Land of Lost Things

by Cat Weldon

  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.

  Lotta had sent him that note three weeks earlier. 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, and when the sun went down he would revert to his usual, horrible self and should be able to move. Except he hadn’t moved an inch so far, so maybe he was just a boulder, after all.

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

  His feet stopped. His knees locked.

  The boulder was gone.

  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 stood. Vali had gone, but something had been left behind in his place, burned into the grass in tall black letters.

  Chapter Two

  Ankle-deep in Krud

  As Whetstone stared in horror at the place where Vali’s boulder should’ve been, a dark-skinned figure on horseback landed over by the Great Hall with a thump, thump, THUMP, squish. Thighbiter, the flying warhorse, whinnied and pulled his hoof out of the sucking mud.

  ‘Don’t be such a softy.’ Lotta dropped the reins and pushed her helmet away from her eyes. ‘We’ve just got to pick something up and then it’s straight back to Asgard before anyone knows we’ve gone.’

  Like all Valkyries, Lotta lived in Asgard, the Home of the Gods. Asgard sat at the top of the world tree, and its inhabitants ruled over the rest of the Nine Worlds. Valkyries were elite warriors whose main purpose was to help Odin build his ghostly army in readiness for Ragnarok, the final battle against the Frost Giants. They were not supposed to sneak out and make secret visits to the human world of Midgard below.

  Lotta tucked the key to the gates of Asgard (which she had – ahem – borrowed ) into her wrist guards and slid off the horse’s back, landing ankle-deep in sludge. ‘Yuck.’

  Her horse snickered.

  ‘I told you – I’m not going to muck it up. This is my chance to come back to Midgard for a bit – officially.’

  The warhorse tossed his mane, showering the girl in raindrops.

  ‘Hey! It wasn’t my idea to have a stupid poetry contest.’ Lotta wiped rain off her face. ‘But the prize is to deliver a package to Njord, God of Coastal Waters, who just happens to live on Midgard. So, while we’re doing that, we can take a little detour to see Whetstone and help him out with the quest.’ She grinned.

  Thighbiter looked unconvinced and flared his nostrils. Lotta patted him.

  ‘It’ll be fine. But you know what I’m like with remembering poems – I just need a little . . . help.’

  The horse made a noise that sounded like a cross between a snort and a laugh.

  ‘Everyone is probably in the Great Hall.’ Lotta led Thighbiter towards the largest building in the village. She paused in the doorway to unhook her circular shield from the horse’s saddle. The six sections glowed faintly, showing how strong her powers were in each key skill. She examined it. ‘Do you think this trip counts as Collecting Fallen Warriors?’

  The horse curled his lip.

  ‘No, I don’t think so either. I couldn’t get hold of the invisibility gauntlets the trainee Valkyries usually use on our trips to Midgard, so I’ll have to use some of the shield’s power instead.’

  She pulled the shield on to her arm and concentrated hard. The shield flickered and Lotta started to fade, her clothes and skin blending in with the background, chameleon-like.

  ‘I only need to disappear enough so that the Vikings don’t notice me.’ Her voice was as indistinct as her appearance. ‘I’ll be super quick. Then it’s back to Asgard before you can say Odin the One-Eyed Eats Only Onions.’

  She pushed open the door, the splintery wood blurry but visible through her arm. A thick wave of steam poured out, accompanied by a boom of noise.

  Large men sat in clusters on wooden benches; on one side of the room a woman sang a song no one was listening to, and in the corner two sweaty men arm wrestled while their friends cheered them on. Lotta immediately felt better: this was just like Valhalla. Only smaller and not as good, obviously. Under the mud and scars, all Vikings were the same, really: feasting and partying until their pasty faces turned red and they collapsed on the floor.

  Lotta straightened her metal-and-leather breastplate, and crept forward.

  She felt guilty that she hadn’t made it back to Midgard to visit Whetstone earlier, but her teacher Scold seemed determined to keep her occupied. Just when Lotta thought she had scrubbed every table and polished all the boots in Valhalla, Scold would find more. It was almost like Scold was keeping her busy on purpose . . . but at least Lotta’s Valkyrie scores were improving because of it.

