Arthur Quinn and the Fenris Wolf E-Book

Alan Early

• Herausgeber: Mercier Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: Father of Lies Chronicles
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 384

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Life is finally back to normal for Arthur Quinn. Three months ago, he and his friends put their lives at risk to stop the trickster god Loki from taking over the world. However, just when Arthur is starting to relax again, the dreams start once more; dreams of gods, dreams of war, dreams of wolves. It can mean only one thing. Loki is back. In the midst of a deep snowfall, Loki plots his vengeance on Arthur. In the months since their last battle, the trickster God has been assembling a deadly army of wolves and he intends to take the world once and for all. Can Arthur trust his two new classmates? Where did Ash's puppy come from? And what is hidden in the National Museum that Loki is so desperate to get? Mysteries and questions arise as, once again, it's down to Arthur Quinn and his friends to save the world. But what they don't know is that this time, Loki has help...

Leseprobe

Praise for Arthur Quinn and the World Serpent

Shortlisted for the Best Children’s Book, Senior, in the 2011 Bord Gáis Energy Irish Book Awards and chosen as the featured book in the first UNESCO Dublin City of Literature ‘Children Save Dublin’ Project

‘A brilliant creation … fast-paced and thrilling.’ – Eoin Colfer, author of Artemis Fowl

‘A clever blend of fantasy and the every day. It’s like Harry Potter, Dublin style.’ – Irish Examiner

‘A gripping yarn that races along towards its epic finale on the streets of the capital … This is bound to be a sure-fire hit and in the Potter, Jackson, Quinn death match, I’ll be shouting for the boy in green!’ – Inis Magazine

‘A truly superb book … with several real surprise twists built into the plot, this book was an amazing read … a must read for fans of fantasy and mythology … simply wonderful.’ – Mary Esther Judy, The Bookbag

‘This original and gripping story skilfully draws out the threads linking modern-day Dublin to its darker Viking past by bringing Viking mythology vibrantly to life. A sure-fire hit with adventure lovers.’ – Bookfest

‘A mystical world of mythological characters comes alive, time stops, the unimaginable occurs, and the excitement is full blast from beginning to end.’ – VOYA, Voices of Youth Advocates

MERCIER PRESS

3B Oak House, Bessboro Rd

Blackrock, Cork, Ireland.

www.mercierpress.ie

http://twitter.com/IrishPublisher

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© Alan Early, 2012

ISBN: 978 1 85635 998 6

Epub ISBN: 978 1 78117 142 4

Mobi ISBN: 978 1 78117 143 1

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

All characters and events in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, which may occur inadvertently, is completely unintentional.

Prologue

The last wolf in Ireland was slaughtered over two hundred years ago. In times before that, they freely roamed the Irish countryside. They slept and hid during the day and prowled the land at night, feeding on livestock and men too weak or stupid to escape them. But man fought back. And by the late 1700s, all wolves were eradicated from Irish soil.

So if someone had wandered through a certain Irish forest in the early twenty-first century, they might have been surprised to find a wild wolf lapping at water from a stream.

The glow of the near-full moon hanging over the forest highlighted the tall, bare trees. Fresh frost glistened on the hard and mossy ground, while sheer ice formed at the stream’s edge. The wolf was covered in grey fur, matted around the legs with caked mud. He was a young wolf, no larger than an average Labrador, but with lean muscles in his shoulders bobbing up and down as he drank up the cool water.

He had been on his own for three nights now, heading north, heading home. Nothing felt better than leaving the rest of the pack for a few days once a year, for time by himself, time to think, time to run, time to hunt. But food was scarce in this part of the country. He’d devoured a hedgehog on the first night but had found nothing since. His stomach rumbled, paining him. He wasn’t drinking the water out of thirst but rather to fill his stomach.

He was so grateful for the water that he didn’t hear or smell the wolf on the opposite side of the stream.

