by Cat Weldon
The Nine Worlds are shifting and shaking;
Whetstone and Lotta are in hiding together.
To find the last two magic harp strings,
Freyja will loan Whetstone this made of falcon feathers.
What am I?
Answer: CLOAK. You can find the hidden runes on the following pages;
C-10, L-48, O-83, A-186, K-238.
Chapter One
A Birthday to Remember
‘I look ridiculous!’
Whetstone peered at himself in the polished bronze mirror. His reflection was a bit wobbly and blurred, but he could see enough. That was the thing about staying with Freyja, the Goddess of Love and Sorcery: there were plenty of reflective surfaces. ‘I feel like an idiot.’ He pushed the feather, which stuck out of his hat, away from his eye. Gone were his scruffy clothes with their familiar holes and patches, replaced by . . . this.
Lotta’s face contorted as she forced down a grin. ‘It’s not that bad.’
Whetstone twirled around. The sky-blue woollen tunic and leather belt were alright, even if the fur trim itched against his neck. But the trousers were just stupid. Big and baggy and pleated with green and white stripes, they ballooned out around his legs before being pulled in tight just below his knees. Strips of fabric wound snugly around his calves to finish the look. Lotta’s eyes bulged as she tried not to laugh.
‘I don’t see why Freyja won’t let us wear our own clothes,’ Whetstone moaned as he tightened his belt, worried his saggy breeches might slip down at any moment.
‘Because we’re fugitives in Asgard and we don’t want anyone to recognize us?’ Lotta suggested. Asgard was the home of the Gods and a very dangerous place for a living human and disgraced trainee Valkyrie to be hiding.
‘Recognize YOU, you mean. No one knows me!’ Whetstone pouted. ‘Why do I have to look like a fool?’
‘Yeah, no one knows you – except most of the Valkyries, and Loki, and—’
‘Loki isn’t back in Asgard yet.’
‘Yet.’ Lotta nudged Whetstone out of the way of the mirror. Instead of her usual leather and armour, she was wearing a pair of loose silk trousers and an embroidered tunic that contrasted perfectly with her brown skin, her black hair tucked neatly away beneath a patterned head wrap. She scratched at her head. ‘I can’t decide if it’s a good thing he’s not back yet, or if it just means he’s planning something really bad.’ The last time Whetstone and Lotta had seen Loki, he’d tracked them to Helheim, one of the most miserable places in the Nine Worlds.
‘And you didn’t have to have a B A T H,’ Whetstone muttered, his skin looking pinker and cleaner than it had in a long time. The feather flicked back into his eye. ‘I can’t think of many things worse than a bath.’
Behind them, a string of bunting was hoisted up towards the gold domed ceiling. ‘I can’t believe Freyja is actually going ahead with this party,’ Lotta muttered, straightening her tunic.
‘It’s her birthday, it would look weird if she didn’t,’ Whetstone replied, stepping out of the way of a servant boy unenthusiastically pushing a broom across the floor.
Party preparations continued around them. Rich tapestries and brightly woven fabrics decorated the walls of Freyja’s Great Hall. A long table had been pushed to one side and clusters of chairs were dotted around the space. Another servant scampered about lighting clay lamps.
A very large and fluffy brown cat watched the servants scurry to and fro, his eyes on the bowls of nibbles they carried. With a leap, the cat landed on the long table, sending plates and glasses flying. Whetstone dashed across the room and snatched the cat up around the middle. ‘Stop it, Mr Tiddles. You’re going to get in trouble.’
The cat gave Whetstone a grumpy look as the boy carried him across the room to his bed of plump cushions. Lotta pinched her nose as they passed to try and hold back a sneeze. She was explosively allergic to cats.
With a screech which almost made Whetstone drop the cat, a coppery falcon swooped into the room. In a ripple of light, the falcon transformed into Freyja, the birthday girl herself. A vision in silks and gold, she unfastened a feathery cloak and handed it to a waiting servant. Her magic necklace gleamed against the brown skin of her throat. She turned to Whetstone and Lotta. ‘There you two are!’
Whetstone dropped Mr Tiddles onto his cushion and moved to face her, his bottom lip sticking out. He gestured at his clothes. ‘Why? Why would you make me wear this?’
