Far below them, with his feet firmly back on Midgard’s soil, Whetstone lurked in the shadows of a large boulder. ‘I’m sure no one has even noticed you’re missing,’ he said to Lotta reassuringly.
The dragon soared overhead.
Lotta rubbed her elbow where a bruise was starting to appear on her dark skin. She climbed to her feet. ‘So let’s find the cup and get back before anyone does.’
The dragon twisted back down towards them. Shooting out a plume of fire, it set light to a nearby patch of brambles. Whetstone felt heat scorch the side of his face and he yanked Lotta into the shelter of the boulder. Nidhogg looped above, still searching for them.
‘One problem. What are we going to do about him?’
‘I’m sure he’ll get bored and go back to Niflheim.’
Whetstone squinted at her. ‘Really?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘We’ll have to get rid of him before he sets fire to Krud. Maybe we could lure him away – he’s chasing us, after all.’
‘You want to fight a dragon? Careful – that sounds almost Heroic.’
Whetstone stuck his tongue out at her. ‘Can you turn into a bird again? I’ll make up another poem – a better one this time?’
Lotta shook her head. ‘I’m not flying anywhere with that thing up there. Where are we, anyway? Is this Midgard?’
‘You should recognize it – you’ve been here before.’
Lotta peered out from behind the boulder. ‘Oh no, not …’
‘Ivor the Nose Grinder,’ they both said together.
Whetstone rubbed his hands together. ‘But this is good news. See that big rock, the one with the runes that marks the edge of Ivor the Nose Grinder’s farm?’ He pointed at the branch of bracken sticking up in front of it. Lotta nodded. ‘That’s where I buried the cup.’
Lotta took a step forward. ‘So let’s get it.’
‘No!’ Whetstone pulled her back. ‘The boulder is right out in the open. If we make a break for it, Nidhogg will definitely see us and use us for target practice.’
Lotta straightened her armour. ‘But if we don’t get the cup, Loki will tell everyone about what I did and I’ll be banished.’
‘You don’t think he’s going to keep his word, do you? Or if he does, he’ll use it to blackmail you forever.’
Lotta wheeled around to face him. ‘We’re giving the cup to Loki,’ she said woodenly. ‘Are you still thinking about Fame and Fortune? Things have gone way beyond that now.’
Whetstone shrugged and glanced at the boulder again, trying to judge the distance. Every time he looked, the boulder seemed to be further away. ‘We’ll never make it. What we need,’ he said slowly, ‘is a diversion.’
Then, as if he had heard them, a tiny figure in full battle armour appeared next to the boulder.
Lotta stared. ‘What is that?’
The figure beside the rock was dressed like a Viking but only about half as tall. The figure was roughly the same size across as it was up and down – it was like watching an angry beach ball waving a spear.
‘Can’t you read?! GERROFF MY LAND, YOU HORRIBLE REPTILE!’
‘Ivor the Nose Grinder?’ Whetstone and Lotta repeated.
‘There’s no way he could reach anyone’s nose,’ Lotta said in amazement. ‘Ivor the Ankle Biter, maybe.’
‘Or Ivor the Kneecap Crusher?’
Lotta bit her lip to hold in a laugh. The dragon had noticed the tiny Viking and was circling above in a tight spiral. ‘What’s he doing out there?’
‘Dunno, maybe he thinks it’s a minstrel.’
Lotta sniggered. She nudged Whetstone. ‘But seriously, we’re going to have to do something or he’s going to end up as a scorch mark.’
‘You’re right.’ Before he could think about it too much and change his mind, Whetstone stepped out from behind the stone. ‘HEY!’ He waved his arms. ‘OVER HERE!’
‘What are you doing?’ Lotta grabbed his arm. ‘You just stopped me from doing that!’
