Whetstone retied his boot and tried to flatten his hair which stuck out in all directions. He glanced over at Lotta, who was peering down through the tree branches. Her face and arms were covered in scrapes from lunging through the branches after him. Her curls were full of leaves and twigs poked of out her armour.
Lotta looked back at him and giggled. ‘You look like a scarecrow in a hurricane.’
‘You should see you.’ Whetstone wiped his face on his sleeve, clearing his throat guiltily. ‘So, erm, thanks … for saving me.’
‘I couldn’t just let you fall.’ Lotta wrapped a strip of cloth around her grazed palm, the fabric looking stark against her brown skin. ‘I need you to find the cup. The good thing is, we’re a lot closer to Midgard now.’ Holding the cloth with her teeth, she fastened it into a knot. ‘I hope none of the Dwarves come looking for their harp – Odin only knows where it’s ended up.’
‘But … I needed it.’
‘Fame, Fortune and all that?’
‘Well, yeah. A golden harp would definitely make me famous. I would be welcome at every Great Hall, I would get to sit up at the top table, and no one would throw chicken bones at me ever again.’
‘So you want to be a thief to avoid chicken bones? Ha, you should see Valhalla on a Friday night. Or any night, really.’
‘Not just that.’ Whetstone shrugged one shoulder. ‘I’d never make it as a fighter, or an explorer, or a, you know …’’
‘A Hero?’
Whetstone scratched his nose, leaving a smudge behind. ‘But everyone likes stories. If I can give the world great stories, then everyone will know my name, and no one will care how I did it.’
‘You sound like Loki.’
‘No I don’t!’ the boy replied hotly.
‘Yes, you do.’ Lotta giggled. ‘Being a trickster might be impressive, but it doesn’t make you nice.’
‘Being a thief is better than being a nobody.’ Whetstone pouted. ‘Haven’t you ever wished to be someone you’re not?’
Lotta screwed up her nose, her dark eyebrows knitting together in thought. ‘No – not really,’ she said at last. ‘Valkyries are created out of pure battle frenzy and brought to life by the breath of Odin. Odin created me specifically to be a Valkyrie. Maybe you just need to figure out who you are meant to be.’
Whetstone leaned forward, hunching his shoulders. ‘It’s not that easy. You’ve got people to help you – I’m an orphan. It’s always just been me, on my own.’
‘It that why you’re so smelly? No parents around to make you take a bath?’ Lotta teased.
‘That’s not true,’ the boy countered with a bit of a grin. ‘I had a bath last month.’ (Actually, it hadn’t been a bath. Whetstone had been caught trying to pick pockets in the Great Hall of Arne the Atrocious. They had thrown him out of the village and into a pond.)
Lotta poked him with her toe. ‘Did you ever try finding them? I mean, most humans do have parents, don’t they?’
The boy shrugged. ‘I tried, but no one seems to know where I came from. I just turned up one day, in a basket in the centre of the village.’
Lotta tipped her head. ‘What was in the basket with you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Maybe there was a clue to your identity – like a sword or a piece of jewellery – or perhaps a detailed letter explaining everything?’
Whetstone shook his head. ‘No, nothing. Just me, wrapped in a blanket.’
Lotta wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, I doubt that’s a clue.’
‘The village elders gave me to my foster mother – I call her the Angry Bogey. She runs a home for orphaned wolf cubs. I dunno why they thought she would want to take care of me. She’s not interested in anything that doesn’t have four legs and a tail.’ Whetstone picked at his grubby fingernails. ‘So you see, back in Drott I was never going to be anybody other than Whetstone the Nobody.’
‘Whetstone the Chew Toy … Whetstone the Flea-Bitten.’
Whetstone coughed loudly to stop her talking. ‘But then I met Light Finger.’
‘Who’s Light Finger? Is he important?’
‘Seriously, you’ve never heard of Light Finger? He’s the Greatest Thief in All the Known World!’
Lotta shrugged.
