Leif Frond and the Viking Games

 

JOAN LENNON

Illustrated by

BRENDAN KEARNEY

 

Copyright

 

M
y name is Frond. Leif Frond. I'm ten years old and I'm a hero. I'm six foot tall, strong as a bear, with a big blond beard down to my waist...

All right, maybe not. Maybe not even five foot tall, and about as strong as a ferret. But just wait. It's going to happen. Any day now... any day...

My granny says things like, “You don't have to be as tall as a troll to make people sit up and take notice – look at your great-great-uncle, the one they called Gory Weaselbeard! Everybody knows about him and he was shorter than me!” I think she mustn't be telling the whole truth there, because my granny is so bent over she can look a sheep in the eye. And it's no secret that my great-greatuncle was the sneakiest trickster anyone has ever heard of and who wants to be known for that? Not me.

For me, it's hero or nothing.

CHAPTER ONE

Hosting the Games

“T
hor's Elbow!” my father whispered, turning pasty pale. “It's her!”

We were standing on the shore, welcoming the visitors to the Midsummer Games. My fatherhad just single-handedly carried four childrenand a tent to dry land yet now all the blooddrained away from his face. He'd seen one last boat approaching – a boat flying the Hildefjord flag – a boat carrying…

…the Widow Brownhilde. Three words that would strike terror into the heart of the greatest champion ever sung about by the bards.

Polite people called her ‘a fine figure of a woman' and ‘quite determined' but she was, in fact,
huge
and as relentless as a winter wolf. The Widow had used up three husbands already (first there was Knobbly Knerdman, then Bogboring the Yawn-maker and, last and least, Dogsdinner Dimson) and rumour had it she was on the prowl for Husband Four.

Rumour had it she had her eye on my father.

Did my father want to be Husband Four?

He very emphatically did
not
. And as far as
I
was concerned, having the Widow as my stepmother would be similar to getting savaged by wild pigs or swallowed whole by the World Serpent. At the same time.

“What am I going to do?” my father moaned under his breath. “Where can I hide? Is it my Fate to be bound to this horror?” I think he'd forgotten I was still there.

It was a cry for help if ever I heard one, and champions
never
ignore a cry for help.

“I'll save you, Father!” I said. I could see it already… Leif the Champion… Leif the Father-Saver… what wouldn't the bards give for a story like this! They would carry my fame to every settlement in the known world… I could see the little children and the women gathering round to hear the tale of my bravery, while all the men sat muttering enviously…

“Save me, mighty son of mine – save me from this terrible Fate
!”
Hallfred Frondfell looked down at the Champion with desperation like a cloak over his ageing shoulders…

(No, that wouldn't be right. It would be, he looked
up
at me, because
I
was the Champion and therefore the tallest person in the room. And I expect he wouldn't appreciate the ‘ageing' crack.)

“Fear not, Still Fighting Fit Father,” Leif the Tall and Handsome Champion cried. “I will outwit this foul fiend or if needs must, I will slay her, and bring you her head on a platter.”

“Well, that would be a bit extreme, even for the Widow Brownhilde,” said my father. “But I appreciate the thought.”

Rats! I really
have
to stop saying the things in my head out loud. “All right, all right, no head chopping. Not when we're hosting the Games. I can understand that. But, well, what I
can't
understand…”

My father sighed. “What can't you understand?”

“If you don't want to marry her, how can she
make
you?” I blurted out. “I mean, she's big, for sure, but you're bigger. You're stronger than her too. And you know how to use an axe and a javelin and a sword and all sorts of weapons.
She
can't do any of that.”

My father sighed again, shaking his head. “None of that makes any difference. When a woman like the Widow makes up her mind, an army of trolls with an avalanche thrown in for good measure couldn't stop her getting what she wants. Still, anything you can do to keep me out of her clutches for as long as possible –
short
of chopping off her head – would be much appreciated.” It was obvious he thought he was doomed. And he clearly didn't think there was anything much
I'd
be able to do about it.

Well, I was going to prove him wrong. A Viking Champion never ducks out of a challenge, no matter how horrifying.

“Of course I'll help you. I'll go right now and greet the Widow and show her where her men should set up their tents. I bet she'll want to supervise that – everybody knows how bossy she is – and in the meantime,
you
could go and check the games field, which is, as you know, on the other side of the settlement, right in the opposite direction.”

“Perfect!” He was gone before you could draw breath. A quick man, my father, in spite of him being the size of a moose.

Right,
I thought.
Find the Widow, and head her off.

There were visitors milling about everywhere, all dressed up and ready to have a good time, calling out greetings and exclaiming on how the children had grown and boasting about how well their young men would do this year at the Games. But even in such a crowd, it wasn't hard to find Brownhilde. I just made for the sound of someone giving a great long list of orders, loudly, who
wasn't
my sister Thorhalla(she's the one I'm pretty sure is part troll). And there she was – the utterly awful Widow. I walked right up to her, cleared my throat and said, “Welcome to Frondfell, ma'am.”