The Sleeping Army

by Francesca Simon

  Dead. What had she expected?

  ‘What’s that?’ said Alfi.

  ‘My phone,’ said Freya. ‘It doesn’t work here.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I always wondered … in the place of dead things people were always talking into them, like madmen mumbling to themselves.’

  Freya heard wings flapping. Instinctively, she ducked. Then she saw what had drawn the carrion birds: the ravens were tearing at the bodies of two slaughtered wolves. Freya averted her eyes. That could have been me, she thought.

  They slipped down to the water’s edge and mounted Sleipnir. Freya looked out across the silvery river to pebbly banks, wreathed with scrub, sloping uphill to the thick, clustered trees which she could just make out in the pale light.

  She felt Sleipnir brace himself, then Woden’s horse vaulted over the bright river separating Asgard and Jotunheim. He failed to clear it entirely and they landed with a gigantic splash before scrambling up the rocky wasteland which lay between the river and the bleak forest looming ahead.

  Freya shivered. The temperature was noticeably colder and the air was damp and chill. Everything felt menacing, as if the still land was holding its breath waiting for the explosion which would rip them to pieces. The stagnant air smelled stale and strange.

  She kept her eyes fixed on the forest ahead, half-expecting to see a giant come striding out to challenge them.

  ‘Which way?’ said Alfi, surveying the grim land under the leaden sky.

  Is he looking for a road sign? thought Freya. ‘Thrymheim this way?’

  ‘Towards those mountains …’ said Roskva. ‘The squat ones over there. Honestly, do I have to do everything for you?’

  ‘I remember perfectly how to get there,’ said Alfi. ‘I was just getting my bearings.’

  ‘Yeah right,’ said Roskva.

  ‘You can be such an old herring sometimes,’ muttered Alfi.

  ‘Speak for yourself, sardine breath.’

  ‘Fish face.’

  ‘You stinking mare’s son!’

  ‘I hope the trolls get you!’

  ‘Shut up!’ bellowed Snot. ‘Or by Thor I’ll bite both your heads off.’

  ‘I thought we were supposed to be keeping quiet,’ said Freya. She looked around anxiously.

  Roskva glared. ‘Do you have a younger brother?’

  ‘No,’ said Freya.

  ‘Fate was kind to you there,’ said Roskva. She kicked Sleipnir hard and he charged off.

  ‘I had brothers,’ said Snot suddenly. ‘And a wife. She was as beautiful to look at as my axe inlaid with oak. Well. She’s long returned to the trolls.’

  Freya didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t imagine Snot with a family.

  Sleipnir galloped inland, his hooves crunching on the pine-needle-strewn path, scaling the cliffs as easily as if they were meadows. In the distance Freya could see a range of low black mountains jutting against the horizon, squashed by the heavy sky.

  Then the trees swallowed them up and they were in a dark, silent forest of pine and birch. The ground was boggy, covered with dead leaves and dense undergrowth. The track glistened with frost, and bright green mossy rocks loomed out of the cliffs. Fallen trees and vicious brambles frequently blocked their path, which had clearly not been travelled on for a long time. Louring clouds hid the faint sun. They searched the sky anxiously, but the eagle didn’t reappear.

  The further they travelled, the greyer and stormier it became. The only sound was the harsh shriek of ravens and the howling cry of wolves. Freya had never felt like something’s dinner before. The evil air was oppressive. Freya found herself breathing in short, shallow gasps. She couldn’t get over the feeling that they were being watched and tracked as they rode ever higher into the brooding mountains.

  ‘How long till we get to Thjazi’s?’ she asked. Part of her never wanted to get there, then she caught a glimpse of the ivory creeping above her falling knee socks and she wanted Sleipnir to gallop even faster.

  ‘At least another night,’ said Alfi. ‘His storm-home is deep within Jotunheim.’

  ‘What do we do if we meet a giant or a troll on the way?’ said Freya.

  Alfi shrugged. ‘We’ll say we’re travelling to … to visit a friend.’

  ‘And they’ll believe that?’

  ‘We’ll just have to keep our wits about us,’ said Roskva. ‘Giants are unpredictable. Oww!’ she wailed, as a low-hanging branch whacked her head. ‘How come I always have to sit in front and get thorns in my face?’ she snapped, brushing aside another bramble. ‘Whoa, Sleipnir,’ she shouted, slowing down the horse so that she could disentangle her cloak and hair from the prickly thorns dangling from trees on either side of the narrow path.

