‘Put me down!’ shrieked Freya. She pounded Snot’s gnarled back and beat his chest with her feet.
Snot ignored her.
Freya felt her streaming nose squash into her face as it bang-bang-banged against Snot’s back as he stomped across the withered meadows outside Asgard’s great wall, trailed by Roskva and Alfi. The stench from his matted bear-shirt and cloak was horrible.
‘I said put me down!’ screamed Freya. She tried not to breathe in his stink.
‘Is this how you want your saga to end?’ said Snot fiercely. ‘Crying and mewling? After the sword, or sickness, or old age ends your life, only reputation lives on.’
‘I don’t care about my saga!’ said Freya. She started weeping again. ‘I want to go home.’
‘Well, you can’t and neither can we, so ACCEPT YOUR FATE,’ screamed Roskva. She muttered under her breath to Alfi.
Freya stopped crying.
Accept her fate? She was under sentence of death. Wolves? Trolls? Giants? If they didn’t kill her, other monsters would. And if by luck she escaped them, the wilderness would snare her and she’d drown in a river or tumble off a mountain. And even if fate decreed that she survive, what was the chance of finding Idunn and bringing her back to Asgard before nine nights ran out? Nil.
Strangely enough, Freya felt calmer spelling this out. No one knows their fate, she thought, wiping her eyes. If I only have nine more days to live then I’d better make the best of them.
‘I can walk, you know,’ she said. ‘Put me down.’
‘Then stop whimpering,’ barked Snot, dumping her on the gravelly ground. Freya sat up, rubbing her arm where she’d landed.
Outside the ghostly ruined citadel of the Gods, the afternoon sun lit up the vast plains. There was no sound except the roar of a tumultuous river. When had she last slept? She couldn’t remember.
‘Are all girls like you now?’ said Roskva, looking down at her with distaste. ‘You’re very soft. Where’s your spirit of adventure?’
My spirit of adventure is trying a new vegetable, thought Freya. She didn’t dare say it out loud.
‘Don’t give up hope, Freya,’ said Alfi. He smiled at her and helped her to her feet. ‘I’ve done this sort of thing before.’
‘Yeah, with Thor behind you all the way,’ said Roskva.
‘We’ll be back with Idunn before you know it,’ said Alfi.
Freya stared at him.
‘How can you be so cheerful?’ said Freya, scowling.
‘A man should be happy until his dying day,’ said Alfi, shifting restlessly from foot to foot. ‘My grandpa used to say it’s always better to live than lie dead.’
Yeah right, thought Freya. Good for your grandpa. She gnawed on her frayed sleeve.
Roskva whistled. Freya heard pounding hooves, and Sleipnir galloped over, snorting, his eight legs churning the stony ground.
‘Hurry up!’ said Snot, striding towards the gleaming river. ‘We want to get as far as we can before nightfall.’
‘Snot! You’re going the wrong way,’ shouted Alfi. ‘Jotunheim is north-east. We need to head for the mountains past the River Irving.’
Snot stalked over to Alfi. He towered over him.
‘Are you as brave as me?’ he bellowed. His crooked brows bristled.
‘Far from it,’ said Alfi, cowering.
Snot kicked Alfi’s feet from under him. Alfi fell over.
‘Just remember that and we’ll get on fine,’ said Snot. ‘Don’t you tell me which way to go. I’m leading this quest.’
‘Says who?’ said Roskva.
‘Says me,’ said Snot. ‘I am Woden’s chosen warrior.’
‘We’ve all been chosen,’ said Roskva.
‘Actually, I think Freya is leader,’ mumbled Alfi. ‘She blew Heimdall’s horn.’
‘What?’ said Snot. He looked like he was about to attack Alfi again.
‘She’s our leader?’ said Roskva. Her eyes flashed.
I’m leader? thought Freya. If she thought it would do any good she would have howled. No one had ever asked her to lead anything. I’m a follower, thought Freya. I’m Betty the brunette, the leader’s best friend. Not—
‘I should be leader,’ said Roskva. ‘I’m the smartest.’
Snot glared at them. ‘I take orders from no one but Woden. And certainly not from children.’
