How to Be a Hero

A rope was pressed into Whetstone’s hands and he joined the Vikings of Krud struggling to drag the longboat into shore. Rain lashed down on the massive hairy men, their boots slipping on the pebbly beach. Inch by painful inch the boat crawled closer, fighting the wind and tide which seemed determined to keep it out at sea.

Whetstone’s boots slithered on the wet rocks, nearly sending him tumbling. He gripped on as the rope burned against his hands. He didn’t want to die in Deadman’s Cove – it was far too predictable.

‘COME ON, PUT YOUR BACKS INTO IT! WE’RE NEARLY THERE!’ bellowed Awfulrick, Chief of the Vikings of Krud. The waves pounded, mixing sea spray with rain to create a cold, salty soup.

‘We’ll never make it,’ panted Whetstone, scrubbing salt water out of his eyes with his sleeve. ‘It’s too rough.’

A man with arms like tree trunks waggled his eyebrows at him. ‘That’s right, keep positive.’

Whetstone pulled a face at Oresmiter, Awfulrick’s second-in-command, then turned his attention back to the boat. You would have to be mad to go out in weather like this, although Vikings weren’t generally known for their sensible decision making. They were much better known for feasting, fighting and falling asleep under the table.

It was thanks to Whetstone that the longboat had been noticed at all. He had been mooching along the cliffs when he spotted it far out at sea and clearly in trouble. Whetstone had been looking for a way out of Krud for weeks now, but strange weather had plagued the village. This was the first and only boat he had seen, the powerful wind and raging waves keeping everything else away from the shore.

Out at sea the ship looked tiny, tossed on the waves like a child’s toy. But up-close it was huge and dangerous. Sleek sides lined with circular shields dipped low. A carved dragon figurehead snarled from the front.

With the crunch of wood on shingle the longboat reached the beach. The Vikings on board jumped off, joining the effort to pull the boat above the high-water mark. Whetstone’s heart thudded in his chest: this boat was going to be his ticket out of Krud. All he had to do was talk his way onto the crew, prove himself useful, and …

‘Get out of the way, weasel,’ said Bragi, a young Viking with long-ish red hair and a big-ish nose. He gave Whetstone a shove, knocking him into a rockpool.

‘WHETSTONE!’ Oresmiter bellowed. ‘Stop messing about. Get back to the village and tell Ethel to get a stew on for our visitors!’

‘Fine.’ Whetstone pulled a nosey crab out of his tunic and tossed it back into the water. Bits of slimy seaweed clung to his hands, he sneakily wiped them on Bragi’s cloak. ‘It’s not as if fighting with wet wood and getting covered in splinters is my idea of a good time, anyway.’

Dodging out of the way as the boat was dragged up the beach, Whetstone started the long trudge towards the cliffs and back to Krud. He would find an opportunity to speak to the longboat crew later, when everyone was dry and in a better mood.

At the top of the cliffs, Whetstone’s spine prickled. He turned to look down on the scene below him. The ship was safely on the beach now, the crew hurriedly unloading chests and other possessions as the rain bucketed down. But in the centre of the action, one man stood motionless, watching Whetstone. A man who had the bushiest red beard the boy had ever seen. Whetstone raised his hand in a wave, thinking it was never too early to make a good impression. Wind caught what was left of the ragged sail and an image of a sea serpent with gaping jaws billowed behind the man. Whetstone shivered and lowered his hand, pulling his cloak in tighter against the biting wind. He was sure he could still feel the eyes of the bearded man on him as he walked away.

Back at the Great Hall, Whetstone was met by great excitement. Fires had been built into infernos, fresh sawdust was spread on the floor and someone had even brought out the fancy plates – you know, the ones without the gnaw marks. He nodded pointedly to Ethel and she dropped something scaly into the pot. The smell of fish rolled across the room catching in Whetstone’s throat and making him cough.

The boy slid onto the bench furthest from the cauldron and tipped water out of his far-too-big boots, his mind still on the longboat and the strange, bearded man. The crew would be staying in Krud tonight, and tomorrow, Whetstone felt a jolt of excitement, he could be on his way to start his quest. He had wasted too much time waiting for Lotta already.

A few minutes later, just as Whetstone started to dry out, Awfulrick led the visitors into the Great Hall. There were about thirty men, all tired and wet. They dropped onto benches gratefully, puddles soon forming by their feet as rain and sea water dripped off their hair and clothes. The man with the red beard caught Whetstone’s eye and winked.

‘LOVELY DAY FOR A SAIL!’ bellowed Awfulrick, slamming a cup of mead into the man’s hand.

The man nodded, his beard bouncing up and down. ‘We had fair winds until we got within sight of Krud. You must’ve done something to anger Thor.’