Freyja straightened the feathery plumes on his hat. ‘You’re hiding in plain sight. The last place anyone would think to look for you is with the musicians.’
Lotta let out a snort of laughter.
‘Musicians?’ Whetstone spluttered. ‘But I’m not musical: I can’t play any instruments or anything!’
‘It’s simple. Just hang around at the back of the group and look busy,’ Freyja handed him a narrow, wooden harp.
Whetstone took it sourly, ‘A harp? You think you’re funny, don’t you?’
Whetstone’s problems had begun when he and his parents had got in the way of Loki stealing a magic harp from the Dwarves. The Dwarves had cursed the harp strings, hiding them in separate worlds so that Loki would be unable to use their power. As Whetstone and his parents had been holding the strings at the time, they were taken along with the strings and separated. Now, Loki was hunting down the missing harp strings. Not to reunite Whetstone’s broken family or to make amends for his theft, but to use the powers they contained. Odin had set Whetstone the quest of collecting the strings before Loki could take them. A quest which had led them across several of the Nine Worlds before finally ending up here, at Freyja’s birthday party.
Lotta bit her lip. ‘Freyja, are you sure this is a good idea? Most of Asgard is coming to this party. Maybe it would be better if we just hid somewhere.’
‘No way!’ Whetstone spluttered. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this. I want to know what happens at a Goddess’ party.’
‘You’ll be safer out in the open,’ Freyja explained. ‘My last party got a bit out of control. I found Thor snoring in my wardrobe the next morning. Plus no one really looks at servants.’
Lotta crossed her arms.
‘It will be fine.’ Freyja picked up a platter of tiny sandwiches. ‘Just keep busy and no one will notice a thing.’
Lotta ducked through the crowd, trying to avoid catching anyone’s eye, her tiny sandwiches already having been demolished by Thor in one massive mouthful. A table covered with birthday presents sat off to one side, most of them wrapped in gold paper. Lotta dawdled in front of them. Pretending to be Freyja’s servant was exhausting. All of Asgard had come to the party, except for the two people she most wanted to see – Odin, the chief of the Gods, and Scold, the ex-leader of the Valkyries.
Lotta was a trainee Valkyrie, or, rather, she had been. She wasn’t quite sure what she was any more.
Valkyries were elite female warriors, brought to life by the breath of Odin and given the task of collecting fallen Heroes and warriors from the battlefields of Midgard, the human world. Unfortunately, on her first visit to Midgard, Lotta had accidentally picked up Whetstone, a very-much-alive apprentice thief instead of a dead warrior. It was only after Whetstone had proved he was a Hero after all, that Odin had allowed Lotta to continue with her Valkyrie training. But that had all happened while Scold was in charge. Things were very different with the Valkyries now.
A conga line led by Freyr, the God of Summer, danced past Lotta. Freyr was Freyja’s brother, his blond hair standing out like a halo against his dark brown skin. ‘La, la, la, la, la, hey!’ the dancers chanted, looping around the hall and scooping up more people.
Lotta shuffled the birthday gifts around. Cat ornaments, mugs with cat ears and cat-shaped jewellery, appeared under her distracted fingers.
Whetstone had vanished into the group of musicians, all dressed in identical feathery hats and sky-blue robes. Lotta wondered what he’d told them to explain why he couldn’t play the harp he
was holding. Maybe they didn’t care. No one seemed to have noticed that Whetstone wasn’t glowing like the other inhabitants of Asgard either, so maybe Freyja had performed some magic to keep him safe.
All the room’s attention was focused on Freyja, magnificent in deep-red robes. Gold jewellery flashed at her throat and wrists and the Goddess glittered like the entire contents of a gold mine had been dumped on her head.
Lotta straightened her shoulders. She should go back to the kitchen for more tiny sandwiches before anyone got suspicious. Instead, she pushed a few more presents into line. A stout, gold object peeked out from behind a collection of paw-print bath towels.
Lotta sucked in a breath, her heart racing. ‘Oh no, not you!’