‘For the last time we are not children!’ screamed Roskva.
Freya looked at the furious faces around her. Sleipnir snorted and stamped the ground, eager to go. We haven’t even set off and already we’re fighting, she thought.
‘So go on, Freya, tell us, what makes you so special?’ said Roskva. ‘You wear no rings or gold arm bracelets so you must be poor and without protectors. You’re small. You’re very plain. You can’t even walk on Bifrost without vomiting. And yet the Gods have chosen you and Alfi thinks you should lead us. Are you a seeress?’
‘No,’ said Freya. At least she didn’t think she was.
‘Then what’s so special about you?’ Roskva repeated.
Freya tried to focus.
‘Nothing,’ said Freya.
What talents did she have? Did she even have any? She’d been in her school’s ‘Good as Gold’ book twice in a row. She held the school record for the most pancakes eaten in ten minutes. And she could … and she had … Somehow Freya didn’t think being good as gold or able to stuff her face with pancakes was going to help her much now. How depressing to be twelve years old and good at nothing.
‘What are you good at?’ asked Freya.
‘I’m the fastest runner in Midgard,’ said Alfi. ‘Well, I was. I imagine I still am. I’m certainly the oldest.’ He grinned.
‘I’m almost as fast as you,’ said Roskva hotly. ‘And let’s face it. I’m a lot smarter.’
‘A quick tongue often talks itself into trouble,’ said Alfi.
‘And out of it,’ said Roskva.
Freya felt as if she were watching a ping-pong match between brother and sister.
‘We must go NOW,’ bellowed Snot. His fists clenched. ‘We have to travel as far as possible before dark.’
Freya saw the others looking at her expectantly.
‘I don’t want to be leader,’ said Freya, trembling. ‘I don’t know my way around … I don’t know anything, really … But … but … can I just ask … has anyone ever been where we’re going? To the land of the giants? Jot – Jot—’
‘Jotunheim,’ said Roskva. ‘Alfi and I have been many times with our Master. It’s north-east from here. The River Irving marks the boundary. Ever been to Jotunheim, Snot?’
Snot looked down at her and bit his shield. He said nothing.
‘Thought so,’ said Roskva.
Snot’s hand tightened on his sword.
‘You’re lucky that Woden ordered me to protect you,’ he snarled.
‘Then I think Alfi and Roskva should guide us there,’ said Freya. ‘We can argue about who is leader later. Does anyone have a better plan?’
‘That’s settled then,’ said Roskva, without waiting for anyone to answer. She grabbed hold of Sleipnir’s golden bridle. ‘Four can ride at once,’ she said. ‘If we squeeze.’
Freya held back. Horses terrified her.
She stared up at Sleipnir. The gleaming grey horse towered over her. He was longer and wider than any horse she’d ever seen.
‘I’ve never ridden before,’ said Freya.
‘High time you did,’ said Roskva, clambering on.
Snot heaved her unceremoniously on to Sleipnir behind Roskva. Freya scrabbled about and tried to swing her legs over his broad back without slipping over the other side. The ground looked very far away. Snot hesitated, then climbed on behind Freya, muttering and growling. Alfi sprang on last, vaulting easily over Sleipnir’s tail.
‘AAEEEEEEE!’ screamed Freya, as Sleipnir galloped off. ‘Help,’ she squealed. ‘I’m going to fall!’
She clung frantically to Roskva and squeezed her eyes shut as Sleipnir jumped the flinty river as if it were a puddle and scrambled up the opposite bank.
‘Careful, you’ll pull me off!’ shouted Roskva as Freya clutched her waist, terrified, rocking and jolting on top of the speeding horse.
Soon the plains and parched meadows of Asgard were behind them. Freya sat squished between Roskva and Snot, her eyes squeezed shut every time Sleipnir leapt over a river or a lake, her knees gripping his smooth sides as tightly as she could as they vaulted through the air, landing with a horrendous bump that made Freya’s stomach lurch. Far, far away, she could see mountains black with forest, lost in grey clouds.