Whetstone eyed her in amazement. ‘Well, Light Finger turned up in Drott one day. He told me I could be his apprentice. He said he would teach me everything he knew about thieving and that one day I could be the Greatest Thief in the Known World.’
‘He told you to steal the magic cup?’
The boy nodded. ‘That’s what I was doing in the stable when you found me. I’d taken the cup and was hiding from Chief Awfulrick.’
Lotta screwed up her face. ‘But how did Loki know that you – no offence – stole it?’
Whetstone looked at her sideways. ‘Because when I met Light Finger, Vali was with him.’
Lotta gasped, her eyes wide. ‘Vali? Like, Loki’s son Vali? Ridiculously pale, likes knives, bit creepy?’
Whetstone nodded. ‘I think Loki must have sent him to get the cup.’
Lotta shuddered. ‘I wouldn’t want to be in Vali’s shoes when Loki found out you took it instead.’
Remembering the flashes of green light he had seen in the house, Whetstone shook his head.
‘I mean, no one really likes Vali,’ Lotta continued. ‘Apart from Flee and Flay, who have no taste, obviously. He’s always skulking around with those knives. But we do feel a bit, you know, sorry for him.’
Whetstone nodded. ‘Imagine having Loki as a dad – no wonder Vali always looks miserable.’
Lotta tapped her fingers on her knees. ‘But why is everyone so desperate to get their hands on this cup? Are cups really rare in Midgard or something?’
Whetstone shrugged. ‘The cup can talk. Loki said something about it telling me my future, and Light Finger thinks it will make us rich and famous. But when I had it, all it did was recite stupid poems.’
‘So why is Loki interested in what happens in your future? I thought you said you weren’t anyone important.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Sorry.’ Lotta bit her lip. ‘But you know what I mean – you’re not a king or a great Hero or anything.’
Whetstone grinned. ‘Not yet, anyway. Maybe I’m going to be a famous thief.’
‘And we’re back to the thieving.’
‘It’s not such a big deal.’ Whetstone grinned. ‘You’re like my accomplice, now.’
Lotta’s shoulders slumped; she ran her hands over her face. ‘This is a nightmare,’ she moaned. ‘We have to get that cup. Loki means what he said. If we don’t, Flee and Flay will tell Scold about us, and I’ll be banished.’
‘And I’ll be sent to Snifflheim. Midgard doesn’t sound so bad compared to that.’
Lotta looked at him. ‘If I lose my Valkyrie powers and am sent to Midgard, I won’t just turn into a human and get to live happily ever after. I’ll be cursed to wander alone, never knowing victory again.’ She sounded completely wretched. ‘I know I’m a rubbish Valkyrie – I can’t get the hang of Epic Poetry, and I’m more likely to stab myself than the enemy. But I’m literally made of the spirit of battle. It’s my destiny to fight, whether I like it or not!’
Whetstone winced.
‘What use is a Valkyrie who can’t fight?’ Lotta broke into sobs. ‘And, worst of all, I’ll – never – get to – see Broken Tooth again!’
Whetstone awkwardly patted her on the arm. Lotta sounded as miserable and alone as he was. ‘C’mon, let’s keep climbing down. We’ve still got time before those girls are unfrozen. And I don’t suppose I’ll get the harp back now.’
They both leaned forward, gazing through the branches hoping for a glint of gold.
Lotta wiped her face with the back of her hand. ‘Can you hear that?’
Whetstone could just make out a faint sort of crunching, scraping noise. It was coming from below them.
‘What do you think it is?’ he asked, looking at Lotta. But she wasn’t looking at him – her brown eyes were wide and staring at something half hidden by the leaves. Branches rustled and shifted as something climbed up the tree. Something large. A flash of red scales and a pointed tail appeared for a moment. Whetstone sat back, his heart pounding.
‘It’s the Wyrm,’ Lotta breathed.
Whetstone scrunched up his face. ‘That’s not a worm.’
‘Not wOrm – WYrm,’ she replied with emphasis.
‘What’s the difference?’