  ‘That’s because you like sitting in front,’ said Alfi.

  ‘You go first and see how you like it.’

  ‘Okay, I will,’ said Alfi.

  ‘Be my guest,’ said Roskva. ‘I can’t do everything.’

  ‘No one’s asking you to,’ said Freya.

  Roskva ignored her.

  ‘Who cleaned the horse last night? He’s got EIGHT hooves, remember?’ said Roskva. ‘I dug mud and leaves and muck out of EIGHT hooves.’

  ‘Who did the cooking?’ said Alfi.

  ‘Call that cooking? Shoving a few grisly bits in a pot and stirring them?’

  ‘You ate it …’

  ‘I can help next time,’ said Freya.

  Roskva turned on her. ‘Can you look after a horse?’

  ‘No,’ said Freya. ‘But I can—’

  ‘Can you cook?’ interrupted Roskva, yanking her hair free and dropping the bramble on the ground.

  I can microwave a pizza, thought Freya. I can open a tin of soup. Clare didn’t like her messing up the kitchen, and Bob always ordered in whenever she stayed over.

  ‘Umm, not really,’ she said. ‘I can follow a recipe …’ Somehow she didn’t think a Jamie Oliver cookbook was going to pop out of Sleipnir’s saddlebag.

  ‘A recipe?’ said Roskva. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It tells you how to make things like chicken or cakes, what ingredients to use …’

  Roskva stared at her.

  ‘What’s there to know? Get a pot, fill it with water, boil up whatever you’ve got. The end. A recipe?! You do live in soft times. So what can you do? Your mother must have taught you to brew ale and milk ewes and gut fish …’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Freya. She smiled at the thought of her Mum milking a sheep. ‘I don’t live on a farm.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Roskva. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Thank the Gods,’ murmured Alfi.

  ‘Can we get a move on?’ said Snot. ‘I’ll sit in front. Roskva, keep watch behind us.’

  They rode hard all day, through whispering forests and craggy wastelands, and the next, the air getting colder and stormier the deeper they travelled into Jotunheim. Freya felt as if they were galloping towards her death. They met no one.

  ‘You can travel for days in these lands without meeting anyone,’ said Alfi. ‘If you’re lucky.’

  Freya couldn’t stop checking her numb legs, watching in horrified fascination as the mottled ivory colour crept upwards, fraction by fraction. It was like a scab she couldn’t stop picking. Had it reached the scar above her knee yet? When would it pass the birthmark on her thigh?

  As the light started to fade on the third day, a freezing mist sprang up, wrapping them in its sticky embrace. Then it began to sleet. A bitter wind blew the icy rain in their faces.

  Freya shivered. The dampness ate into her bones.

  It was getting harder and harder to see through the twilight. Sleipnir slowed to a walk as he picked his way through dense copses and thickets, his hooves squelching on the boggy ground. He was breathing hard and his ears kept pricking, as if he were hearing something. Freya could feel his body trembling beneath her aching legs.

  ‘There are wolves hunting us,’ said Snot. He stiffened. ‘If we can, we should find shelter for
the night.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can find,’ said Alfi.

  ‘Wait,’ said Freya. ‘Don’t go alone. What if the wolves—’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ shouted Alfi, dashing off into the forest.

  He was back again so quickly that Freya only blinked a few times.

  ‘I’ve found a glade not too far up ahead, with an empty hall in the middle,’ he panted.

  ‘How do you know it’s empty?’ said Roskva. ‘Did you dare go inside?’

  Alfi glowered.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Didn’t think so,’ said Roskva.

  ‘It’s empty,’ said Alfi.

  The others followed him to the clearing and gawped at the building, looming gigantic and black in the moonlight.

  ‘It’s bigger than Valhalla,’ muttered Snot.

  There was no door, but the wide opening was as high as the hall itself.

  ‘Will the wolves follow us in here?’ asked Freya as they crept inside out of the sleet, swords drawn.

  ‘Depends how hungry they are,’ said Snot.

  The main hall was empty. There was no furniture, not even a table or chair. Just a vast, barren chamber. Freya felt for a moment that she was inside Woden’s great temple in All-Father Square.