The dragon turned in mid-air, seeking out the source of the new sound. Ivor took his chance and threw a spear. Nidhogg dodged easily and replied by gobbing a fiery spitball back. Ivor squealed and danced as the acidy dragon saliva stuck to his tunic and dripped off his horned helmet. To get rid of the stinging green spit, Ivor started pulling at his clothes, stripping down to his walrus-skin underpants before turning and running back towards his farm.
Having seen off the tiny Viking, the dragon turned to Whetstone and Lotta, a wicked gleam in his eye.
Whetstone dropped his arms, ‘Uh-oh.’ The dragon spun in the air and started to flap his way towards them.
Whetstone turned to Lotta. ‘We’re going to have to run for it.’ She nodded. ‘One …’ Whetstone counted, rocking on his toes. ‘Two … Thr—’
‘THREE!’ yelled Lotta, sprinting away from the stones. Whetstone hesitated, then took off after her, the edge of his cloak leaving a smoking trail in the air.
They plunged across the scrubby field, Whetstone expecting at any moment to feel his backbone turn to lava. Instead, the dragon flapped its great wings, creating a breeze that nearly knocked them over. Whetstone stumbled but managed to stay on his feet. The flapping wings threw hundreds of burning leaves and sticks into the air, pelting Whetstone and Lotta with dozens of red-hot pieces of shrapnel.
The boulder was getting closer. They were nearly there! As Nidhogg gave a roar of annoyance, Whetstone urged his legs into a greater burst of speed, the beating of Nidhogg’s wings and the smell of burning sulphur close behind him.
Catching up with Lotta, Whetstone grabbed her arm and threw them both behind the boulder. Lotta fell at his feet, landing awkwardly as her ankle twisted beneath her. A jet of fire hit the stone, sparks cascading around the edges.
Lotta scrabbled for cover behind the boulder. She looked like she might be sick as she clutched her ankle. Whetstone was no doctor, but even he knew a foot facing the wrong way was bad news.
‘Get the cup!’ she yelled, giving him a shove.
Whetstone tore his eyes away from Lotta’s twisted foot and threw aside the stick of marker bracken. He dropped to his hands and knees and dug frantically in the soil at the base of the boulder. Small stones scraped against his hands, and roots caught at his fingers. A metallic voice was just within earshot. It was the cup! A smile appeared on the boy’s face.
‘… left here like an old piece of rubbish – no one cares about me. I’m going to get all rusty …’
Whetstone burrowed deeper; his fingers brushed against cold metal.
‘… serve you lot right if I never recite another poem. I’ve never been so under-appreciated …’
‘Gotcha!’ Whetstone pulled the cup free from the dirt.
The cup looked as annoyed as a cup can look – its rim had a distinct downturn, and the set of the handles made it look as though it had put its hands on its hips.
‘Is that it?’ Lotta peered over Whetstone’s shoulder, her teeth gritted in pain.
The cup narrowed its ruby eyes. ‘Oh. It’s you.’
Whetstone rubbed some mud off the cup with his sleeve. ‘I said I’d come back. I just couldn’t wait to hear more of your fantastic poetry. But first we have to get out of here.’
‘Whetstone, there’s no way I can run anywhere,’ Lotta said, grimacing. ‘You should get out of here – take the cup and go.’
Whetstone’s thoughts spun. ‘No way. I’m not going without you. There’s got to be something—’
Whetstone felt a thump, which travelled up through his feet and made his knees go wobbly. The dragon had landed in the field behind them.
‘Well, don’t ask me,’ sighed the cup. ‘I’m only a magical talking cup. I can’t see anyone around here who might appreciate my poems.’
Lotta jabbed a finger at the cup. ‘Of course – Nidhogg loves poetry! It’s in the guidebook!’
‘Fine poetry is well known for its calming effect on reptiles,’ the cup continued. ‘They know art when they hear it.’
Whetstone gritted his teeth, closed his eyes and stuck the arm holding the cup out from behind the boulder, hoping it wouldn’t be bitten off.
Nidhogg took a deep breath, preparing a bolt of fire.