For hour after hour they crossed river valleys and hillsides, wooded below, rocky higher up. Waterfalls tumbled down sheer, pink-grey cliffs, flowing over boulders into frothy pools. Freya dared to open her eyes for a time and glimpsed tiny blue flowers growing between the rocks littering the overgrown path. Sleipnir crushed them underfoot.
Freya was concentrating so hard on not falling off she barely looked where they were going. It was difficult to talk, they were travelling so fast. Roskva’s long hair, tied back in a knot at her neck, kept whacking Freya’s face.
‘What’s that?’ shouted Freya. She pointed to a huge, monstrous-shaped stone, squatting by the steep, winding path between the hills they were crossing. The arms were outstretched, like a bulbous Valkyrie of the North.
Roskva shrugged. ‘Petrified troll,’ she said. ‘They get sun on them – bam! They turn to stone. Our Master tricked one once – Alviss.’
‘Good times,’ shouted Alfi.
Freya shook her head. Poor Alfi. What a dreadful life he’d led, if tricking trolls was his idea of fun.
The wind whistled through the valley as shadows started to drift across their path. The snowy peaks of the giants’ icy lands loomed in the distance behind small hills rolling off into the horizon. Freya heard the clamour of a fast-flowing river and caught the glint of silvery water through the scented pine trees.
‘That’s the boundary,’ said Roskva.
Freya didn’t need to ask which one.
‘We need a place to camp,’ said Snot, scrambling to be first off Sleipnir. These were the first words he’d spoken since they’d set off. ‘We’ll stay on the Asgard side of the river. It’s too dangerous to travel at night. We’ll cross into Jotunheim at dawn.’
It was a plan. Freya liked plans, and to-do lists, and re-doing homework in neat and someone in charge telling her what to do. That way she knew where she was. Unfortunately, where she was wasn’t anything she could have planned for.
Freya slid the long way down from Sleipnir and watched the giant horse trot through the tangled trees to the river to gulp great mouthfuls of water. Her legs wobbled and muscles she never knew she had felt battered and bruised. All she wanted to do was to stretch out somewhere, anywhere, and sleep. A strange thought, as camping was her idea of Hel.
Alfi found a little green gully which provided some shelter from the wind. Snot nodded. ‘That’ll do,’ he said. Alfi flung himself to the ground, amidst coarse clumps of rough grass, breathing hard. Roskva bustled about, tending to Sleipnir, the stallion glowing in the forest’s olive light.
Freya felt helpless. She was useless at games, useless at climbing. She was clumsy. She hated PE. Get a good education, Mum and Dad were always telling her. But she would have been better off just being physically fit and never picking up a book, she thought bitterly as she skidded on the mossy stones littering the slimy river bank to get some water to drink. Maybe there was a good reason why museums were always putting up signs saying ‘Don’t touch’.
It was eerily quiet. Freya hated nature, so cold, so wet, so uncomfortable, so malevolent. She always felt nervous off concrete. Her whole body ached. I’m hungry, she thought. Do these people eat?
Freya stood on the banks of the wide, sparkling river separating Asgard from Jotunheim. She thought for a moment to dip her feet in, but the boiling current changed her mind. Scooping up the clear, icy water in her cupped hands, Freya drank, shuddering at the cold.
She glimpsed the far-away, jagged mountains, and grim gulches and gulleys, lit by the dying rays of the sun. The flat-peaked mountains looked like a giant had taken a gigantic saw and lopped off their tops. A giant probably did take a gigantic saw and lop off their tops, thought Freya.
Roskva pointed.
‘Jotunheim,’ she said. ‘It gets much worse further in.’
‘Worse?’ said Freya.
‘Jotunheim is a biting land of gales and rock and ice,’ said Roskva. ‘And that’s the good bit. Where Thjazi lives … it’s so cold the air aches.’
Great, thought Freya. Just great. Can’t wait to freeze to death before I’m eaten alive.
‘I’ll find food before it gets too dark,’ said Snot. ‘You—’ he pointed to Alfi. ‘Keep your hand on your sword. And no one goes to pee alone.’
Freya watched Snot slip down to the river bank and disappear around a bend.
‘He smells,’ she said.