The second wolf was unquestionably larger and broader than the first. It didn’t have the same malnourished look as the grey one, but appeared sturdy and well fed. Its fur was golden blond – lustrous and thick – with a black stripe running down its back. It stood on a rock by the stream, not drinking, barely breathing, merely watching the grey wolf.

The water felt good on the grey wolf’s tongue, though it was so cold it stung the nerves of his teeth. If the weather continued as cold as it had been, the stream would be frozen over in another night or two. The ice at the edge was sure to spread. As he slurped up the water, he studied it for the first time, noticing thin icicles dipping along on the stream. No doubt these had broken off from the branches of trees further upriver. It was while watching one of these icicles that he spotted the golden wolf’s reflection.

Without even chancing a look at the wolf on the other side of the stream, the grey wolf bolted in the opposite direction. He’d just reached the cover of the undergrowth when he heard the golden wolf follow, splashing in and out of the stream in one fluid motion.

The grey wolf knew it would do no good to hide. If the other wolf could smell him as well as he could now smell it, then his only option was to outrun it. He raced through the undergrowth, diving headfirst into the darkness with briars and branches swatting him in the face and tearing at his coat. And all the while, the golden wolf pursued.

As he plunged deeper into the forest, the grey wolf recognised some landmarks: a certain mossy stone, a gnarled branch, a tree that had been split by lightning. He’d come this way only minutes beforehand, when he was searching for the stream. He quickly formed a plan. If he turned off course fast enough, then he might trick the golden wolf into following the scent he’d left on the track earlier, and this would give him enough time to escape.

He took a deep breath and broke off to the left as swiftly as he could. He was moving so fast now he couldn’t hear if he’d shaken the other wolf. The muscles in his legs were burning by the time he came upon a felled tree stump. The stump was lying on its side. It was hollow and large enough for him to crouch down inside. He crawled in on his belly, held his breath and listened to the woods around him.

Silence. Not so much as a breeze rustled the dead leaves on the ground. Total silence.

The wolf stayed there and watched the moon until it had moved what he judged to be a good distance across the sky. Then he cautiously emerged.

Suddenly something was on him, turning him around and pinning him down on his back. He looked up to see the golden wolf there, fangs bared and growling.

The grey wolf started to struggle, but it was no use. A green light unexpectedly flowed out of his captor’s eyes. The radiance covered him entirely, obscuring the other animal. It was momentarily so bright that the grey wolf was forced to close his eyes, then suddenly it faded away. The golden wolf was gone now. There was a man in its place, his hand locked on the wolf’s throat. His hair was platinum blond and his nose was long and stately. His facial hair had been shaved into a neat, modern beard. He wore a three-piece suit underneath a black coat that reached down to his shins.

Terrified, the grey wolf yapped and whined. The man just smiled. The grin went from ear to ear, exposing two rows of sparkling white teeth.

‘Who am I?’ the man said, as if in response to the wolf’s whimpering. ‘I am the Trickster Lord, the God of Mischief, the Father of Lies. I am Loki.’ He leaned forward, tightening his grip on the wolf. ‘Now it’s your turn to answer me. Where are the others?’

Chapter One

‘Where are the others?’ Arthur Quinn asked when he returned from the bathroom.

‘Just gone to get some drinks and stuff,’ his dad, Joe, answered.

The bowling alley was alive with noise: coins being dropped into slot machines, pinballs bouncing off bells, video games buzzing and whirring and firing, pins being knocked down and replaced in the alley itself; and over it all pumping pop music from the 1980s. It was Sunday evening, the last day of Joe’s Christmas break, and he had brought them here for one final treat before the January drudgery began.

Arthur ran his hand through his short hair – he’d gotten his once shaggy mane cut just before Christmas – and sat next to Joe, who was busy putting names into the electronic bowling scoreboard. Arthur studied his reflection in the screen. He had the same blue-green eyes as his father but his freckles were a gift from his mother. At the thought of her, he instinctively looked down at the pale gold ribbon tied around his wrist. It had been hers. Before she’d died.