  Lotta sighed, realizing Whetstone was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he had already left on the quest. No matter – she would just have to catch up with him later. Her shield gave a quiver and her outline started to grow more solid. Lotta screwed up her face in concentration. She couldn’t lose focus now. She needed to find the cup and get back to Asgard, not be distracted by scruffy boys who badly needed a bath. She fixed her eyes on a gleam of gold by the fireplace, and crept forward. Her shield trembled again. Lotta felt a prickle of fear – the power was draining away far more quickly than she had expected. She needed to get the cup and get out of there before she reappeared completely.

  A scream cut through the noise, making Lotta jump. Heart beating wildly, she spun round. They couldn’t be screaming at her: she was still invisible – wasn’t she? Her shield gave a final shudder and Lotta fully rematerialized in the middle of the Great Hall.

  A teenage boy with red hair and a big nose pointed straight at her. ‘It’s that GIRL!’

  Lotta reached for the sword strapped across her back. Heads and weapons turned towards her; she raised her fading shield.

  ‘WAIT!’ bellowed Awfulrick, shoving his way forward. ‘I KNOW YOU! YOU’RE THAT VALKYRIE YOUNG WHETSTONE SAVED!’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Lotta lowered her shield. ‘I saved him, actually—’

  ‘She’s a Valkyrie? A real Valkyrie?’ asked a man who smelt strongly of seawater and sweat.

  Awfulrick nodded. ‘I TOLD YOU YOUNG WHETSTONE WAS SOMETHING SPECIAL. HE EVEN HAS A VALKYRIE ASSISTANT.’

  Lotta’s brown eyes narrowed. ‘What did you just call me?’

  Awfulrick took a step back at her expression.

  ‘Are you here to take us to Valhalla?’ called a hopeful voice.

  ‘No.’

  There was a disappointed chorus of ‘Oo-ooohh’. Every Viking dreamed of one day going to Valhalla – it was their paradise.

  Lotta slid her sword back into its scabbard. ‘Where is Whetstone, anyway?’

  ‘Probably off sulking somewhere,’ said the large-nosed youth who had screamed at her.

  ‘So he is still in Krud.’ Lotta grinned. ‘Could you pass on a message for me? I’ve got a plan to . . . come . . . back . . .�
� Lotta slowed as she looked at the Vikings crowding around her. ‘Are there more people in Krud now? And why does it smell like fish?’

  ‘WE’VE GOT SOME VISITORS.’ Awfulrick pointed at the group of damp-looking men. ‘THEIR BOAT WASHED UP ON THE BEACH!’

  ‘But we’re leaving again tomorrow,’ a man with a large scar running down his face explained.

  Lotta nodded slowly. Everyone was staring at her. She was uncomfortably reminded of the time she had forgotten the words to the Ballad of Bjork the Boring, and everyone in Valhalla had stopped quaffing their drinks to watch. Lotta squashed the memory and straightened her shoulders. ‘I’m here because I need to borrow something.’

  ‘You can have my sword,’ called a thin-faced man. ‘If I can go to Valhalla afterwards.’

  ‘No – take mine!’ called someone else.

  Before Lotta could blink, she was surrounded by pointed weapons. A long sword threatened to slice off one of her black curls. She pushed the blade away. ‘I don’t need anyone’s sword. I need –’ she pointed a finger past Awfulrick’s shoulder – ‘the cup.’

  Everyone swivelled to look as the golden cup twitched and spun, enjoying the attention.

  Bragi crossed his arms. ‘You can’t just barge in here and take our magic cup!’

  ‘BE QUIET, BRAGI,’ yelled Awfulrick. ‘SHE’S A VALKYRIE – SHE CAN HAVE WHATEVER SHE LIKES.’

  A sharp-faced woman raised her hand. ‘What do you want it for? Are you going on an adventure?’

  The cup jumped off its shelf and landed with a clang on the table nearest Lotta. ‘The mighty quest as decreed by Odin begins! I knew you couldn’t do it without me.’