The cup began to speak:
I once had a hoard full of gold,
And I thought, ‘This’ll never grow old.’
I sat and I squished it,
And then ate a biscuit,
Then stood up cos my bottom was cold!
Whetstone heard a funny rasping noise, like a sword blade being dragged repeatedly over a stone. He peered gingerly around the rock and took in the view, bit by bit. First the razor-sharp talons. Then the pointed tail flicking hypnotically in the air. The enormous body, red and gleaming in the sunlight. Gigantic leathery wings folded along its back. Enormous neck fins flexing in time with its breathing. Whetstone gulped. Nidhogg was very, very close.
‘What’s it doing?’ Lotta hissed.
Whetstone peered up into the dragon’s face. Yellow eyes glared down and steam poured out of its nose. But to Whetstone’s surprise, the dragon’s mouth was curved into an unmistakeable laugh.
He mouthed, ‘It’s working!’ at Lotta. She gave him a stunned thumbs-up.
‘Another,’ hissed the dragon through its long, pointed teeth.
Its breath hit Whetstone full in the face, stinking like a rubbish tip on a hot day. The dragon’s own nostrils, each the size of Whetstone’s arm, quivered.
‘Go on.’ Whetstone gave the cup a little shake.
A dragon’s a terrible beast,
the cup began,
Who likes to eat gold in a feast.
He burns it and bakes it,
Then flips it and cakes it,
He thinks it tastes good, at least!
The scrapy sword noise came again. The dragon stalked back and forth in front of the boulder, watching the cup intently with large yellow eyes.
‘More.’ Clouds of steam blew out of his enormous nostrils.
I once knew a dragon called Mike,
Whose bark was worse than his bite.
He tried to breathe fire,
But out came a wire,
Which we used to fly a big kite!
The dragon sniggered, his neck fins quivering.
Out of the corner of his mouth, Whetstone muttered, ‘Try to put it to sleep.’
The cup twitched. ‘Are you saying my poetry is boring?’
The dragon snorted, blowing a smoke ring.
Whetstone coughed it away. ‘No, not at all. But you know what they say: a well-rested dragon is a happy dragon.’ The cup considered this.
Nidhogg reared up on his back legs, his tail flicking impatiently.
Whetstone felt his knees go wobbly; he grabbed on to the boulder to keep himself upright. There he stood, weaponless and alone, in a field with nothing to stop him from becoming a lump of charcoal except a highly strung drinking vessel and a slightly rubbish Valkyrie with a busted ankle.
After what felt like an eternity of silence, the cup began to HUM. Whetstone tried to wave the cup in time with the humming. It sounded like a fingernail being scraped around the inside of a glass and made his ears vibrate unpleasantly. However, it seemed to be working on the dragon. The great yellow eyes began to sag and then close. The dragon was falling asleep.
In slow motion, Whetstone realized what would happen. With a great heaving snore, Nidhogg slumped forward, directly at the boulder protecting them.
‘Move!’ Lotta yelled, diving to one side as Nidhogg’s body crashed towards them splattering mud in all directions.
Too late, Whetstone leaped the other way. The dragon’s tail flicked round, catching his leg and tossing him high up into the air. Whetstone landed in a crumpled heap a few feet away, the cup still clutched tightly in his hand. Whetstone threw up his hands to protect his face as the tail came crashing down, landing across Whetstone’s chest and pinning the boy underneath.
He felt the air being squeezed out of him as he lay trapped in the mud below the dragon’s burning tail. He pushed and shoved at it – carefully at first, then with more urgency – as he tried to move it. Spines and sharp scales caught his fingers, nipping and drawing blood.
Lotta’s pained voice came from somewhere behind the dragon. ‘Whetstone?’
The cup squealed as Whetstone used it as an armoured glove to try and protect his fingers from the dragon’s rough skin. But it was no use – Nidhogg wasn’t going anywhere. And neither was he.