The Sleeping Army (8 page)

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.