  Off to the right, about halfway down, was a smaller side hall, pitch-dark and airless. At the end were passageways leading to smaller halls. There was no furniture, or hangings, or even a hearth. It smelled musty, as if it hadn’t been lived in for a long time, and the floor was rough and uneven. They heard hailstones pounding on the roof. Freya stumbled and brushed her hands against the wall. She’d expected to feel cold smooth stone, but it was surprisingly lumpy and, in places, almost spongy.

  ‘It’s warmer and drier in here than out there,’ said Roskva, almost invisible in the darkness. ‘And no wolves. I say we stay.’

  Freya was so cold and weary and worn out with travel she would have gladly sheltered anywhere dry. Her teeth chattered. She felt something heavy and furry draped over her shoulders.

  ‘Take it,’ said Snot gruffly, fastening his heavy cloak with an iron studded brooch. ‘I don’t feel the cold. Or pain. Or anything.’

  The bear fur smelled abominable, but Freya was too cold at that moment to care. The cloak fell to her ankles, dragging behind her like some monstrous train.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Freya.

  Snot shook his head. ‘This isn’t for you. I don’t care if you live or die. I swore to Woden that I would protect you and I will fulfil my oath.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Freya. Gods, she hated him. When his back was turned she stuck out her tongue and made a horrible gargoyle face.

  They settled in the murky side hall, and ate quickly. Freya didn’t even ask, she just put the dried, salty whatever-it-was in her mouth and chewed. Fish and chips. With lashings of ketchup. What she would give for a pepperoni pizza dripping with melted mozzarella and some hot buttery garlic bread …

  She checked her tingling legs and saw that the mottled ivory had snaked above her thighs, creeping upwards to her hips. How could her legs have turned ivory so quickly? She could almost feel the creamy tendrils inching up her body.

  No one seemed to feel much like talking.

  ‘So … tomorrow … Thrymheim,’ said Alfi.

  ‘Umm, any plans?’ said Freya.

  ‘We’ll try to sneak in when Thjazi’s not there,’ said Alfi.

  ‘But how will we get inside his house?’ said Freya.

  ‘We’ll have to find a way,’ said Alfi.

  ‘We need to be clever,’ said Roskva. ‘Giants are … giants. They’re much bigger and stronger than we are.’

  ‘Duh,’ said Freya.

  ‘It’s always best to avoid a fight with them,’ said Alfi.

  Snot snorted. ‘Coward,’ he muttered.

  Freya glared at him. Then she realised he probably couldn’t see her in the darkness, so she glared harder.

  ‘That’s not being a coward,’ said Freya. ‘That’s being … clever.’

  ‘Anyway I’m not a coward,’ said Alfi. ‘Remember who frightened that monster so much he wet himself? Even though he was nine leagues high? Me.’

  ‘I seem to recall he peed when he saw Thor, not you,’ said Roskva.

  ‘Yeah, but I killed him,’ said Alfi. ‘And who tricked Hrungnir and made him stand on his shield because I told him Thor would attack from below?’

  ‘And who suggested that?’ said Roskva.

  ‘History does not relate,’ said Alfi, smiling. ‘Oh go on, Roskva, I know what I owe you.’

  Roskva smiled a tiny smile.

  ‘I killed a giant once,’ said Snot. ‘He tripped over his entrails and died.’

  Uhhh. Gross. Yuck.

  Freya stared at her strange companions. They were so different from her. Apart from being human, or sort of human, in Snot’s case, what did they share except a terrible fate?

  ‘Roskva … if you could have a wish, what would it be?’ said Freya. Talking about something, anything, distracted her from brooding about the horrors which lay ahead.

  ‘That we’d never met?’ snapped Roskva.

  Honestly, thought Freya. Why did she even bother talking to her?

  ‘Roskva!’ said Alfi. ‘Don’t mind her, Freya, she’s always crabby.’

  ‘Anyway, you have to be careful with wishes; they go wrong,’ said Roskva. She grimaced.

  ‘I used to wish for a hamster,’ said Freya. ‘I don’t see how that could backfire.’

  ‘Did your wish come true?’ said Alfi.

  ‘Nah,’ said Freya. ‘I got a goldfish instead.’

