Whetstone felt his feet leave the ground as Oresmiter the Puffin Eater picked him up by the collar of his shirt. His boots dangling helplessly, Whetstone’s heart thudded loudly in his ears; he had escaped Loki, only to be caught by Awfulrick.
‘What happened to you?’ Oresmiter chuckled. ‘You’re all muddy.’
‘I’m sorry I took the cup, but I can get it back,’ Whetstone panted, trying not to be strangled by his own cloak, his throat burning again.
‘Put him down!’ demanded Lotta, marching over to Awfulrick and smacking him on the arm. ‘We’ve got stuff to do!’
The enormous man turned his piggy eyes on her. ‘GRAB THE GIRL TOO – SHE COULD BE HIS ACCOMPLICE!’
Lotta shrieked as she was thrown over Oresmiter’s shoulder, her boots kicking at the air.
Awfulrick glared at Whetstone. ‘WE’LL DEAL WITH YOU BOTH AFTER WE’VE FINISHED WITH THE DRAGON!’
Whetstone‘s ears rang – he thought he might be going a bit deaf from being so close to Awfulrick. ‘I’m going get rid of the dragon too,’ he bargained. ‘Just give me a chance.’
The Viking Chief screwed up his face in thought. Whetstone crossed his fingers, hoping that he wouldn’t pick the pit of big spikes.
‘ALL RIGHT,’ Awfulrick said at last. Whetstone went limp with relief. ‘BRAGI, GIVE HIM YOUR SWORD AND SHIELD.’
Oresmiter dropped Whetstone to the ground as a tall youth with red hair and a highly polished helmet stepped forward. Whetstone groaned. He remembered Bragi, the boy who had sneered at him over the eyeball stew, which – he realized with a jolt – had only been last night. Lotta pushed herself up on her arms, trying to see what was happening over Oresmiter’s shoulder.
Bragi did not look impressed to be giving his weapons and shield to Whetstone. He stuck out his lower lip before dumping them on the ground with a clang.
‘DON’T WORRY!’ cried Awfulrick. ‘YOU’LL GET THEM BACK WHEN THE THIEF HAS BEEN BURNED TO ASHES!’
Bragi smirked at this thought, but then glared at Whetstone. ‘It’s not fair – he’s just a kid. It was my turn. I want to have a go at the dragon.’
‘YOU WILL, MY BOY!’ bellowed Awfulrick, slapping him hard on the back. ‘THERE’S PLENTY OF DRAGON TO GO AROUND!’
‘Are you sure about this?’ Ivor the Nose Grinder called from somewhere at the back. ‘It could be some sort of minstrel’s trick!’
‘SHUT UP, IVOR. HE DOESN’T LOOK VERY MUSICAL TO ME!’
Loki reappeared at Whetstone’s side. Under the guise of pulling the boy to his feet, he muttered, ‘It’s not too late – just say you’ll help me get the cup, and I can get you out of this. Remember, the cup can tell you where your parents are.’
An image of Vali hardening to stone flashed across Whetstone’s mind. ‘You mean it can tell me where the harp strings are?’
Oresmiter gave Whetstone a shove. ‘Get on with it,’ he grumbled, ignoring Lotta as she pounded on his back with her fists.
Whetstone straightened his shoulders and examined the weapons. The sword was bigger than he was, with a dark green scabbard. He wiped his clammy hands on his trousers and tried to pick it up but could barely lift the handle.
Bragi crossed his arms, his muscles bulging against his gold armband.
Whetstone gave up on the sword and picked up the circular shield. ‘I’ll just have this,’ he said to Awfulrick, who laughed.
‘THAT’S THE SPIRIT, GIVE THE BEAST A CHANCE.’ Awfulrick’s beard twitched into a grin as he took off his own iron helmet and dropped it on to Whetstone’s head. Whetstone staggered, then pushed it back a bit so he could see. Loki reappeared behind Awfulrick, his expression unreadable.
‘OFF YOU GO!’ Awfulrick shoved Whetstone towards the dragon. The other Vikings started to beat their swords on their shields, thump, thump, THUMP, in encouragement.
Nidhogg lay on the ground in a large patch of scorched earth. He watched the Vikings with interest, wondering what they were going to do next. Idly he picked at a scale with his claws. He had quite enjoyed knocking the warriors over and blowing fireballs at them. It made a nice change from trampling the spirits of the unworthy dead back in Niflheim. These Vikings had a lot more life in them.
So Nidhogg was surprised when a boy crept towards him clutching a too-large shield. He didn’t even have a sword. Nidhogg flexed his neck fins and waited. The cup lay between his rear feet, forgotten in the grass.