Awfulrick laughed. ‘IT’S NOT THOR WE HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT.’ He peered around the room. ‘WHETSTONE! GET UP HERE AND TELL THEM WHAT YOU DID TO THAT DRAGON!’

Whetstone froze midway through wringing water out of his cloak. Awfulrick’s magical cup bounced up and down on the Chief’s shoulder like a demented metal parrot. It squeaked and then began to speak in a voice that sounded like a stuck cutlery drawer:

Whetstone came to Krud with a feeling,

That he just had to go stealing.

He took this fine cup,

But a colossal mix-up,

Left him stranded in Asgard and reeling.

A Valkyrie named Lotta was to blame,

But Whetstone thought it was all a game.

He was in for a shock,

It was a long drop,

To send him home once again.

The crowd started to elbow each other and mutter. This story was a firm favourite with the Vikings of Krud.

Whetstone wanted to find Glory and Fame,

To have us all knowing his name.

So with Loki a deal he struck,

To swap their freedom for Awfulrick’s cup,

But the Trickster was playing a game.

Lotta agreed to help out with the quest,

She wanted to prove that she was the best.

They climbed down the tree,

But things weren’t easy,

And they woke a dragon who wasn’t impressed.

Whetstone flattened his scruffy hair, he had always wanted to be famous. He just thought he would be a famous thief, not a Hero. A few of the Vikings started mouthing the words along with the cup.

The dragon was looking for food,

A tasty Valkyrie and Viking would do.

But instead the cup was dinner,

Till our Hero played a winner,

Beating the dragon and Loki, too!

The crowd burst into applause. Whetstone felt his heart speed up – if only it had been that easy. He still woke up in a sweat remembering Loki’s dark eyes and twisted smile.

A large hand clamped around the neck of Whetstone’s tunic, yanking him out of his memories and also off the bench. Oresmiter wheeled the boy to the front of the hall, his boots leaving long muddy streaks across the floor. The Vikings cheered.

Awfulrick stood outlined in front of the fireplace, the cup gleaming on his shoulder. ‘THERE YOU ARE!’

Oresmiter released the boy. Whetstone stumbled, massaging his throat. The longboat crew eyed him with interest.

‘Actually, I didn’t slay it and there was only one dragon,’ Whetstone began modestly.

Whetstone tried not to grin as the Vikings of Krud started to stamp their feet and chant his name, ‘Whet-stone, Whet-stone, WHET-STONE!’

‘Don’t forget that Odin, Chief of the Gods, decided Whetstone was officially a Hero and gave him a mighty quest!’ the cup squeaked over the racket.

Whetstone made a grab for the cup who jumped onto Awfulrick’s other shoulder. ‘Shut up! You can’t tell anyone about that,’ the boy looked around in a panic.

‘The way you got rid of that dragon was brilliant!’ cried a short round Viking, wiping tears out of his eyes. ‘Best thing to happen in Krud since Bjorn Brown Trousers was bitten on the bottom by a bear!’

The man from the longboat stroked his enormous beard. ‘You sound like the sort of adventurous young man we could use on our crew.’

‘YOU CAN’T HAVE HIM!’ Awfulrick replied, squeezing Whetstone’s shoulder in a move which was both comforting and stopped him leaving his side. ‘HE’S STAYING IN KRUD. HE’S OUR GOOD LUCK CHARM.’ Whetstone winced.

The cup jumped off Awfulrick’s shoulder and landed in Whetstone’s hands. It peered up at him with ruby eyes. ‘Why won’t you let me tell them how the adventure ends?’ it complained. ‘That was the best bit. You, me, Lotta, Odin, the riddle …’

Whetstone wiggled away from Awfulrick and wrapped his hands around the cup to muffle its voice. ‘Shhh!’

The cup narrowed its eyes. ‘But think of the poems I could make up! It’s a quest worthy of great Heroes, Odin ordered you—’ Whetstone tightened his hands around the cup’s mouth but odd words still escaped, ‘Skera harp— Dwarves— Loki—’ Thinking the cup had finished, Whetstone relaxed his hands. ‘SAVE THE NINE WORLDS!’ the cup squealed loudly.

The Vikings gave a massive cheer. Cups of ale were thrown into the air. The dogs dozing in front of the fire woke up and started barking. Arrows were shot into the rafters knocking down dust, cobwebs and an unfortunate squirrel.

Whetstone slunk into a corner by the fireplace. ‘You have to shut up! I know about the quest. I was there, remember? I have to return the cursed harp strings to the Dwarves before Loki finds them. But it’s not exactly easy, is it?’

‘No one ever said being a Hero was easy,’ the cup replied tartly. ‘Otherwise anyone could do it. Besides, I’m here to help you.’

