Dragons are heavy, and this one was crushing the air out of Whetstone’s lungs. The contrast between its warm skin and the damp mud was making Whetstone feel very peculiar. Hot, cold and breathless all at once, like he was getting a fever.
He stared up at the man standing over him.
‘Light Finger?’
The man smiled, showing his ratty teeth. ‘My, my, my,’ he remarked, leaning on his staff.
‘I never thought I would be so glad to see you!’ Whetstone felt quite light-headed. ‘You have to help me.’
Light Finger considered this, scratching his chin with a ragged fingernail. ‘Yes, I could do that.’
‘COULD!’ Whetstone yelled, causing the dragon to twitch in his sleep. ‘What do you mean, COULD?’ He tried to drag air back into his chest. ‘You HAVE to help me!’
‘I don’t HAVE to do anything,’ Light Finger replied easily. ‘What you fail to recognize here, Whetstone, is that I hold all the cards.’
‘What cards? Who’s playing cards? Just get this thing off me! You don’t understand – my friend’s in trouble.’
Light Finger placed the end of his staff on Whetstone’s shoulder and pressed down. ‘I couldn’t care less about your silly girlfriend.’ He smirked as Whetstone sank. Whetstone started to protest, but Light Finger carried on. ‘Valkyries who break their code deserve all they get. Now, I believe you promised me the cup.’
‘How did you know she – was – a …’
Whetstone gazed up at the crooked man standing over him; the sun was cutting through the clouds, making his dandelion hair glow with red and gold lights. Whetstone screwed up his eyes. With the thief’s face half in shadow like that, he almost looked like …
‘Loki.’
The man sneered and pulled himself upright out of Light Finger’s habitual slouch. His face lost its rat-like appearance and gained some of the handsome looks Whetstone remembered from their meeting in Asgard. The scarred lips stretched into a broad smile. ‘So you recognize me at last, boy.’
Whetstone’s heart hammered in his chest; a prickle of sweat ran into his hairline. ‘What are you doing dressed up as Light Finger?’
‘I am Light Finger.’ Loki shook his patched cloak over his shoulders. ‘Or rather, Light Finger is me when I travel to Midgard.’
‘But, why?’
‘It’s traditional. Gods always disguise themselves when they travel to the human world – have you never seen Odin in that ridiculous blue cloak and stupid hat he likes to wear?’ Loki rolled his shoulders. ‘Thanks for the ride down, by the way. Climbing Yggdrasil – it’s a wonder no one had thought of it before.’
‘You were that fat orange spider! You bit me!’
‘It wasn’t much fun for me either. Haven’t you ever heard of soap?’
Whetstone’s thoughts slowed. ‘That was just before we found the harp.’
‘I was trying to protect you. That harp was made by the Dwarves, and they don’t like people touching their things.’
‘Why put it in a tree then? Why not lock it up in a cave or a chest or—’
‘Forget about the harp, Whetstone.’ Loki waved the question away. ‘You have far bigger problems at hand.’
Whetstone struggled against the dragon’s tail. ‘So you’ve been tricking me all along!’
‘All your life, in fact. I wasn’t kidding when I said you were going to be useful to me.’
‘And you sent the Valkyries after Lotta,’ Whetstone growled. ‘You said we had a day before you’d unfreeze those girls.’
‘No, that wasn’t me,’ Loki said thoughtfully. ‘I had hoped we could get all of this sorted out without any extra attention. Awfulrick has been looking for you too. He has special plans for the boy who stole his magic cup.’
‘Like what?’
‘I’m not sure, but they were digging a big pit and sharpening a lot of wooden posts when I passed through Krud just now.’
Whetstone’s skin went cold. ‘What about Ivor’s stables? You did something – knocked me out!’
‘Wrong again, I’m afraid.’ Loki smiled. ‘That was Vali’s idea. Jealousy is such an ugly emotion. He was worried that you were going to get all the Glory.’
‘Death or Glory?’
‘Indeed.’ Loki leered at the boy. ‘Think about the bigger picture here, Whetstone. Vali, Lotta, they’re all in the past. You’re here NOW trapped under Nidhogg – until he wakes up and wants some breakfast of course. If you want me to help you, then you have to help me. WHERE. IS. THE. CUP?’
