into the rock for shelter, but it was useless – the rain was coming at him sideways.
A huge hairy man stumbled past, splattering Whetstone with his muddy feet. Whetstone shuddered and pressed himself into his cloak. It was Awfulrick.
‘WHERE ARE YOU, YOU LITTLE SLUG?’
Whetstone stuck his finger in his ear to try and block out the noise. The cup twitched in his pocket. ‘Remember the socks,’ Whetstone hissed, just loud enough for the cup to hear.
Awfulrick stood with his back to Whetstone, the rain turning his bearskin waistcoat into a bath mat. He was so close Whetstone could count the tufty hairs on the back of his neck. The boy held his breath.
‘He must have gone the other way, into the caves,’ called another voice – Oresmiter the Puffin Eater, Awfulrick’s second-in-command. The man in the mangy waistcoat nodded and turned to leave.
Whetstone breathed out slowly. He had done it – he had escaped.
Waiting until Awfulrick’s footsteps finished squelching away, the boy dug into the dirt at the base of the boulder with his hands. The near-constant rain had made the ground soft, and before long Whetstone had made a nice deep hole.
‘What are you doing?’ The cup peeped out of Whetstone’s pocket. It sounded worried. ‘I don’t do mud.’
Whetstone plucked it out from under his cloak and dropped it into the hole. ‘You’ll be safe here. I’ll be back for you soon.’
‘NOooo! HELP ME!’ The cup started to shriek and jump about, until its tinny voice was drowned by a loud rumble of thunder.
Whetstone filled in the hole and marked the place with a stick of bracken. That would have to do. Now he just needed to find a place to hide until nightfall when he could meet up with Light Finger and Vali at the thieves’ camp. Whetstone fixed his eyes on the buildings that made up Ivor the Nose Grinder’s farm – there was bound to be somewhere there he could hide.
Whetstone slid around the corner of the first building he came to. A door swung open in the house opposite, making him flatten himself against the wall. He wasn’t keen to run into Ivor the Nose Grinder. He tried not to look like a minstrel, just in case. His fingers found a doorframe behind him, and his nose told him that horses were involved. It must be a stable.
Holding on tightly to stop the wind crashing it against the wall, Whetstone edged the door open. It would be warm (well, warmer) and dry (well, drier) inside, and he didn’t think the horses would mind sharing for one night.
Whetstone settled in to wait for the rain to stop. Ivor the Nose Grinder’s stables were indeed dry and warm, if a bit horsey. More importantly though, no one would come to bother him. He stretched out on some empty straw and tried to ignore the sound of the wind, which was attempting to rip the roof off.
He laced his fingers behind his head and allowed himself a smug smile. Not bad for his first theft. Good thing Viking Heroes are known more for the size of their muscles than their brains. Whetstone had heard that Awfulrick won his magic cup by fighting a Giant. But to do that, he would have had to cross from the human world of Midgard into the land of the Giants, and no one had ever done that.
Back in Drott, the Angry Bogey had liked to tell stories about the other worlds, especially the land of the Giants. Her stories used to give Whetstone nightmares, full of bloodthirsty monsters and endless winter. Her descriptions were so realistic, it was as if she believed she had been there. But that was impossible. Although, she also believed that the orphaned wolves were her babies and that chickens could read minds.
There had been a time when Whetstone would lie awake at night, waiting for someone, anyone, to come and take him away from the Angry Bogey. He used to dream that he had been lost, not abandoned, and that someone out there was searching for him. Travellers from a far-off land, maybe. But no one ever came, and eventually Whetstone stopped dreaming.
But now he had a new dream. Light Finger was going to be so impressed when he made it back to the camp.
Stories of his adventures might even make it back to Drott. He imagined visiting there after news of his epic deeds had spread. People would be chanting his name, throwing flowers. He would be popular, and no one would make jokes about him smelling of dog breath or not having any parents ever again. Thieving might not be the Viking way, but everyone appreciated a good story. His days of having to clean out the wolf kennels were OVER.
The stable door rattled on its hinges. The boy turned and leaned up on one elbow. ‘Vali, is that you?’
No answer – just the wind. The last person Whetstone wanted to see was Vali. He was always sneaking around, and Whetstone was sure he would try to get the cup for himself. Whetstone rolled over and snuggled into his cloak, wondering what Vali’s problem was. It wasn’t Whetstone’s fault Vali messed up his chance to get the cup – that happened before Whetstone had joined up with him and Light Finger. For the hundredth time, Whetstone tried to figure out why Light Finger was so keen to get his hands on the cup. He had told Whetstone the cup knew things, but the only thing Whetstone could see it knowing was how to be annoying.
THUMP.
Whetstone sat up, his senses on red alert. One of the horses whinnied in their stall. Someone was here. Someone who shouldn’t be here. Well, someone else who shouldn’t be here. Whetstone shifted cautiously, trying not to make any noise. Shuffling forward, he carefully peeked out into the wider stables.
THUMP.
A blinding pain in his head sent him tumbling to the floor. His head throbbed and his vision blurred. He blinked – the stables were now sideways.
With a dull thud, a length of wood dropped on to the ground next to him. Whetstone was dimly aware of fingers rummaging through his pockets. ‘Gerroff,’ he muttered, trying to lift his head.
The fingers stopped. Whetstone sensed movement behind him – someone was searching through the straw. Footsteps approached as Whetstone fought to keep his eyes open. Pale hands grabbed the front of his tunic and pulled him into a sitting position.
‘Where is it? Where’s the cup?’
‘Vali?’ Whetstone asked dumbly. ‘Wha—’
The hands released him, and Whetstone slumped back on to the floor. Outside, the storm howled and the footsteps retreated.
Straw was heaped on top of him.
‘Gerroff … ’s tickly,’ Whetstone slurred. The warmth made his eyes close; blackness washed over him. Maybe it would all make sense in the morning.