  ‘A fish of gold would be a lot better than a hamster,’ said Alfi. ‘That’s amazing. The Gods must hold you in high regard.’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t made of gold,’ said Freya. ‘It was just a gold-coloured fish.’ And a very dull one too: Moby Dick had rolled on to his back and died as quickly as he could.

  ‘I’d wish … I’d wish Thor had never stopped at our farmhouse,’ said Roskva.

  Alfi shook his head. ‘I’m glad he did. Even now.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ said Roskva. ‘How about you, Snot? What would you wish?’

  ‘I’d wish to be deaf so I couldn’t hear your inane babblings,’ said Snot. ‘Now SHUT UP!’

  ‘From your mouth to the Gods’ ears,’ said Roskva, glaring at him.

  Something had been niggling Freya. Something about this hall wasn’t right. The shape, the side hall they were in, the four radiating halls at the end, the entrance without a door …

  And then Freya realised where she was.

  ‘Oh my Gods,’ whispered Freya. ‘This isn’t a hall. It’s a glove. It’s a gigantic glove.’

  ‘Uh-oh,’ said Alfi. He sprang to his feet.

  Roskva stayed seated.

  ‘Well, whoever’s glove it is lost it long ago,’ said Roskva.

  ‘You don’t know that. What if … what if the giant comes back and tries to put it on?’ said Freya. ‘We should get out of here.’ She suddenly felt like she was trapped inside a whale’s belly.

  ‘No one, not even a giant, will be looking for a lost glove in a forest at night in a storm,’ said Alfi.

  Roskva spread her cloak on the ground. ‘I don’t know about the rest of you but I’m tired,’ she said. ‘I’m staying here.’

  After a moment’s hesitation, everyone joined her.

  Freya tried not to think about tomorrow. But as she lay down on the bear fur cloak, troubled thoughts whirled in her head. Even if she lived long enough to reach Thrymheim, how could Idunn still be at Thjazi’s? It had all happened so long ago … And if Idunn were still there, how could they rescue her from a giant? Freya clutched her Thor hammer charm and prayed fervently for whatever protection and luck the weary God could provide.

  She was dreaming of fire. Warm, warm fire. The lovely heat, spreading through her body … while a horse neighed and neighed …

  ‘Get up!’ shouted Snot. ‘The roof is on fire!’
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  The air was thick. Hot cinders fell in the darkness all around them. Freya’s eyes stung and her mouth filled with acrid smoke. Her throat and nostrils burnt.

  ‘Use Woden’s charm, Snot!’ screamed Roskva, coughing. ‘He gave you a fire-quenching charm! Say it! Say it!’

  Snot muttered the ancient words. The fire roared louder.

  Stumbling and choking, they felt their way along the bristly wall and ran outside, coughing and spluttering.

  The burning glove lit up the night sky. They backed away into the forest, stumbling through the dense undergrowth, snapping rotten branches and tripping over tree roots, their sleeves and hems caught by brambly bushes.

  ‘It didn’t work, Snot!’ said Roskva. ‘You stupid idiot! The fire’s burning harder than ever. You must have said it wrong. Say the rune again. Honestly! Do I have to do everything myself?’

  She glared at Snot. Then her face softened.

  ‘Let’s get away from here,’ said Alfi. ‘It’s not safe. Giants set that fire – they knew we were inside.’

  Roskva didn’t move.

  ‘Roskva? ROSKVA!’

  Roskva was blushing and gazing at Snot. But not just gazing. She was devouring him. A silly grin spread across her face and she sidled up to him, looking at him sideways with lowered lashes.

  ‘Hello, handsome,’ she said, flicking her hair and giving him a little half-smile. ‘Where have you been all my life? I never noticed before how absolutely gorgeous you are. I must have been blind.’

  ‘What’s got into you, Roskva?’ said Alfi. ‘We don’t have time for your silliness. The whole forest is catching fire, we need to move. The giants know we’re here.’

  Roskva ignored him. Snot stared at her as if she’d just been changed into a salmon.

  ‘What do you say we ditch these infants and find somewhere a little more … uh … private?’ she giggled. ‘To think you were in Asgard all this time and I never noticed what a handsome hunk you are.’

  ‘Stop it, Roskva,’ said Alfi. ‘We’re in terrible danger.’

  Snot bristled.

  ‘You making fun of me?’