‘No he doesn’t,’ said Roskva, gathering up twigs and pieces of kindling lying thick amidst the dead bracken and mossy undergrowth. ‘On the other hand, you smell …’
‘Me?’
‘You. Sort of … sickly-sweet. Ugh.’ Roskva wrinkled her nose.
‘That’s deodorant,’ said Freya.
‘What?’
‘Stops you smelling,’ said Freya.
Roskva looked at her. ‘Why don’t you just take a bath?’
‘I do that too,’ said Freya hotly.
‘I haven’t had a bath in … a long time,’ said Roskva. ‘We had our own bathhouse at home, with a stone floor, and little benches … Tyrsday was bath day …’ She shook her head and bent over her kindling.
Freya watched Roskva and Alfi prepare a fire. Roskva struck a light with a piece of flint strung on her belt. The tiny spark flickered, then the kindling caught.
‘Why did Thor take you from your parents?’ asked Freya, as the tiny flames spluttered into life.
‘Why don’t you ask him?’ said Roskva. ‘It’s his fault.’
Alfi’s face darkened. ‘By Thor, would you stop it?’
‘I was happy on our farm,’ said Roskva. ‘I never wanted anything more.’
‘Oh Gods, here we go again,’ groaned Alfi. ‘For the last time, I was hungry.’
Roskva continued as if he hadn’t spoken.
‘But no, you had to disobey Thor when he stopped at our home and slaughtered his magic goat for us to eat. He said over and over, “Be careful with the bones, throw them whole onto the goat’s skin,” but no, you greedy guts, you had to gnaw the leg bone and crack it, the goat was lame when Thor brought it back to life, and then it was scream and beg for mercy and goodbye Mum, goodbye Dad, goodbye little farm, hello being a bondservant for ever and ever to atone for the wrong you did. Not me. You.’
‘The Mighty One showed great mercy when he spared our lives.’
‘Some mercy,’ said Roskva. ‘He just torments us now instead of killing us then.’
‘Our farm was a dump,’ said Alfi. ‘Remember the stink? Remember how lonely it was? Remember that turf roof with the rats scrabbling about?’
‘I miss Mum,’ she said. ‘I even miss the cows.’
‘Mum’s been dead for thousands of years,’ said Alfi. ‘And Dad. And so would you be if Thor hadn’t taken us.’
Roskva sighed loudly.
‘At least I’d have had a life.’
‘No one can escape their fate,’ said Alfi.
‘I hope it’s my fate to kill you,’ said Roskva. She punched him lightly on the arm.
Alfi laughed.
‘And yours to be the mother of ogres.’
‘Meanie.’
But she smiled briefly as she blew on the embers. The flames crackled.
‘Where’s that berserk gone?’ muttered Roskva. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘What exactly does berserk mean?’ asked Freya.
‘It means we love a good fight,’ said Snot, appearing through the growing gloom carrying a dripping salmon speared on his sword. He whacked the quivering fish on the ground and chopped off its head. His eyes glinted in the firelight. Then he took out his knife and started hacking the fish into large chunks. He stuffed one raw into his mouth. ‘We are priests of war. When I fight I join the Gods. I feel no pain. Nothing can—’
Snot growled. He whipped off his cloak and beat out the flames.
‘Hey!’ said Roskva. ‘I—’
‘Get down!’ he hissed.
Freya froze.
‘Get down,’ said Alfi, pulling her.
They flung themselves into the sweet-smelling bracken.
‘Don’t move,’ said Snot.
‘What? What is it?’ whispered Freya.
‘Above us,’ muttered Roskva.
Freya looked. High overhead, an eagle circled the darkening sky.
‘It’s just an eagle,’ said Freya. ‘How can he harm us?’
‘The giant Thjazi can take the form of an eagle,’ said Roskva. The huge bird circled above them, its immense wings etched against the night sky.
‘The horse. He might have seen the horse,’ said Freya.
‘So?’ said Alfi. ‘It’s the All-Father’s horse. No great surprise seeing Sleipnir around Asgard.’
‘Let’s hope he didn’t,’ said Roskva.