Lotta pushed herself up on her arms, Oresmiter’s shoulder was digging into her stomach uncomfortably. Twisting on her side, she could just see Whetstone as he slowly approached the dragon. He held the shield up as high as he could, the weight of it making his arms shake. Lotta gasped as the dragon blew out a plume of fire, Whetstone ducked down behind the shield just in time. The air suddenly filled with the smell of burning hair.
Whetstone rubbed soot out of his eyes and peered behind him, catching Lotta’s eye. She tried to grin in an encouraging way as Scold’s words echoed in her head: He’ll have to do it alone, no helping.
Lotta bit her lip and watched as Nidhogg drew in a deep breath. Whetstone lifted the shield, waiting for the flames. But instead the dragon lazily blew a smoke ring, which drifted across the field, wrapping itself around the boy. It was letting him approach. This did not feel like a good thing.
‘Stop messing about,’ Lotta muttered. ‘If you get eaten, I’ll never make it back to Asgard.’
A flash of movement behind the dragon caught Lotta’s attention. A rabbit hopped out from behind a boulder and bounced towards the dragon. In a flash of golden fur, the rabbit changed into a stoat that zipped along the length of Nidhogg’s tail, and the stoat then turned into a frog, which leaped in between the dragon’s feet.
Lotta twisted around, trying to see if Loki was still with the Vikings. An empty space stood next to Awfulrick. She tried to call out a warning, but her voice was lost in the thumping from the Viking shields.
Whetstone had seen the shapeshifter too. He lowered the shield, staring. The frog was now a green-and-orange butterfly, landing on one of the dragon’s hind claws as it flapped its wings.
‘Loki?’ Whetstone’s voice sounded tiny from across the field.
Lotta gritted her teeth. Scold had told her not to help him get rid of the dragon, but no one had said anything about helping him stop Loki. Lotta reached down and stuck her hands into Oresmiter’s armpits. ‘Tickle, tickle, tickle!’
With a shriek, Oresmiter tossed the girl into the air. Lotta landed on the ground with a thump. She rolled away from Oresmiter, snatching up Bragi’s sword and swinging it over her shoulder in one movement. Dodging away from the rest of the Vikings, Lotta began to march across the field to join Whetstone.
Whetstone’s eyes were fixed on the butterfly. With a dull green glow, the insect twisted and grew, moving through various forms until it settled in the shape of a man.
‘What are you doing?’ he called to Loki. ‘Get out of there!’ Nidhogg blew out a jet of fire and Whetstone quickly hoisted up the shield, the metal burning his fingers where the flames heated it.
Loki gave him a cold smile. ‘I’ve waited for long enough. I’m going to get those harp strings, with or without you, boy.’ The man was just behind Nidhogg now, using its bulk to block what he was doing from Awfulrick and the other Vikings.
‘You can’t get the riddle without me,’ Whetstone called.
‘Is that right?’ Loki’s form blurred and shrank into a duplicate of Whetstone. ‘Cups aren’t too clever,’ the man said in Whetstone’s voice. ‘I’ll find another way of getting the cup to give me the riddle, and when I have the riddle, maybe I’ll find what’s left of your parents too.’
Whetstone’s knuckles went white as he gripped the shield.
‘Don’t listen to him,’ Lotta called out. Out of the corner of his eye, Whetstone could see her hauling the heavy sword across the dried mud behind him
‘When I repair the harp, I’ll be able to control the balance of the Nine Worlds.’ Loki-Whetstone’s arm snaked around the dragon’s leg, fingers fumbling for the cup half buried in the mud. ‘Odin will be nothing compared to me!’
Whetstone edged a couple of steps closer, his eyes fixed on the glint of gold. A few more moments and Loki would have the cup, and through it, the key to opening the walls between the worlds. If Loki got his way, it would mean the end of everything – all the monsters from the stories would be able to reach Midgard. One dragon was bad enough; Whetstone didn’t want to imagine a world full of them.
‘Whetstone!’ Lotta yelled. He looked up to see Nidhogg’s tail aiming straight for him.
Throwing Bragi’s sword aside, Lotta charged forward, grabbing Whetstone around the waist in a flying tackle. They rolled head over heels through bracken and heather.
‘Thanks,’ Whetstone panted, disentangling himself.
‘Why are there two of you?’ Lotta asked, pulling twigs out of her black curls. ‘It’s creepy.’
‘That one’s Loki. I’m just glad you can tell us apart.’
‘It’s easy, that one is better looking.’
The dragon hissed a laugh, its tail whipping around for another go.
‘Use the cup again,’ Lotta yelled, throwing her arms over her head.
‘That’s it!’ Whetstone spun towards the dragon. ‘Oi, cup!’ he yelled as loud as he could. ‘Your poems are rubbish!’
