by Cat Weldon
‘What do you want us to do?’ Flee peered through the stable doorway at Lotta’s shield. A black ring of charred hay was forming round it. ‘Maybe if we leave it, it’ll burst into flames or something?’
The tattooed Valkyrie marched into the stables and handed Flee a pair of dragonhide gloves from off the shelf. ‘The connection is stretching. We need to break it. Someone else needs to claim ownership of the shield. Someone powerful.’
Flee twisted the gloves between her fingers. ‘But even if we give the shield away, it won’t be enough to stop Lotta being a Valkyrie.’
Glinting-Fire looked up sharply. ‘I’m not talking about giving it away. Someone has to take it. We can’t afford to be wishy-washy about these things. Powerful magic binds a Valkyrie shield to its owner. The only way to break it is by force.’
Flee bit her lip. ‘But who is strong enough to take a shield away from a Valkyrie?’
‘I’ll leave that up to you.’ Glinting-Fire tucked the pencil into her clipboard. ‘The longer the shield is out of Lotta’s possession, the weaker she will grow, until eventually the connection will break entirely.’ Glinting-Fire smiled again. ‘Take a Valkyrie shield away from its owner and you’ll be surprised what you can do.’
‘What do you mean?’ Flee asked nervously.
‘Aren’t you curious about how I will ensure the other Valkyries fall in with my plan?’ Glinting-Fire smirked. ‘They won’t have a choice. If I control all the shields, they can either join me, or stop being Valkyries.’
Flee gasped, her hands over her mouth.
Flay gulped. ‘Scold’s not gone forever,’ she warned.
‘Not yet.’
‘And if Lotta gets her shield back before the connection breaks she’ll still be a Valkyrie.’
‘Then you’d better get a move on.’ Glinting-Fire nudged a wide box half covered in straw with her toe. ‘Get rid of Odin’s real package for Njord while you’re at it.’ She turned on her heel. ‘I’m going to go help Scold pack for her holiday. I’ll open the gates for you, but you’ll need to be back before nightfall. I can only cover for you until then.’ The tiny Valkyrie marched out of the stables.
Flee pulled on the dragonhide gloves, scales glinting on her fingers. She passed a second pair to her sister. ‘Come on. Let’s get this thing out of here.’ She gripped one side of Lotta’s shield and lifted it off the smoking hay.
Flay grabbed the other side. Between the two of them, they managed to get the shield out into the courtyard. ‘Where shall we take it?’
‘You heard what Glinting-Fire said – we have to find someone powerful.’
Chapter Seven
Over the Edge
‘VAAALLLHALLLLLAAA FOREVEEEEEEER!’
The boy, girl and cat plunged over the side of Midgard in an enormous waterfall. Bits of broken ship and even a few fish fell with them. Whetstone clutched the cat to his chest with one hand, flailing in the air with the other. The cat screeched and clung on with all four sets of claws. Wind and water poured past Whetstone’s face, choking him whenever he tried to breathe.
In the gaps between the terror, images flashed into Whetstone’s mind: Snotra’s face as she sank beneath the waves, Loki’s hand reaching out for him, Jormungandr’s mouth gaping open. Whetstone shook his head, amazed that he could have been so stupid as to trust Ulf or Snotra or whoever she was. Loki almost caught him. Whetstone resolved not to make that mistake again. From now on, he was on his own.
He forced his eyes open. Spread out below them were the branches and roots of Yggdrasil, the great world tree. Perched here and there were the different worlds. Some green, others grey. Red sparks flew from one, and deep in the roots endless mists poured from another. He wondered if this was one of the weak points Ulf had mentioned, where it was possible to cross from one world and into another, and in which world they might end up.
The streams of water were thinning now, giving Whetstone enough space to catch his breath. They tumbled past a world that looked like a hollowed-out mountain range. Tiny figures vanished into cracks and caves, lanterns winking out of the darkness. Whetstone nearly smacked into a heavily engraved sign hanging from a branch: Svartalfheim. Payment Up Front.
Beside him, Lotta screamed ‘Dwarrrrrrrves!’ over the sound of the wind and water. Whetstone tried to nod.