‘But I can’t just forget about Lotta,’ Whetstone cried. ‘We have to help her!’ The dragon’s tail shuddered.
‘The Valkyries have her now – she won’t be coming back. She’s probably scrubbing the floors of Valhalla in disgrace. If she’s lucky.’
Whetstone tried desperately to wiggle his shoulders; the mud around the dragon was beginning to dry out and turn hard. If he didn’t get out soon, he would be trapped – with or without the dragon.
‘And I’d keep your voice down if I were you. Dragons are not good at mornings.’
A raven swooped past in the sky overhead as Whetstone’s thoughts danced. He needed Loki to get him out from under the dragon, but he wasn’t about to give up on Lotta – she hadn’t abandoned him, after all.
Moving only his eyes, Whetstone glanced sideways to where the cup lay. It was covered in mud and half hidden under his sleeve, where Lotta had trodden it into the ground. Unbelievably, Loki hadn’t spotted it yet.
‘Are you sure you really want the cup?’ Whetstone asked. ‘It’s so annoying. It never shuts up.’
The cup gasped. Whetstone pressed down on it with his elbow.
‘The cup can tell you your fate,’ Loki purred. ‘Ask it one small, simple question for me, and you will have more Fortune and Glory than you have ever imagined.’
‘Not Death?’
Loki shrugged. ‘Maybe that too. It depends on the next five minutes. Then – if you value your own skin – you’ll run far, far away. Awfulrick is not the most forgiving of Vikings.’
Whetstone nodded. The mud was setting hard – he really had to get out now. Loki wedged his staff over a rock and under the sleeping dragon’s tail to create a lever. As he pushed down on the stick, inch by inch the tail lifted.
Whetstone wiggled backwards, out from under the dragon. He tried to pull the cup with him, but it was stuck fast in the rapidly drying mud. He knocked a clump of grass on top of it to hide it and heard a muffled ‘Ouch!’
Whetstone clambered to his feet. He was sticky, dirty and brown from his shoulders to his ankles from lying in the mud. His chest felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer. Whetstone gulped down big mouthfuls of air, feeling his lungs filling up.
Loki poked him with his staff. ‘The cup?’
Whetstone rubbed his arm. ‘This way.’ He turned towards the collection of buildings on Ivor’s farm.
Loki blocked his path with the staff. ‘Vali searched that farm.’
Whetstone gulped. ‘Obviously not hard enough. It’s in the thatched roof of the stables.’ Thinking of Ivor’s warnings to travelling minstrels, he added, ‘It’ll be easy enough to find – if you start singing, it will join in.’
‘You’re lying.’
Whetstone opened his mouth to protest, but a voice reverberating down from above cut him off.
‘VaaAAallLLlhallLLllla FoREveeeEEeer!!’
Twigs and feathers rained down around him. A whole bird’s nest crashed to the ground. Whetstone threw his arms over his head and ducked out of the way.
With a terrible splatter, a large bedraggled bird plummeted into the mud behind the dragon.
Whetstone laughed in amazement. ‘Lotta?’ He scrambled towards her. ‘You did it, and without any poetry this time!’
‘Where are you going?’ Loki growled, trying to trip Whetstone with his staff. ‘You owe me the cup.’
Whetstone dodged the staff. ‘I don’t owe you anything!’ He shot round the dragon’s tail, skidding to a halt next to the trainee Valkyrie, now back in her human form and shaking feathers out of her black hair. ‘What are you doing back here – I thought they took you to Asgard?’
Lotta winced, rubbing her ankle. ‘Had to come back for my sword.’
Loki snarled, and stalked towards them. Whetstone wrapped Lotta’s arm around his shoulders to pull her to her feet.
‘I did a deal with Odin,’ she explained, stumbling. ‘We have to get rid of the dragon.’
‘Oh, is that all? Easy-peasy. What about this guy?’
Loki lunged forward, flexing his fingers, green sparks arcing between them. Whetstone closed his eyes, waiting for the magic to strike. Beside him he felt Lotta tense. But before Loki could move, a mighty cry burst through the murk.
‘GERROFF MY LAND!’