‘One is a small creature that lives in the dirt. The other is a massive fire-breathing serpent that’s going to EAT US!’ Lotta looked around desperately, ‘That’s Nidhogg. How did he get this far up Yggdrasil? We’re not even at Midgard yet!’
‘Nidhogg?’
‘Do you not know anything? You should read this some time.’ She thrust the crumpled Guide to the Nine Worlds into his hands.
Whetstone glanced at it. ‘Now really isn’t quiet reading time.’
Lotta tossed her head. ‘Nidhogg lives in Niflheim, down there.’ She pointed down the trunk of Yggdrasil. ‘For him to have climbed up this far, he must be really angry.’ She looked pointedly at Whetstone. ‘I’ll give you three guesses why.’
Whetstone’s stomach did a flip, remembering the harp crashing through the branches. ‘Why don’t you just say dragon, like normal people?’
‘It is part of the Valkyrie training. It’s called speaking EPICALLY – like you’re a Hero in a Saga.’
‘Gotcha.’ Whetstone tore his eyes away from the red scales and curved claws. ‘So what are we going to do?’
Lotta looked at him. ‘Like it or not, you’ve got to be a Hero now!’
‘Fight that? You have got to be kidding!’
‘Why not? Heroes are good at getting rid of dragons. Have your brains turned to cheese yet?’
‘No way! I thought Valkyries were supposed to perform Heroic acts – you do it!’
The dragon was gaining steadily. In a few minutes it would reach them. It had the advantage of LONG SHARP CLAWS to dig into the tree bark to give it extra grip. Whetstone tried not to think about those claws digging into him. It was climbing much faster than they could, so there was no point in going up, and going down was out of the question – that would just mean being eaten sooner.
‘Does it say anything in your guidebook about dragons?’ Whetstone peered at the tattered paper. ‘Have you got anything gold?’ He checked his pockets. The orange-spotted spider came out clinging to the boy’s finger. He pulled it off his hand carefully to avoid the fangs and tossed it away. It drifted away from them on the breeze, clutching a shimmering strand of silk.
Lotta rolled her eyes. ‘Yes – let me just find my golden sword, and my golden armour and all the golden coins I always carry around with me.’
‘I’m serious – it says here he loves gold. I thought maybe we could distract him with something.’
Lotta smirked. ‘Are you thinking like a Hero?’
‘This isn’t Heroism – it’s survival! And I don’t see you coming up with any ideas.’ Whetstone sulked, shoving the guidebook into his pocket. ‘I bet those girls in the stable would think of something. What are you going to do, speak to it EPICALLY?’ Whetstone cleared his throat. ‘O Nidhogg the Great and Wondrous, please say you’re not going to eat us.’ He waved his arms about.
Lotta’s face cleared. ‘That’s it! But I don’t think I can …’ She turned away and started muttering to herself, her face screwing up in concentration.
Heat and smoke rose through the branches, making Whetstone’s damp hair and clothes steam. Sunlight gleamed off dark red scales.
Whetstone dug his fingernails into his palms. ‘Whatever you’re doing, you need to do it quicker.’ He could clearly see long dagger-like claws and enormous yellow eyes with dark-slitted pupils. He shrank back against the tree trunk trying to look small and unappetizing.
Lotta crawled back to him. ‘I need your help. I need you to –’ she avoided his eyes – ‘make up a poem about me.’
Whetstone goggled. ‘What? You have got to be kidding!’
‘No, seriously. Epic Poetry – it’s one of the six key elements of Valkyrie training. Fighting, Horse Riding, Serving Mead, Collecting Fallen Warriors, Animal Transformation and Epic Poetry.’
Whetstone’s mouth hung open.
‘It doesn’t have to be about me, I suppose. But my powers will be stronger if I’m mentioned.’
Whetstone just stared.
‘What have you got to lose?’ Lotta asked reasonably as the dragon crept closer. ‘I need something to give my powers a boost, and we don’t have a horse, or any mead. I suppose I could whack you with my sword?’
Whetstone shook his head.
‘I’m rubbish at remembering the words to poems, so you’ll have to do it. It’s either this, or jumping and dying painfully, or being eaten and dying painfully.’
