The Lost Gods (24 page)

‘Follow the river to the giants,' said Woden. He whispered to Thor, who nodded, then yelled at the goats who immediately galloped off into the black night.

The goats hurtled down the foggy Mall through the darkness of Green Park, now
flattened and devastated. A few faint stars glittered above them. The air smelled of fire. The chariot jolted as the goats wove through the fallen trees and rocks without breaking stride. Freya clutched the side, praying they wouldn't crash. Alfi squeezed her freezing hand. ‘It's okay, the goats never stumble,' he whispered. His breath floated like puffs of smoke around his face. ‘And don't despair.'

‘We must all do as destiny decides,' said Roskva. ‘Fate is remorseless and holds dominion over us all. And don't I know it.'

‘Once I was taken prisoner by a King and sentenced to death,' said Snot. ‘And I told him if he spared my life for one year, I would teach his favourite horse to talk. The King agreed. Everyone mocked me. You can't teach a horse to talk, they said.

‘A lot can happen in a year, I replied. The King might die. I might die. Or the horse might talk.'

‘What happened?' said Freya. She'd never
heard Snot speak so many words.

Snot shrugged. ‘As you see, I am still here.'

Despite herself, Freya smiled.

The jerking chariot moved swiftly along the deserted roads, splashing through puddles and flood water, somehow gliding over the rubble from the great battle, following the river towards the Olympic Stadium where the giants waited.

‘Master, remember to toss your head the way Freyja does,' said Roskva. ‘Don't forget you've got golden curls beneath your cap.'

‘I will not toss my head,' said Thor. ‘Isn't it enough I'm swaddled in a bridal veil and dress? Wearing a necklace so heavy it would choke an ox? And a frilly cap?'

‘I swear by the Gods,' said Snot, ‘if I'd known I'd be falling on my face getting my feet twisted up in skirts I'd rather have been left for dead on Hekla.'

They fell silent the closer they got to the stadium, which loomed up in the darkness,
encircled by freezing fog, the iron air dense and malevolent. Freya heard the whirling winds roaring inside the arena, as if a ferocious tempest had been bottled within its walls. Hail, sleet and snow blasted them. The Olympic Stadium had become a reeking storm-house for frost giants.

Freya could hear their raspy voices filling the night, like the terrifying whoosh of hurricane winds. Flaming torches had been set all round the arena's high circle, where the 5012 Olympics had been held. Now hideous frost giants patrolled the perimeter, their stumbling, lumbering bodies shadowy boulders against the eerie night sky. The monsters who had come to destroy her world had made themselves at home.

Freya trembled as the goats juddered to a halt beneath the twisted red steel observation tower outside the howling stadium. Her final moments of freedom before she was handed over to Skadi.

Freya's legs felt like rubber. She cowered
under the bear skins. If only she could she'd stay here forever, comforted by the enveloping warmth of the furs, just to snuggle down and—

Snot pushed her out of the chariot.

‘You've got legs, haven't you?' he snarled. ‘Why is it that every time I'm with you something awful happens to me?'

‘I could say exactly the same thing about you,' said Freya.

‘Quiet, both of you,' said Roskva. She glared at Freya. ‘Master. Snot. Please. If you must speak, talk in high-pitched voices only. Otherwise you'll give yourselves away and we'll all die.'

Thor grunted.

Snot growled.

Freya despaired. Were these two the least likely women ever? How could Midgard's survival depend upon Thor of all the Gods persuading Thrym that he was the loveliest Goddess in the world? Freya turned and took her last look at London.

Whatever happened she was already lost.

The bride, her bridesmaid, and their three mortal attendants walked slowly through the entranceway into the tumultuous, creaking stadium, the high oval walls barely containing the surging storm raging within. Thor and Snot struggled to keep their long skirts from flying up over their heads as the icy, roaring winds pelted them with sleet. Freya would have been swept off her feet in the lashing winds if Snot hadn't grabbed her arm.

‘How do you walk in these horrible flapping things?' grunted Snot. ‘If I find the person who invented skirts I swear by the Gods I'll kill them.'

Freya paused, teeth chattering, at the
entrance to the great stadium. Where athletes had performed deeds of wonder on the orange track before thousands of screaming spectators, now the arena was packed with sprawling giants and massive, billowing tents. It was like walking into a giant refrigerator filled with rotting food.