A cloud of steam engulfed them. Whetstone spluttered and choked as the smell of rotten eggs hit the back of his throat. Red sparks flew up, burning his white skin where they landed. Whetstone rubbed his cheek, leaving behind a smear of charcoal. The cat clung on grimly, its fluffy fur sticking straight up.
‘MUSPELL!’ Lotta yelled as they dropped past a world of black grit and fiery volcanos. Down, down, down.
There were only two worlds left below them now. A pair of signs hung from nearby roots, each pointing down into the murk. One read Niflheim: It’s Too Late, and the other Helheim: Lost and Found. On the most distant world, a red blob, hazy through thick mists, grew larger. The blob wiggled, unfurling bat-like wings. A spurt of flame followed.
‘Nidhogg!’ Whetstone yelped. The cat dug its claws deeper into his arm. Nidhogg was the dragon Whetstone had accidentally woken by dropping what was left of the Skera Harp on him during their last adventure, and who had gone on to eat Loki. Nidhogg lived in Niflheim, the lowest of all the worlds.
Whetstone twisted towards the other world, making swimming motions in the air. This one had to be Helheim. If falling off Midgard meant he could make it to Helheim before Loki, this nightmare might just be worth it.
Lotta grabbed his foot. ‘What are you doooooooooooing?’
‘HEEEELLL-HEIIIIIM!’ Whetstone bellowed, ignoring the cat, whose claws must’ve been embedded in his bones by now.
Lotta let go of his foot, her face screwed up in concentration. Whetstone recognized that look. Valkyries could transform into birds. Last time, to save them both from the dragon, Lotta had turned into a sort of . . . duck-thing.
There was a loud pop and a shower of feathers, but Lotta hadn’t transformed. The Valkyrie looked down at herself in confusion, then screwed up her face again. With a crack of blue light, Lotta changed, but she wasn’t a bird. Instead, large wings had sprouted out of her back. They caught an updraft and Lotta shot upwards.
Whetstone tumbled on, trying to dodge the twisting roots. Helheim opened up in concentric circles below him like a huge eye. Green, blue, white and dusty brown. A Great Hall sat in the middle as the dark pupil. At least they were heading towards the right world. Whetstone just hoped they had something soft for them to land on.
In a streak of blue light and a flurry of feathers, Lotta reappeared beside him, her wings folded into a dive. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed Whetstone by his free arm – the one not being used as a claw sharpener. Their descent slowed, Lotta’s wings beating hard to support all their weight. Whetstone’s shoulder burned as if his arm was going to be ripped out of its socket.
‘Hold on!’ Lotta shouted.
But the cat wasn’t listening. It wiggled and thrashed, clawing at Whetstone’s face. The boy tried to clamp it against his chest, but the cat fought its way free and leaped out into space. Whetstone thought he saw a smug expression on its furry face before it dropped out of sight.
‘Nooo!’ Lotta’s grip slipped as she snatched at the cat. Whetstone tried to grab Lotta with his other hand, but his fingers found nothing but air. Then he was falling, heading straight for the bullseye of Helheim, Lotta hanging suspended above him.
Water clanged in his ears. Whetstone’s chest burned as he fought to hold his breath. He had dropped straight into an icy river! Currents tossed him head over heels until he no longer knew which way was up. His head pounded and every direction looked the same. Whetstone’s chest throbbed. He needed air! With a massive effort, he hauled himself through the water until his head finally broke the surface.
He gasped down a huge lungful of air, but before he could get his bearings the river dragged him away. Whetstone flailed, trying to ke
ep his head above water. A jagged outcrop of rocks loomed ahead of him.
On wobbly legs, Lotta landed on the riverbank, wings still sticking out of her back. ‘Whetstone!’
He struck out towards her, fighting the pull of the river. Something bashed into his side. He gasped, choking a little as spray filled his mouth.
‘Over here!’ Lotta hung over the edge of the riverbank. She stretched out a broken tree branch for him to grab on to. Whetstone reached out, his fingers scraping the bark. Lotta gritted her teeth and dragged him through the icy water.
Whetstone pulled himself up the riverbank. Dripping wet, frozen, and very, very relieved to be alive. He collapsed next to Lotta, rolling on to his back, rubbing his hands over his face, his skin stinging with cold.
‘I am never getting wet again,’ the boy spluttered, air burning in his chest. ‘Ever.’