Whetstone swallowed, his throat dry and cracked. ‘She brings a lot of scrapes and grazes,’ he tried. ‘She is well and truly frightening …’
Lotta smiled a strange smile, stood up and walked away from Whetstone towards the end of the branch.
‘She has got a scowly face. Please, Thor, don’t hit me with your lightning!’ He quavered to a stop.
Lotta crossed her arms over her chest and looked up at the sky. Before Whetstone could stop her, she stepped backwards out into the open air. There was a flash of white-blue light and a loud CRACK. Lotta vanished.
In her place was a very large bird. It looked a bit like a swan, a bit like a duck. But only if you had never seen a swan or a duck before and were trying to make one up from your imagination.
Whetstone gawked. ‘Lotta?’
The weird swan-duck thing nodded and gestured with its wing for him to approach.
The dragon was close now. So close Whetstone could feel its heat rising through his boots. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of his neck. Carefully he shuffled along the branch towards the bird. It really was an odd-looking thing. Half of its feathers seemed to be stuck on the wrong way. He cautiously reached out a hand. The bird flapped its wing, knocking him sideways. He clung to a branch, steadying himself. The bird nodded its head and waddled around on the branch. It seemed to be suggesting that Whetstone climb on its back.
Riding a large bird while halfway up a giant tree and about to be eaten by a dragon is not as easy as it sounds. It requires a particular set of skills – things like balance, grace and confidence. Skills that, as it turned out, Whetstone didn’t have. If Whetstone had really been a Viking Hero, he would have simply leaped into the air, allowing his magical bird companion to catch him and soar away majestically. Instead, he clung tightly to bird-Lotta’s feathery neck and tried not to throw up as she leaped off her perch and launched into the sky. Nidhogg snorted and flexed his claws in frustration. The dragon blew out a sheet of flame, narrowly missing Lotta’s feathery tail.
Lotta the swan spun in the air, trying to avoid the dragon’s fiery breath, and she squawked as Whetstone gripped on tighter. The bird opened her wings and they sped downward, heading towards the ground in dizzying spirals.
The dragon shouldered its way past the few surviving branches and sprang out of the tree after them, its enormous leathery wings opening wide, hiding the tree from view.
Whetstone risked a glance behind them and immediately wished he hadn’t. The dragon was following, blowing out bursts of fire. Lotta was forced to duck and weave to avoid being roasted mid-flight.
A large sign dangled from one of the branches ahead. Picked out in silver letters were the words: Welcome to Midgard – please leave it as you found it.
The ground raced up to meet them, brown and boggy with a scattering of familiar wooden buildings.
‘YES!’ Whetstone cried, the wind whipping through his hair. ‘Over there, towards that boulder.’
Lotta flattened her wings, trying to slow down, but it was too little, too late. They hit the ground with a painful bump, tumbling head over heels through the bracken and wet grass. Whetstone rolled to a stop in a jumble of arms, legs and clothing. He lay breathless, tangled in a thorn bush. He checked carefully: all the bits seemed to be his, and he seemed to have all his bits.
He rolled away from the thorns and lay on his back, staring into the sky. The dragon circled above, twisting its long neck to glare around for them. It spat out a sticky fireball, setting alight a clump of long grass, apparently out of spite.
Lotta – no longer a bird – sat up and brushed ash off her clothes. ‘We need to get out of here.’ Her armour was singed, her dark face caked in soot along one side. A thin line of smoke wisped up from her curls.
Whetstone got to his hands and knees. Everything ached, even his eyebrows. He crawled towards the Valkyrie. Lotta patted herself on the head, putting out the last of the smouldering embers. Nidhogg looped overhead, his wings momentarily blocking out the sunlight.
‘Are you all right?’ Whetstone whispered.
Lotta wiped soot off her face. ‘I’m fine. Just as long as Flee and Flay haven’t been unfrozen and told Scold about us yet.’
Whetstone grinned. ‘Nah, what sort of person would be crazy enough to do that?’