  ‘What quest?’ asked Bragi. ‘The weasel never said anything about a quest.’

  Lotta waved her hands; if Whetstone hadn’t told the Vikings about his quest, he must’ve had a good reason. She wondered if he’d got any further in puzzling out the clues in the riddle. ‘Never mind that – I need it to win a poetry contest.’

  ‘POETRY!’ the cup squeaked. ‘That’s my favourite thing!’

  Bragi snorted.

  Lotta gave him a LOOK. A Category Three Valkyrie Death Stare, to be exact. Bragi turned pale as his backbone melted in response.

  VALKYRIE DEATH STARES

  Category 1

  Mild annoyance. Response: Subject may start to apologize.

  Category 2

  Irritation. Response: Subject may start to whimper; loss of speech is to be expected.

  Category 3

  Anger. Response: Subject may start backing away; cut off escape routes.

  Category 4

  Rage. Response: Subject may wet themselves; stand well back to avoid splashes.

  Category 5

  Fury. Response: Call a doctor. Order a coffin. It’s all over.

  The sharp-faced woman called out again. ‘Do you need someone to carry it? I’ll come to Asgard with you!’

  ‘No.’ Lotta scooped up the cup. ‘I’ll bring it back as soon as I can.’

  The cup squeaked in excitement as Lotta kicked the door open and ducked into the rainy night. ‘Asgard, here we come!’

  Chapter Three

  The most Epic-est Poetry Ever

  From the outside, Valhalla looked like an overgrown version of a normal Viking Great Hall, albeit one with walls made of ranks of shields and with a roof thatched with spears. It towered imposingly over the other buildings in Asgard. Lotta huddled in the doorway, clutching the cup.

  ‘So, you understand the plan?’

  The cup hopped up on to her shoulder. ‘Asgard!’ It jiggled up and down in excitement. ‘I haven’t been here in YEARS!’

  Lotta grabbed at it. ‘Oh, that’s right – you used to belong to Frigg, and that’s how you got your magical powers. How did you end up in Krud?’

  The cup stopped jiggling. ‘Never mind that,’ it muttered. ‘Some people can’t take a joke – that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t need jokes. I need Epic Poetry. The most Epicist Epic Poetry Asgard has ever heard.’ Lotta adjusted the scabbard holding her sword across her back. ‘You hide here until it’s my turn – then you tell me what to say and I say it.’ She popped the cup on top of her scabbard, next to the sword. ‘It’s perfect. We can’t fail!’

  Lotta slipped into the enormous hall. Inside, the walls seemed to stretch for miles. The ceiling was somewhere far, far up above, hidden by smoke and shadows. Tables the size of boats filled the space, each one crowded with great fighters plucked from battle sites by the Valkyries. She swiftly joined the other Valkyries busily shoving benches and tables out of the way, sometimes with warriors still sitting on them.

  Lotta was currently the lowest class of Valkyrie, a Class Three. In order to move up to Class Two (and then on to Class One), she needed to score at least sixty per cent in each of the six key skills, which were recorded on their glowing shields.

  Valkyrie Training School Report

  Name: Brings-A-Lot-Of-Scrapes-And-Grazes (Lotta)

  Class: Third

  Skill Previous score

  Fighting: 40% (35%)

  Horse Riding: 42% (30%)

  Epic Poetry: 30% (28%)

  Transforming into Swans: 51% (38%)

  Serving Mead in Valhalla: 57% (53%)

  Collecting Fallen Warriors: 59.9% (0%)

  Overall Hero Score: 47% (31%)

  A surprising improvement – don’t disappoint me again.

  Signed: Blood-Runs-Cold, Leader of the Valkyries

  Class Twos had much more exciting jobs than Class Threes, like delivering prophecies or appearing in visions while screaming and waving spears. Lotta couldn’t wait.

  ‘All right, Class Threes!’ A large woman in a spiky breastplate waved her arms. ‘Gather round.’