Lotta massaged her shoulder. ‘Where’s the cat?’
‘Dunno. Can Freyja’s cats fly?’ He turned his head to look at the Valkyrie; the wings on her back shimmered. ‘Did you know that . . . wing thing . . . was going to happen? I know Odin said you might be a different type of Valkyrie, but it’s a bit . . . odd.’
Lotta twisted round to peer at her wings. ‘It’s never happened before. I was trying to turn into a bird.’
‘It’s good, though.’ Whetstone nodded. ‘Must be handy having arms as well as wings.’
With a loud pop, the wings vanished. Lotta untied her hair and started trying to squeeze the water out. ‘Why is it that whenever I’m with you I end up plummeting to my doom?’
Whetstone picked a clump of damp cat hair off his tunic. ‘Your good luck, maybe?’
Lotta snorted.
A warm breeze drifted past, drying his wet clothes. Whetstone felt the urge to close his eyes. ‘You know, this isn’t what I imagined the Land of Lost Things to be like,’ he said with a yawn. ‘I thought it would be all icy and dark.’
‘It is,’ Lotta replied, retying her hair into its usual puff. ‘Over there.’ She gestured to the other side of the riverbank.
Whetstone lifted his head. The side of the river they had landed on was warm and green with plants. On the opposite side, black and stumpy trees sprouted out of thick snow, their branches empty and bleak. A red sun hung low in the sky. The boy shivered and dropped his head back into the grass.
‘That’s where Hel lives. And it’s where your dad and the harp string are.’
Whetstone swallowed. ‘One you will find below, in an ice-locked land, Still living but alone, for Hel holds him in her hand,’ he recited.
‘It certainly looks ice-locked to me,’ Lotta said with a bit of a grin. She gave him a playful shove. ‘Just think, your dad is over there. You could be about to meet him!’
Whetstone closed his eyes, a heavy lump settling in his chest: a ball of excitement, fear and anxiety. His mind tingled at the thought of rescuing his father and finding the first harp string.
He bit his lip, hoping that Loki hadn’t got there ahead of them. Loki had spent twelve years fruitlessly searching for the harp strings, waiting for Whetstone to get the riddle and reveal the clues. If Loki had been unable to find the harp strings so far, they must be well hidden.
Whetstone pushed himself to his feet. ‘Come on – let’s go.’
A rattling noise came from something in the distance.
‘Wait, what’s that?’
Chapter Eight
Lost and Found
Several worlds above Whetstone and Lotta, a pair of massive warhorses pounded through the air. They carefully followed the huge trunk of Yggdrasil, the world tree, dropping lower and lower. Eventually, they soared over the mines of the Dwarves and around the volcanos of Muspell.
Flee stopped next to a pair of twisted signs, her horse beating time with his hooves. Only two worlds lay beneath them. ‘Niflheim or Helheim?’
Flay caught up with her sister. She glanced at the shield strapped to her saddle. Even though they had wrapped it in old sacks, Flay could still feel the heat rising off it. ‘I don’t care as long as I can get rid of this thing. It shouldn’t be hot like this.’
Flee sniffed. ‘Stop complaining. You’re carrying the shield; I’m carrying Njord’s package. Fair’s fair.’ Flee peered down into the roots. ‘Niflheim is the furthest from Asgard.’
Flay rubbed her nose, which was going pink from the chill. ‘Glinting-Fire said to give it to someone powerful. Who is powerful in Niflheim?’
‘Let’s find out.’ Flee shook her reins, her horse plunging towards the world far below.
Flay sighed. She pushed her helmet down over her uneven plaits and urged her horse down, following her sister.
A land of fog and shadow, Niflheim was the lowest and darkest of all the Nine Worlds. It was one of the two worlds in which Vikings (who had not been chosen to enter Valhalla) could find themselves after death. Helheim took those who had died peacefully, but Niflheim was the ultimate destination of those who had died in embarrassing or cowardly ways. Now these unfortunate Vikings roamed the endless mists, telling each other lies about their lives on Midgard and trying to avoid Nidhogg the dragon, who liked to chew on them.
Flee’s horse landed lightly on the scrubby ground. The air was colder here. She shivered into her armour. ‘Lose the shield and let’s go. This place gives me the creeps.’