The cup, which had been silent for longer than it ever had been before in its entire existence, suddenly started shrieking and throwing itself about. Then several things happened at once.
One: Nidhogg looked down in surprise at the cup at his feet.
Two: There was a yell as Awfulrick and the other Vikings spotted a second Whetstone lurking behind the dragon.
Three: Loki-Whetstone scooped up the cup in triumph and it screamed in his hands, flashing white hot.
Four: Loki transformed back into his usual self. He took a step backwards, smoke pouring from his blistering hands as he fought to keep hold of the burning cup.
Five: Unfortunately this meant that Loki was standing on the dragon’s tail. Nidhogg couldn’t really feel the shapeshifter, as he was tiny compared to the house-sized dragon, but that was not the point. Dragons have a very strong sense of personal space, and Loki was far too close.
Six: Nidhogg roared in anger, flashing his crimson wings. He leaned down, and …
Seven: Swallowed Loki, and the cup, down in one almighty gulp.
Lotta crawled to where Whetstone was crouched behind the shield with his eyes tight shut, waiting for the crunching and chewing noises to stop.
‘There’s no way the cup will be answering questions now,’ she muttered.
A hard lump formed in Whetstone’s chest; he’d lost the chance to find his parents. Behind them, the Vikings fell silent.
Lotta peered round the shield. ‘Is it over?’
Nidhogg reared up on his hind legs, towering over the boy and girl. He burped.
‘I’m sorry, Lotta – I tried, but I’m not a Hero,’ Whetstone said, as the ball of damp fire rolled towards them. ‘All we’re going to be now is a burn mark on the heather.’ But instead of incinerating them, the soggy fireball dispersed as it passed over them, leaving only a lingering smell of warm toenails.
The dragon opened his mouth.
‘RRRRRRAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHH!’ A belch of sulphuric breath sprayed over the field. Hiding behind the shield, Lotta choked and spluttered as Whetstone wiped at his streaming nose. Something gold glinted inside the dragon’s mouth.
The dragon roared again – this time it sounded like it was in pain. Whetstone felt Lotta get to her knees beside him. She squeezed his shoulder as Nidhogg opened his jaws. ‘It’s in his mouth!’
‘What is?’
‘The cup! It must be hurting him and distracting him from finishing us off.’
Whetstone peered into the dragon’s dark mouth. Wedged between two of the dagger-like teeth was the cup. Nidhogg picked at it with a claw, and the cup gave a metallic squeal.
Nidhogg shook his head, trying to knock the cup free. Whetstone and Lotta ducked as acidy drool flew everywhere.
Lotta turned to Whetstone. ‘This is your chance! You just need to pull the cup out of its mouth.’
Whetstone wiped his stinging eyes. ‘You cannot be serious!’
Lotta nodded. ‘It’s perfect. Nidhogg will owe you a favour and after he’s gone you can ask the cup for the riddle.’
Whetstone gulped. The dragon squinted at them with gleaming yellow eyes.
‘Go on. You still need to prove you’re a Hero, and it’s the only way to get the cup back.’
The boy sighed. He passed the shield to Lotta and slowly got to his feet, holding his palms out in front of him.
‘I can help you, but then you have to go back to Niflheim – agreed?’
The dragon gave a single nod and poked at his mouth with his claws.
‘OK.’ Whetstone reached upward. ‘You’ll have to come down here a bit.’ Nidhogg puffed a smoke ring out of his nose and then, to Whetstone’s astonishment, lowered his head to the boy’s level. Lotta held her breath.
‘Say Ahhh! ’ encouraged Whetstone, pushing back his sleeves. The dragon opened his mouth and another foul-smelling cloud poured out.
Whetstone closed his eyes and pictured his parents in their cottage by the river. He thought of Lotta arriving back in Asgard and being covered in slobber by Broken Tooth. He told himself that this was the only way to make these dreams into reality.
Holding his breath, he carefully stretched one hand into the dragon’s mouth, waiting for jaws to snap closed over it. He slid his hand in further and further, until his whole arm was inside Nidhogg’s dark mouth, and at last he felt his fingertips brush against the cup. He carefully looped his fingers through one of the handles before giving it an almighty tug. The cup popped free, sending Whetstone tumbling backwards into a thorn bush.
Nidhogg sat up, probing his teeth with his gigantic tongue. Clearly feeling much better, the dragon smirked at Whetstone, raising one scaly eyebrow. Whetstone grinned back, relief flooding through him.
The dragon shot a fireball into the air. He was feeling better. He had had a great day, full of chasing, fighting, poetry, and now he had eaten a large meal and didn’t have anything pointy stuck in his teeth any more. It had been fun, but what he wanted now was a nice snooze on his bed of bones and broken armour back in Niflheim.