The mighty eagle circled again, then, screeching, flew off back into the dark hills.
‘He’s gone,’ said Roskva, standing up and brushing herself off. ‘We can pray he didn’t see us. Now make yourself useful, Freya, and collect some wood,’ she added brusquely, re-lighting the fire. Freya noticed Roskva’s hands were shaking.
Freya gathered whatever pieces of wood were nearest and added them to the small heap by the fire. No way was she going into the forest alone.
‘Do you think that was Thjazi?’ said Freya. She felt terrified.
Roskva shrugged. ‘It could have been an ordinary eagle. Or …’
‘I’ll kill Thjazi in single combat,’ snarled Snot. His sharp sword gleamed. ‘I am a warrior from Valhalla.’ He threw a salmon chunk at Alfi.
‘Get sticks. Roast them yourselves.’
Freya looked at the bloody hunks of raw fish piled up by the fire. Her stomach heaved.
‘Umm. I don’t like fish,’ said Freya.
‘Then you won’t eat,’ said Roskva, threading a chunk of fish onto a stick and holding it above the flames.
‘One of my sons was a fussy eater,’ said Snot. ‘Not for long …’ His fingers played on his blood-washed sword. He sat with his back to them, weapons by his side, his body tense and watchful.
Freya squared her shoulders and forced herself to touch a piece of salmon with the tips of her fingers. Ugh. So slimy. She impaled it on a stick, then sat down with Roskva and Alfi. Part of her wanted to scream, how can you talk about food when we’re about to be eaten?
The moon rose, casting a faint light. At least there’s still a moon, she thought.
‘Why do you think Loki never came back to Asgard?’ said Freya. Talking made her feel less scared.
Roskva grimaced. ‘Who knows? Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he got trapped by Thjazi. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’s dead.’
‘Loki is a shape-changer,’ said Alfi. ‘It’s impossible to know his true nature. One moment he is playful and fun, the next cruel and strange.’
‘You know what they say about him?’ said Roskva. ‘That come the end of days Loki will lead the armies of the dead and the giants and destroy Asgard.’
Freya shook her head. ‘I was taught Loki rescued Idunn and saved the Gods. And that was – a lie. What else is lies?’
No one answered.
Alfi mixed some grains in a small iron pot he’d taken from Sleipnir’s saddle-bag and filled with river water. He sniffed something, grimaced, and put it back in the pouch.
‘Aren’t you going to cook that?’ said Roskva.
‘Why?’ said Alfi. ‘At least it’s barley flour. We’ll be eating stale oat cakes and rotten herring and acorns soon so enjoy this while you can.’
Alfi slopped a spoonful of stuff into Freya’s hands.
She looked at the thin, watery glop. It was grey and sticky and lumpy. It looked like – it looked like – Freya didn’t want to think what it looked like. She sniffed it, then wished she hadn’t.
‘What is this?’ she asked.
‘Gruel,’ said Roskva, slurping up a huge mouthful.
Gruel?
Gruel sounded a lot like what Oliver Twist wanted more of. Gruel sounded like something you ate in Victorian England along with rats and old shoes.
‘How old is it?’ said Freya. She had a horrible feeling it might be past its sell-by date. Way past its sell-by date.
Roskva shrugged. ‘How old is Yggdrasil? How old is that mountain? How old? How old? It’s food. Eat it.’
Freya had a sudden memory of pushing away her dinner because her corn on the cob had touched her roast chicken. She liked to eat things on separate plates. She shoved the lumpy, horrible-tasting mess into her mouth and swallowed as quickly as she could. Then she picked up her stick of salmon and held it over the fire.
Snot slurped up his gruel in three quick gulps. Then he sat sharpening his huge sword blade.
Alfi flinched. ‘That sounds worse than someone edging a scythe on a stone,’ he said.
‘You don’t like it, block your ears,’ grunted Snot.
‘One thing I don’t understand,’ said Freya. ‘Why would Loki give Idunn to a giant?’
‘Why. Why. Why. Gods, do you ever stop asking questions?’ muttered Snot. He rolled his eyes.