The cup jumped through the presents, landing with a clang in front of her. Lotta glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I could ask you the same question.’ The cup stared up at her with its ruby eyes. Lotta had borrowed the golden cup from Viking Chief Awfulrick to help her win a poetry contest. ‘You told Awfulrick you were going to bring me back to Midgard over a month ago. But I’m still here!’
‘I’m sorry,’ Lotta retorted. ‘I’ve been a bit busy saving the Nine Worlds. I haven’t made it back to Midgard yet.’
The cup spun on the table, its squeaky voice cutting through the music. Lotta made a grab for it but missed. ‘I like being back in Asgard. I think Frigg missed me.’
Lotta peered over her shoulder, searching the crowd for the Goddess of Family – the original owner of the cup. She was deep in conversation with a short woman whose dark plaits stuck out either side of her head. Lotta flinched in shock and without thinking, dived under the table. The cup jumped down to join her. ‘What are you doing?’
‘That’s Glinting-Fire,’ Lotta mumbled. Her knuckles cracked as she clenched her hands into fists, barely containing her anger. ‘I can’t let her see me.’
Glinting-Fire had tricked her way into her new position as leader of the Valkyries and had tried to get rid of Lotta by destroying her Valkyrie shield, worried that Lotta would try to stop her evil plans for “Valkyrie progress”.
It hadn’t worked.
‘Good thinking.’ The cup nodded. ‘I’m sure no one will wonder why you’re hiding under a table.’
‘She doesn’t know I’m back in Asgard,’ Lotta hissed, peering out from between the table legs. What Glinting-Fire also didn’t know, was that her plans had failed and that not only had Lotta been reunited with her shield, but she had also gained strange new powers in the process.
A pair of boots stopped next to the table and a smiling face appeared, looking down curiously at Lotta. ‘Did you slip?’ Freyr asked, offering her a hand.
‘Er, I, no, I just—’ Lotta stumbled as she climbed out, her face hot with embarrassment.
‘Smooth,’ the cup muttered.
The God of Summer regarded her carefully, his golden eyes standing out clearly against his thick lashes. Lotta forced a smile. With a brief bow, the man returned to the dancers.
Lotta released a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. ‘This is too dangerous,’ she muttered. ‘Someone is going to start asking questions.’
‘Questions like: where is Odin?’ the cup said loudly, bouncing up onto her shoulder. ‘And why hasn’t he come back to Asgard?’
‘I suppose,’ Lotta snatched at the cup.
‘I made up a poem about that – would you like to hear it?’
‘No!’
The cup coughed.
‘Why has Odin left Asgard?
Do you think he will send us a postcard?’
Frigg, the cup’s owner, peered over Glinting-Fire’s shoulder. ‘What is that girl doing with my cup?’ Glinting-Fire started to turn.
Panicking, Lotta threw the cup into the air. It landed with a smash in the middle of the dance floor, nearly braining Tyr, God of Justice. Eir, the Goddess of Healing, spun out of the way with quite an impressive pirouette. A stunned silence fell.
‘DANCE BATTLE!’ one of the musicians shouted.
All the Gods and Goddesses cheered. The musicians started playing again as the Gods stampeded towards the floor, all trying to outdo each other with their impressive moves.
In the group of musicians, Lotta caught Whetstone’s eye. He winked. Lotta gave him a thumbs-up, before heading back to the safety of the kitchens.
‘Good idea,’ the flute player wheezed to Whetstone. ‘We don’t get paid if they stop dancing.’
Whetstone nodded, his fingers slipping on the smooth frame of the harp. This party was unlike anything he had experienced in Midgard. Compared to large, sweaty men and women throwing ale around the village Hall back on Midgard, this party was the height of sophistication. He gawked as Freyr moonwalked across the floor to collect a bowl of strawberries.
‘You’re getting the hang of it now,’ the harpist next to Whetstone said. ‘Just keep a steady rhythm and try not to break any more of the strings.’
Whetstone nodded trying to focus on the music, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration.
In his experience, harp strings were always trouble.
He had already managed to retrieve one of the three cursed harp strings he’d been quested to find – it had been sent to Helheim with his father. Whetstone won the harp string, but had been forced to leave his father behind. Now, for safe-keeping, he wore it like a necklace. A small charm in the shape of a fish hung from it – it was all that was left of the beads his father had used to disguise it.