A terrible voice boomed out over the vastness like hailstones clattering onto steel, then an immense block of ice loomed up out of the stormy blackness.

‘She's here! My Freyja has come. The fairest Goddess of all is mine!' The ground shook as Thrym shambled up to them, leading the way to the enormous tent pitched over the entire middle of the stadium, bellowing commands as he lumbered.

‘Black Tooth, lay on the wedding feast! My bride is here. Lead her to the High Seat. Mouth Cramp, bring mead horns. Iron Hag, see that my bride has everything she needs. Skull-Splitter! Gravel Yeller! Evil Thorn! Everyone, come. Come. Freyja is mine!'

‘Remember, both of you, no stomping,' hissed Roskva. ‘Our lives depend upon it. Think dainty. Dainty.'

Freya, Roskva and Alfi trailed behind the sturdy bride and her stout attendant as they entered Thrym's tent. Small lights flickered around the sides, but the place was dark and shadowy. Straw covered the ground and the benches, and bones crunched beneath their feet. Freya gagged. The rank air smelled like the place where seals go to die.

‘This way, this way, my petal,' boomed the King of the Giants. He gripped Thor and gave him a huge slap on the rump. Thor growled.

‘My, my, what a fine filly Freyja is,' bellowed Thrym. ‘I like a girl with meat on her bones. Sit in the High Seat beside me, Freyja,' ordered the giant, grinning his fishy grin.

The veiled bride flung himself into the chair of honour beside Thrym, about as gracefully as a whale. Thor's bridesmaid, Snot, squeezed in beside him. Huge as Thor was, Thrym towered
above him. Roskva and Alfi stood watchfully behind Thor, and Freya huddled beside them. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably. It was like standing inside a freezer. Thank the Gods, the place was dimly lit, which would help Thor's disguise.

The giants who'd followed them inside the enormous tent immediately sat drooling at the vast table. She looked for Skadi, but couldn't see her. She was lurking somewhere, Freya was sure, waiting to pounce.

Freya ducked behind Thor's high chair and tried to keep out of view. If any of these monsters trod on her she would be squished instantly. She shivered. When would she be grabbed and handed over to Skadi? The giants lumbered about, stinking and slobbering. The noise of guttural voices, raised in drunken victory, billowed through the tent. The drunker they became, the more they drank, spilling mead which flowed unceasingly.

The long trestle table was piled with vast
platters of frost-covered food: oxen, seals, venison, and dozens of salmon. Horns of mead were scattered the length of the huge table.

Freya forced herself to look at Thrym. His filthy hair and beard were caked with swamp grass and dirt and ice. Bristly tufts sprouted all over his face. His foul breath wilted everything it touched. His greasy hands and knobbly arms were covered in warts, and pus-filled lumps dotted his bull neck. His thick tongue wetted his blubbery mouth.

‘And who is my Freyja's charming bridesmaid?' boomed the giant.

‘Snot,' came a deep croak beneath the veil.

Roskva and Alfi went white.

Aaaarrghh! Snot had given them all away, thought Freya. She gripped the back of Thor's chair.

But Thrym didn't seem to notice.

Freya breathed again.

‘Snot. A beautiful name for a beautiful bridesmaid,' said Thrym.

What good fate that Snot's parents had given him a girl's name, thought Freya.

‘What an alluring low voice she has,' said Thrym.

‘Her voice croaks from singing songs of joy for her mistress,' said Roskva quickly.

‘And is Freyja's voice just as delicious?' asked Thrym, poking his bride in the ribs.

‘Freyja has taken a vow of silence until the happy moment when she becomes your wife,' said Roskva.

Thrym belched.

‘What delicacy! What elegance!'

Roskva was a grump, but she did have quick wits, thought Freya.

‘Grit-Teeth! Whale-Head!' bellowed Thrym. ‘Bring in the plate of dainties for my Goddess and her bridesmaid.'

Two giants stumbled in carrying a platter with some small roasted birds and a few berries and placed them before Thor and Snot.

Thor scooped up and ate the ‘dainties' in one mouthful, then snatched a mead horn and
downed it in one gulp, then a second, and a third. Next he shovelled a salmon under his veil into his mouth, then another, and another, swallowing each one in a few chomps, followed by half an ox.

Thrym stared at his bride with his flaming eyes, his pustulant mouth drooping open, his grisly fangs covered in gristle.