‘Loki attacked an eagle who turned out to be the giant Thjazi in disguise,’ said Roskva. ‘Thjazi grabbed Loki and smashed him into boulders and thorns until Loki swore he would bring Idunn to him.’
‘Why did Loki keep his promise?’ said Freya.
‘You must understand something,’ said Alfi. ‘Loki’s father was a giant. So. Is he loyal to the Gods? Or to the giants?’
‘The Gods do what they like,’ said Roskva. ‘We mortals live with the consequences.’ She and Alfi looked at one another in silence.
‘The Valkyries snatched me from battle,’ said Snot. ‘I was fighting. I was winning. But Woden sent the Choosers of the Slain to take me and not the filthy son of a mare I was walloping.’ He shrugged. ‘If a man knew his fate he’d go mad.’
‘Your fish is burning,’ said Roskva.
Wrinkling her nose at the acrid smell, Freya withdrew the blackened chunk. Tentatively she took a tiny bite. The flesh was burnt on the outside, and raw on the inside. She forced herself to eat a bit more, her stomach heaving.
Freya felt them before she heard it. A thin, deep-pitched, hungry howl. And then another. And another.
Her skin prickled. She whimpered and edged closer to the fire. The other three grabbed flaming sticks and stood with their backs to the heat, facing outward. Freya caught a glimpse of glowing amber-red eyes. She had no idea what to do. Roskva pulled out her knife.
Snot ran bellowing into the trees, brandishing the burning wood and wielding his sword. Alfi hesitated and drew his sword, uncertain whether to follow or stay.
‘Oh, give me that,’ screamed Roskva, snatching his blade and edging towards the forest.
‘Oy! I was just about to—’ spluttered Alfi, grabbing it back, when Snot reappeared from the darkness.
‘The wolves have gone,’ said Snot. The firelight glistened on his bloody sword. ‘But not for long. We’ll keep watch tonight. Now that they’ve smelt us, they won’t leave us.’
They huddled close together by the fire, the night around them thick and black as the clouds hid the half-moon. Freya bit her lip hard to stop herself bursting into tears.
‘Anyone know any poetry?’ said Alfi. His voice trembled. ‘What about Egil Skallagrimsson?’
‘Who?’ said Freya. Her voice was also shaky.
‘You’ve never heard of him?’ said Alfi.
‘Nope,’ said Freya.
‘Unbelievable,’ said Alfi. ‘What about Eyvind the Plagiarist?’
Freya shook her head. ‘I know a bit of Shakespeare … we studied Hamlet in school.’ Her voice quavering, she recited:
To be or not to be; that is the question:
whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer—
‘Who?’ interrupted Roskva. ‘He’s terrible.’
‘What about Audun the Uninspired?’ said Snot. ‘I always liked Audun.’
‘Let’s hear it,’ said Alfi.
Snot stood, sword drawn, left hand on his hip, and recited, his gravelly voice low:
Oh battle bright warrior
How the gold of your brooch-goddess gleams
Too soon raven’s food litters the blood-soaked ground
Wolf’s teeth stained with blood.
Alfi clapped. His sword, Freya noticed, was clutched tight in his hand.
‘Do you know anything more cheerful?’ said Freya. The thought of bloody wolf’s teeth was a little close to home at the moment.
‘Cheerful!’ Snot spat. He thought for a moment. ‘There’s always that funny poem of Eyvind’s …
My sword, flame of battle
Digs deep in enemy ribs.
Wound-sea pours red from the trailing guts
My shield-splitting arm
Hacks him to pieces
Ready for the eagle’s snack.
Snot laughed. It sounded more like a rasp than a laugh.
‘It’s good, no? I especially like the phrase “eagle’s snack”.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘I write a bit of poetry myself.’
‘Go on,’ said Roskva.
‘I’m no Eyvind …’
And then Snot stood up again, threw back his grizzled head, and recited:
Eagle food
Raven food
Warriors all end up as bloody food.
When you’re a wolf meal
No point in gold then
A dead man gathers no wealth inside the wolf’s belly.
‘True,’ said Alfi.