Next to him, the harpist’s fingers flew across the strings, picking out an intricate melody, which was immediately drowned out by the Gods’ tone-deaf singing.
Whetstone grinned as Glinting-Fire was dragged on to the dance floor. She was not a natural mover. Trying to keep time with his harp, Whetstone wondered what he and Lotta were going to do. They couldn’t stay in Asgard forever. There was no sign of Odin coming back and wherever Loki was, Whetstone was sure he was up to no good. They had to find the next harp string before Loki got his hands on it.
Loki knew that Frigg’s magic cup had given Whetstone a riddle to help him find the harp strings, and his missing parents. That was why Loki was so determined to hunt Whetstone down. The second part of the riddle ran through Whetstone’s mind in time to the music.
The other you will find, bound by a glittering chain.
She is kept for her tears, they fall as golden rain.
That half of the riddle was more useless than the first. At least the first half had been a clue about where to start looking for his father. But golden tears and glittering chains? That could be anywhere! How in all of the Nine Worlds was he supposed to figure out where his mother was?
‘. . . golden tears, I heard,’ Thor said loudly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Whetstone nearly fell over in shock.
‘That would be a thing to have – never-ending treasure. Every time she cries, you get richer.’
‘Who told you about it?’ asked Tyr, shouting over the music. Whetstone tried to shuffle sideways to hear better. A barrel-chested musician blew into a long battle horn, drowning out Thor’s words with a sound like a cow mooing. Whetstone glared at him.
‘Do you think that’s what Odin is up to?’ Tyr bellowed over the noise. ‘Trying to get her out of Castle Utgard?’
Whetstone gasped. The harpist gave him a concerned look. Whetstone had heard of Castle Utgard. It was in Jotunheim: the Land of the Giants. That must be where his mother was. A grin broke out across Whetstone’s face. He looked happily at Freyja, no longer resenting the feathery hat or the stupid trousers. He had just found out where his mother was and it had been SO easy! She quirked her eyebrows in return.
Thor shrugged. ‘Maybe. I wouldn’t mind taking a look for myself, though.’ He hefted his hammer. ‘I never miss the opportunity to see what the Giants are up to.’
Tyr laughed. ‘When are you going?’
<
br /> The battle horn blasted in Whetstone’s ear again. He winced, his attention focused on Thor as he tried to lip-read the God’s words.
Freyr shoulder-shimmied up to Thor and Tyr. In the silence between mooing noises he asked, ‘Not dancing, Thor? I bet you’ve got some moves.’
Tyr finished his cup of mead. ‘Forget dancing – what we need is a good boast battle. Who wants to go first?’
Thor chuckled. ‘Not me. I’ve not got the brains for the wordy stuff. The person you need is Loki.’
Whetstone shuddered. The battle horn nearly blasted all the feathers off his hat.
Carefully, Lotta stepped out of the kitchens. In her arms she carried an enormous silver plate with a giant cake, modelled to look like Freyja, balancing on top of it. Spotting the cake, Freyr whooped and danced away through the crowd, clearing a path for Lotta to a nearby table.
Freyja stood in the centre of the room, accepting everyone’s birthday congratulations. The musicians struck up a new tune as the Gods sang, ‘Happy birthday to you –’
The harp string round Whetstone’s neck rang out. The blood seemed to freeze in the boy’s veins. His chest felt tight.
The harp string’s special power was to warn when danger was near.
‘Happy birthday to you –’
Whetstone’s eyes raked the crowd. Something very bad was about to happen.
‘Happy birthday, dear Freyja –’
‘Yeah Loki’s who you’re after.’ Tyr chuckled. ‘Where is that slippery Fire Giant? He’s never around when you want him!’
‘Happy birthday to you!’
Freyja picked up a knife to make the first slice. ‘I’d like to thank you all for coming—’
With a flash of green light, the door to Freyja’s Great Hall was blasted into toothpicks. Gods and Goddesses dived out of the way as the air filled with dust and curling green smoke. The battle horn shot across the room. Freyja’s birthday cake exploded, coating Lotta in icing and crumbs. Whetstone hit the ground, knocked sideways by the flute player. Whetstone peeked out, his heart hammering.