‘She can really stuff it in,' said Thrym, licking his bulbous white lips. ‘I've never seen a woman eat and drink so much.'

Oh Gods. They were rumbled.

‘Freyja hasn't eaten in ages,' twittered Roskva. ‘She was too excited about her wedding night.'

Thrym grinned, showing off his rusty spiked teeth.

‘I like a woman with a healthy appetite,' said Thrym, walloping his bride on the back. Thor fell off his seat face forward into his salmon the blow was so powerful and unexpected. Freya saw him clench his fist around his hidden hammer as he righted himself, chunks
of salmon clinging to his veil. Roskva brushed it off as best she could.

‘… and with some meat on her bones. Ha! No scarecrows for me,' said Thrym, the icy air filled with his foul breath. The other giants continued stuffing food into their lumpish mouths, their frozen beards filling with meat and grease. They drank horn after horn of mead, roaring louder and louder the drunker they got. Several had passed out and were snoring on the table, their heads buried in bones and fish heads.

‘Please, just a little kiss, my petal,' boomed Thrym, smacking his rubbery lips and reaching out to lift Thor's veils with his massive, frostbitten fingers.

‘NO!' said Roskva. ‘Not until you're married. Woden forbids it. It is not our custom for you to see your bride before you're wed. This is the Goddess Freyja, not some troll. Stand back.'

‘Then let's have the wedding NOW!' roared the giant. ‘I can't wait to kiss my bride and admire her peerless beauty.' He leaned closer
to Thor's face. ‘Jus a lil' peek …' he slurred, then he started back as if he'd seen a monster.

‘Why are Freyja's eyes like burning coals? Never have I seen eyes so fierce.'

‘What do you expect, Lord?' said Roskva. ‘She hasn't slept for many nights, hoping that one day you'd ask to marry her.'

The giant roared his approval and whacked Thor on the back again. Thor spat out his drink all over the table.

‘Not long now,' Thrym roared, leering at her. The few frost giants who weren't hopelessly drunk joined in, pounding the table, shouting, ‘Now! Now! Now!'

‘We'll leave right aw—'

Thor whipped off his veils, leapt to his feet and sent his hammer hurling at Thrym, crushing his skull, then launched his fearsome weapon straight at the row of drunken giants. ‘My hammer will shut your mouths!' he bellowed, as Snot ripped off his skirts, pulled out his axe and sword and attacked.

Roskva and Alfi hurled plate after plate of food at the befuddled giants. Freya, uncertain, threw a frozen salmon, then dived under the High Seat. Roskva and Alfi did the same as above them was the whizz and crack of bones, the grunting and howling and shrieking and thudding as bodies fell and benches overturned and the tent's walls ripped and collapsed as fleeing giants trampled through them. And again and again she heard the whizz thud smash of Thor's hammer as it found its target and returned to the Thunder God to be relaunched.

Hidden from the battle, the three clutched one another. Freya prayed as she had never prayed before.

There was shouting outside the tent and the sound of stamping feet. More giants. She'd thought they'd all been at the feast. Who were these newcomers? Now they'd all be killed.

Freya opened her eyes. Through the bench legs she saw the pounding legs of the army of
Valhalla warriors hacking and hewing their way through the remaining frost giants, who crumbled into rubble as they tried to flee.

‘Stop them!' came Woden's unmistakable voice.

‘You took your time,' grunted Thor, his hammer whizzing and thunking around the tent.

And then, finally, there was silence. No wind. No screams. No thuds. Just silence.

Stunned, Freya, Roskva and Alfi climbed from their hiding place. What remained of the tent was littered with bloody, melting blocks of ice, boulders, rubble, and rocky fragments, while the victorious Gods and Einherjar roamed over the blood-fouled, fuming earth, snatching gold armbands and fine swords.

Something was different. Freya sniffed. The wintry storms had gone. The sulphurous air had passed into spring mildness. Dawn sunlight streamed through the clouds in bright streaks of tangerine, gold and pink while early morning mist rose from the boulders and slippery rocks strewing the stadium.

The Gods whooped and cheered. The Valhalla army bellowed and clashed their swords on their shields. The Lewis Chessmen stomped and yelled. Roskva and Alfi beamed at one another. Was she free? thought Freya. Had Skadi been killed? Could she dare to hope that it was not fated that she—