AAAAAARRRRGGGHHHH! thought Freya. Did every poem have to be about being eaten by eagles and wolves?
Snot glowered. ‘You don’t need to pretend. I didn’t say I was a good poet, I said I wrote a bit of poetry. But a king did give me the gift of my own head once for that verse.’
Alfi looked puzzled.
‘He pardoned him,’ said Roskva.
Snot smiled faintly. ‘I think I must have been happy then.’
They were silent. Freya watched the flames and listened to the howling river. Her shoulders tensed. Any moment a giant could burst out of the darkness and trample them to death. Or a wolf could tear them to pieces. She could feel her heart banging against her chest, its quick-quick beats reverberating inside her. How could the others be so calm when they could be killed at any moment?
‘Roskva, what charms did the All-Father give you?’ asked Alfi, poking the fire.
‘Calming waves,’ said Roskva.
‘I can tell men the names of all the Gods and all the elves one by one,’ said Alfi.
‘That’ll be a help against Thjazi,’ said Roskva. ‘Maybe he’ll challenge you to a naming contest and whoever wins gets Idunn.’
‘Do you think so?’ he said.
‘NO!’ said Roskva. ‘Only stupid dwarfs fall for that one.’
‘You never know what’s going to help,’ said Alfi. ‘What about you, Snot?’
Snot spat.
‘I can quench any fire,’ said Snot. ‘He could have taught me how to blunt an enemy’s sword, or how to strengthen a band of comrades so they walk unscathed from battle. But no. I’m a bloody fire-fighter.’ He spat again.
‘If I see a hanged man in a tree I can make him come down and talk to me,’ said Freya. She shivered. ‘Oh wait. I didn’t get anything. The All-Father forgot the last part of the rune.’
‘You got the falcon skin,’ said Roskva.
‘So I did,’ said Freya. Her fingers felt in her pocket for the feather. Her eyes felt heavy.
Alfi was also struggling to keep awake.
‘We should sleep,’ said Snot. ‘I’ll take first watch.’
Alfi wrapped himself in his cloak and stretched out by the crackling fire. ‘Oh, my aching legs,’ he murmured, pulling off his hairy leather ankle boots and rubbing his pale feet.
There was a strangled cry.
Freya stared. There was some sort of creamy chalk on both Alfi’s feet up to his ankles. He tried to rub it off, but the mottled colour remained.
Roskva took off her boots.
‘It’s happening to me too,’ said Roskva quietly.
Her heart pounding, Freya pulled off her own shoes and socks. There was the same mottled ivory-brown colour creeping up her feet to her ankles. She touched her toes. They felt exactly the same, but they tingled, and her skin had changed colour.
‘What’s happening to us?’ whispered Freya.
‘I think … I think we’re slowly turning back into ivory,’ said Roskva. ‘Bit by bit. If we haven’t restored Idunn to the Gods by the ninth night—’
She didn’t need to complete the sentence.
‘We don’t know that,’ said Freya. ‘It might be something else. It might be gone by morning.’
‘It might,’ said Roskva. She fixed Freya with a dark look. ‘And Sleipnir might talk.’
Roskva spread her heavy cloak on the ground, sat down on one side and beckoned to Freya. ‘Here. We can share.’
Freya hesitated. The night wasn’t cold, but she had nothing to put on the ground.
Alfi already lay snoring beside them. His pale bare feet stuck out from the end of the cloak he’d wrapped himself in. Snot sat brooding over the fire, poking at the embers and singing tunelessly: ‘Thor’s lost his hammer/ Oh look it’s in your head.’
Freya gazed at the glittering stars studding the blue-black sky. They didn’t look like any stars she’d ever seen before, grouped in unfamiliar patterns. Her parents would never know what had happened to her. Bob would do his rounds, maybe peer into the case housing the Lewis Chessmen, never realising that … that …
I won’t think about it, she decided. I’ll just try to get through tonight and hope I survive tomorrow.
Freya huddled down on the dusty fur and tried to get comfortable. It was impossible. She needed to sleep in a bed. She could feel stones dig into her back.
Freya tossed and twisted. Tears stung her eyes. She’d never get to sleep.