‘It’s no use getting stroppy with me,’ the cup pouted. ‘I didn’t steal the Skera Harp and curse your whole family. That was mostly Loki.’

‘I know,’ Whetstone hissed, squeezing the cup again. ‘And don’t tell me that Loki will be back, because I know that too. He’s a shapeshifter so being eaten by a dragon won’t stop him for long.’

‘You do remember the riddle, I gave you, don’t you?’ the cup asked, oblivious to Whetstone’s discomfort. ‘When I told you your fate?’

‘You will seek to find, those who have been pulled apart,

A journey high and deep, into Yggdrasil’s heart.’

Whetstone gritted his teeth. The cup could tell the fortune of anyone who held it, and that was the reason Loki made Whetstone take it in the first place. It had told Whetstone that his fate was to reunite his family, but Loki knew that by finding his parents, Whetstone would also reveal the location of the cursed harp strings, and Loki wanted the harp strings more than anything …

‘One you will find below, in an iced locked land,

Still living but alone, for Hel holds him in her hand.’

‘That’s enough,’ Whetstone gave the cup a little shake. ‘I remember. It’s not exactly something you forget.’

The cup fell silent. Whetstone unpeeled his hands. He had been holding it so tightly the pattern from the cup’s sides was imprinted on his palms.

‘I don’t know why you’ve been hanging around here,’ the cup complained. ‘The sooner you start looking, the sooner you’ll find them. Then I can make up more fantastic poems about your valiant quest!’

‘I’ve been busy planning stuff! The Nine Worlds are depending on me, it’s a lot of pressure.’ Whetstone sighed, his shoulders slumping. ‘And I’ve been waiting for Lotta. She promised to come back and help me, but I haven’t heard from her in weeks.’

‘Of course not,’ the cup replied. ‘She’s busy with Valkyrie business. You need to get on with things on your own. Have you figured out where the first harp string is yet?’

‘It must be in Helheim, that’s where Hel lives,’ Whetstone muttered. ‘But how do I get there? I can’t even get out of Krud.’

‘Not with that attitude,’ the cup replied primly. ‘Helheim is the Land of Lost Things. So you should, you know … get lost!’ The cup jumped onto a nearby table and vanished among the Vikings.

Needing some fresh air, Whetstone sidled to the door to the Great Hall and slipped out. Dark clouds hung above him filling the sky with the promise of yet more rain. Whetstone pushed his hood down, enjoying the novel sensation of being outside and dry at the same time.

His feet unthinkingly followed the familiar path towards the field outside the village. He never asked for any of this. If it hadn’t been for Loki and his schemes, Whetstone would have had a normal life with a normal parents and normal friends.

The boy squelched his way along the rutted path. He made this journey at least once a day, visiting a boy sized boulder which was all that was left of Loki’s son, Vali. Loki had transformed him into a rock when Vali finally defied him. Although Whetstone and Vali had never been friends, Whetstone found it reassuring to visit what was left of him. It helped remind him that his adventures weren’t some sort of mad dream.

Whetstone stuck his hands in his pockets, fingers feeling for the crumpled Guide to the Nine Worlds. It was the last thing Lotta had given him before returning to Asgard. Lotta had got in a lot of trouble for accidentally bringing Whetstone to the World of the Gods instead of a dead Hero like she was supposed to. It was only when Whetstone had proved his worth by getting rid of the dragon that she was able to continue with her Valkyrie training.

Whetstone pulled the tattered pages out of his pocket. Another fragment of paper was stuck to the front cover.

I’m sorry – stuck in Asgard. Don’t start the quest without me!

Lotta

Lotta had sent him that note three weeks ago. Since then, there had been nothing. Don’t start the quest without me. It was all very well Lotta saying that, but he was the one left kicking his heels in Krud waiting for her to show up. He couldn’t exactly march up to Asgard and find her himself. He smiled, imagining the scene. ‘Excuse me, Odin, Chief of the Gods, Spear Shaker, One Eyed Thunderer, is Lotta the Valkyrie in? I need to talk to her.’ Whetstone sniggered, picturing the God’s expression.

Whetstone rounded the bend, following the path of churned mud to Vali’s boulder. Sometimes when the light was right, you could almost see a face in the rock. Lotta had said that Vali had been transformed into a troll, not just an ordinary boulder, so when the sun went down he should be able to move, but he would turn back into stone when the sun rose. Except the boulder hadn’t moved an inch so far. Maybe he was just a boulder after all.

Whetstone glanced up, expecting to see the familiar shape outlined against the horizon.

Whetstone spun on the spot, his heart hammering. He was definitely in the right place, there was even a patch of dead grass where the boulder had been. Vali had gone but something was left, burnt into the grass in tall black letters.

Chapter One

Deadman’s Cove