  This was Scold, short for Blood-Runs-Cold. Like all Valkyries, she had a name that made strong men quiver and weak men run screaming for their mummies. None of them would admit it, but she had the same effect on the trainee Valkyries. She was a tall olive-skinned woman with glossy black hair and a booming voice, which she mostly used for telling the trainees off VERY LOUDLY. ‘You are each to perform ONE POEM. You can choose the topic of your poem from War, Fighting, Combat or Biscuits.’

  The trainees looked at each other in confusion.

  A girl with two long silver plaits and ivory skin raised her eyebrows. ‘Biscuits?’

  ‘Yes, biscuits. Glinting-Fire suggested it.’

  Across the room, Glinting-Fire looked up from her clipboard. She was a short Class One Valkyrie from the far north, with bright eyes and tupik tattoos across her tanned face and hands. Lotta shuffled sideways so that she was hidden behind another trainee. Glinting-Fire had a fearsome reputation. Her most-hated habit was springing surprise quizzes on the trainees, determined to weed out anyone who didn’t know their Heroes from their elbows.

  The trainees exploded into whispers.

  ‘I heard Glinting-Fire tried to take over from Scold, but Odin wouldn’t let her,’ one muttered.

  ‘I heard she wanted to put us all in boot camps and do twenty-four-hour training,’ said another.

  ‘I heard she sleeps on a bed of spikes to keep her tough.’

  ‘I heard she does a thousand push-ups every morning and she can fly!’

  ‘Huh. She’s only here because Lotta messed up – I don’t see why we should all suffer.’

  Lotta stared down at her boots. Although never exactly popular, Lotta had reached new lows since her adventures with Whetstone. Many of the Valkyries, especially Glinting-Fire, thought Lotta a troublemaker who had disgraced them all by breaking the rules and wondered if Odin had been right to let her back into Asgard.

  ‘Ahem.’ Scold glared the trainees into silence. ‘Odin, Frigg and Freyja will be here shortly to judge the contest.’

  The girl with long silver plaits put her hand in the air. ‘Doesn’t Loki normally judge the poetry stuff?’

  ‘Loki is busy, Flee.’

  Lotta tried not to smirk. She had be
en there when Loki was eaten by the dragon; he was probably still stuck somewhere inside its bum.

  An identical girl but with one long plait and one silver tuft sniffed. This was Flay, Flee’s twin sister. Flay still blamed Lotta for her lopsided haircut, even thought it had been her own fault, really. It was also the twins’ own fault that they had been caught and punished for helping Loki in his search for the magic cup. But this didn’t seem to matter. The twins hated Lotta more than ever, especially since Lotta’s Valkyrie scores had started to improve and she was making them look bad in comparison. Lotta gave Flay a smug smile, just to annoy her.

  ‘I suggest that you spend the next few minutes thinking about which poem you might chose to recite,’ Scold continued, ignoring the twins. ‘Remember, VICTORY and SPLENDOUR to the winner – SHAME and LOSS to the losers.’

  Flee sniggered. ‘Yeah, a-Lotta loss.’

  Flay stifled a giggle. Lotta stopped smiling.

  The girls fanned out, each trying to think of the best war, fighting or combat poem. Lotta slunk away, keenly aware that Glinting-Fire was watching her. She straightened her hairy socks and tried to speak without moving her lips.

  ‘So, what’ve you got?’

  The cup peeped out of Lotta’s scabbard. ‘Is that Glinting-Fire?’

  ‘The one with the clipboard? Yup.’

  ‘She’s looking at you like she hates you.’

  ‘She hates everyone.’

  ‘No, really – she’s giving you a proper glare. Is that a Category Four? How’s your bladder?’

  Lotta’s response was lost in a sudden roar from the warriors of Valhalla. Odin and Frigg had arrived. The trainees shuffled into a line as a tall, tanned man in a blue cloak moved through the crowd. He had a long beard and one eye was covered with a patch. Two ravens swooped through the hall. They were Odin’s helpers and brought him news from across the Nine Worlds. One landed on a table and pecked hopefully at some pickled onions.