Flay squinted around. ‘We have to give it to someone. It’s the only way to break the bond.’
‘But there’s no one here,’ Flee whined. ‘Let’s just leave it. Lotta will never find it in Niflheim.’
A hand with grey skin gripped Flay’s leg. ‘Preeetty lady,’ a voice wheedled. Flay lurched back in shock. ‘Give it to me, whatever it is. I was powerful once.’
‘You liar,’ called a second voice from out of the murk. ‘The only thing powerful about you is the smell. I’ll take it, lady. I was a king when I was alive.’
The grey hand let go of Flay’s leg. ‘No, you weren’t. You lived in the next village to me. You were a turnip farmer.’
‘They were better turnips than you ever grew!’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah!’
Flay edged her horse away from the bickering voices. She looked around. ‘Flee?’ Her sister had vanished. Forms moved in the mist. More and more of the grey figures appeared, smoke and shadows distorting their shapes. They shuffled towards Flay, forming a ragged circle round her. Flay’s horse pawed at the ground. She twisted around in her saddle, trying to see all the ghostly figures at once. ‘Flee! Where are you!’
A bow-legged man with an impressive moustache limped towards her. ‘Ah, young lady. I insist that you give me your horse,’ he said pompously. ‘There was a mistake, you see. I shouldn’t be here. I was supposed to go to Valhalla.’
Flay gripped on to her reins as the man tried to pull them away. ‘Get lost. You’re not a Hero.’
The man snarled, ‘Don’t you know who I am?’
‘Flee!’ Flay wailed, trying to back away.
Flee’s horse reared through the shadows. ‘No, I do not want to join your team by selling herbal skin-care lotions to my friends and family!’ the girl screeched to someone behind her. Flee’s horse crashed into the pompous man with the moustache, sending him flying. ‘I think the shield is attracting them,’ she panted.
‘I can smell magic,’ an elderly voice cackled.
‘I don’t care what Glinting-Fire said – I’m not giving Lotta’s shield to any of this lot,’ Flay huffed. ‘There’s no one powerful here, anyway.’
In the distance came a roar.
A ball of fire shot into the air. The sisters looked at each other with wide eyes.
‘You upset Nidhogg!’ Flee shrieked. Her horse leaped into the air.
Moments later, Flay rose out of the mists beside her. Below them, the ghostly Vikings scattered, vanishing into the gloom to hide from the dragon.
‘Should we give the shield to Nidhogg?’ Flee panted. ‘He’s powerful.’
The twin
s turned to face the flashes of fire in the distance.
‘You do it. I’m not going near that thing,’ Flay spluttered.
Nidhogg roared again, illuminating the swirling roots of Yggdrasil with a jet of fire.
‘Let’s go to Helheim.’ Flee shuddered. ‘I wouldn’t stay here for all the dead warriors in Midgard!’
They headed back into the roots of Yggdrasil and on to Helheim, racing over the multicoloured landscape: green, blue, white and brown. Flay reined in her horse, hovering over the Great Hall in the centre of the world.
‘Let’s just drop the shield.’ She pouted. ‘I’m not going anywhere near the ground again.’
Flee wrinkled her nose. ‘But Glinting-Fire said—’
‘I don’t care what Glinting-Fire said! If she wants to come all the way down here and hand the shield to someone, she can do it herself. Why don’t we put a bow on it while we’re at it?’
Flee hesitated for a moment before leaning over to her sister’s saddle and cutting the ropes holding the shield with a short knife. The shield, still wrapped in sackcloth, slipped away from the horse and tumbled to the land below.
‘Let’s dump Njord’s package on the way back. If anyone asks why it’s in Helheim, we can say it got lost.’
Several hours later, just as night fell, the twin Valkyries landed, exhausted, in front of the great gates of Asgard. A small shadow detached itself from the inside of the gates. It produced a clipboard. ‘Is it done?’
Flay nodded, too tired to speak.
Beside her, Flee said through a yawn, ‘They’re in Helheim.’
Glinting-Fire nodded, opening the gates with an iron key. ‘That should do it. Hel’s power mad. She’ll never give the shield back to Lotta.’
The girls and horses wearily slipped inside.
They were not unnoticed, however. A beautiful woman with a necklace that glowed in the gloom straightened up. ‘What are you three doing out here?’