The dragon rose slowly into the air, the draft from its wings making helmets fly across the field and knocking Ivor the Nose Grinder sideways into a patch of nettles. Majestically Nidhogg flew up and up towards the clouds, the Vikings below giving appreciative ‘Oohs’ and ‘Aahs’. In a final farewell, Nidhogg looped-the-loop and dived low over the Vikings before swooping high into the sky and off into the distance.
Lotta tossed the shield aside and punched Whetstone on the arm. ‘I knew you could do it – you are a Hero!’ She dragged her sword out of the mud and slid it back into the scabbard strapped across her back.
Whetstone pulled himself painfully out of the thorn bush. The cup was covered in sticky green slime.
‘That was disgusting,’ the cup complained.
‘Agreed.’ Pride welled up in his chest – he’d done it! Defeated the dragon, got the cup and stopped Loki. He wiped the cup with his sleeve. ‘I just need to ask you something,’ he began, but was stopped by a thumping noise from behind him.
Whetstone turned to see the crowd of Vikings cheering and banging on their shields in triumph. Awfulrick led the charge, and they stormed towards him and Lotta.
‘WELL DONE!’ Awfulrick pulled Whetstone into a bone-crushing hug, and the air was forced out of his lungs for the second time that day. Whetstone tried not to sneeze as the bearskin waistcoat tickled his nose.
‘YOU SHOWED THAT DRAGON WHO WAS BOSS, HUH?!’ bellowed the Viking Chief, releasing Whetstone and slapping him on the back. Whetstone wheezed and felt his ribs pop back into place.
Awfulrick snatched the streaky cup out of Whetstone’s hand. ‘THERE YOU ARE, YOU LITTLE BLIGHTER!’ He gave the cup a squeeze.
‘Whoops!’ the cup giggled.
Whetstone straightened his tunic. ‘I’m sorry for taking it. I know it was wrong …’ He glanced at Lotta, who rolled her eyes. ‘But I was wondering if I could just borrow it for five minutes? There’s something I need to ask it.’
Awfulrick popped the cup on to his shoulder – it sat there like an annoying metallic parrot. He slapped Whetstone on the back again. ‘ANYONE WHO CAN STICK THEIR HAND INSIDE A DRAGON’S MOUTH AND WALK AWAY IS FINE BY ME!’ Awfulrick turned to the rest of the Vikings. ‘BACK TO THE VILLAGE! WE’LL HAVE MINSTRELS MAKE UP SONGS ABOUT THIS BEFORE NIGHTFALL!’
The Vikings cheered in delight. Oresmiter threw his helmet up into the air, where it turned a passing raven into a cloud of feathers.
The Vikings swarmed around Whetstone, hoisting him up on to their shoulders. The Viking choir launched into a song:
Asgard! Asgard!
Home of Gods and fun.
Asgard! Asgard!
Until the Frost Giants come.
Lotta yanked on Awfulrick’s arm. ‘Wait!’
Awfulrick patted her on the head. ‘DON’T WORRY – YOU CAN COME TOO.’
Valhalla! Valhalla!
The place where Heroes go.
Valhalla! Valhalla!
When they’re slain by their foe!
‘You have to STOP!’ Lotta shrieked. She pointed into the sky.
‘What is it now?’ Whetstone yelled back as the Vikings bounced him high into the air. ‘It’s over.’
Lotta shook her head. ‘Not yet.’
Whetstone managed to twist around in the air to see what Lotta was pointing at.
The air was filled with the sound of thundering hooves – it sounded like a whole herd of horses galloping towards them. Whetstone screwed up his eyes, expecting to see the Valkyries returning, but instead in a flash of gold a single horse and rider appeared. A horse with … eight legs.
Whetstone gulped. ‘Is that …?’
Lotta nodded, transfixed by the sight.
Awfulrick and the Vikings came to a shuddering halt, watching the golden horse approach. It landed softly on the earth in front of them, sunlight gleaming off its shining coat. It pawed its many legs, churning up the half-baked mud. A tall man in a blue cloak slid down from the saddle, his wide-brimmed hat casting his expression in shadow. He lifted his head to reveal a grizzled face and one missing eye.
Mutters and gasps came from all around as the Vikings realized who he was. The man produced a staff, driving it solidly into the ground. Two large ravens landed on the perch on top, one of them giving Oresmiter a dirty look.
All around Whetstone, Vikings started dropping to their knees. He felt Lotta grab his sleeve and pull him down to kneel beside her on the ground.
‘Hear me,’ the one-eyed man intoned. ‘For I am Odin, the Allfather, the Spear Shaker, Chief of the Gods.’