At the time he’d thought that her death was the worst thing that could happen to him. But since then he’d been through a lot of craziness. Looking at Joe, he mused that he wasn’t the only one. Only a few months ago his father had been viciously attacked by the Norse god of mischief, Loki. Joe had been seriously injured and for a time Arthur wasn’t sure if he’d survive. Even now, his right leg hadn’t healed properly and Joe still had to use a stick in order to move around. Apart from that, things were starting to get back to normal for Joe. He worked as head engineer of the Dublin Metro tunnel-drilling team, overseeing the massive excavation job under the Liffey – and it had all been going smoothly of late. Arthur was pleased for him.

Of course, Joe had only a fragmented recollection of his attacker and he certainly didn’t suspect that it had been a Norse god. But then, apart from Arthur and his friends, Ash and Max, no one else in the world knew about their tangle with Loki. The god had gotten close to them by posing as Will, a shrewd and personable boy who turned out to be just one of the forms the Trickster God was able to assume. He had fooled them into helping him free the Jormungand – a giant flying snake also known as the World Serpent, who was Loki’s oldest child. Loki’s plan had been to use the Jormungand to destroy the world, and he would probably have succeeded had it not been for Arthur, his friends and a resurrected army of dead Vikings.

‘Here they come now,’ Joe said, looking up from the scoreboard. Their neighbours, Ash, Max and Stace Barry, were approaching, each one loaded down with boxes of popcorn, hotdogs dripping with ketchup, and drinks. At twelve, Ash – short for Ashling – was the same age as Arthur. She usually tied her auburn hair up in a ponytail, but this evening it hung free around her face. Stace was seventeen and in her last year of school before going to college. She looked just like an older version of Ash. Max, their younger brother, was an excitable seven-year-old who had had a difficult couple of months. Arthur was pleased to see Max back to his old self. During the incident with Loki, Max had been held hostage by the Trickster God. For several weeks after, Max had suffered terrible nightmares. He would wake up sweating and screaming and only Ash’s cuddle could calm him back to sleep. During the day, he would be jittery and paranoid, afraid to leave the house by himself. But the longer there was no sign of Loki, the more the nightmares faded, until finally, a couple of weeks ago, they had stopped completely. Max was now almost back to that same boy who, even when Arthur had just arrived in Dublin, constantly pleaded with him to play football in all weathers. He, Arthur and Ash were the only people Loki had allowed to retain their memories of his devastating attack on Dublin, and even though it was over two months since the attack, Arthur knew that all three of them thought of it frequently, although they rarely spoke about it.

Arthur shook away all thoughts of Loki and got up to help the Barry siblings with the snack food.

‘What took you so long?’ he chided with a smile.

‘Somebody had to fix their make-up!’ Ash said with a sideways glare at her sister.

‘It wasn’t me!’ shouted Max with a mouth full of popcorn, simultaneously trying to take a sip of Coke.

‘You can’t really blame me,’ Stace said as she handed a hotdog to Joe. ‘There are some good-looking guys around here.’ She surveyed the bowling alley, fluttering her eyelashes, then turned back to Ash. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll understand one day when you get interested in boys.’

Ash’s face flushed. She glanced at Arthur, hoping he hadn’t noticed. But he was too busy helping Max unload his armfuls of food and drinks. He looked up, catching her gaze.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I missed that. Did you say something?’

‘Nope!’ Ash said hurriedly before Stace could butt in. ‘Nothing! So, are we ready to play?’

‘All set!’ exclaimed Joe, hitting the Enter key one last time on the scoreboard. ‘You’re up first, Max.’

Across the city, in the cobblestone square of Smithfield, was the Viking Experience. Surrounded by a high wall covered in murals depicting ancient life and legends, it was a recreated Viking village, chock-a-block with small plywood houses topped off with thatched roofs. Among all the laneways and streets, there was even a market area and a short bridge over a shallow moat. It promised to give visitors a chance to ‘See how the Vikings really lived in ancient Dublin!’

It was after eight o’clock on a frosty Sunday evening so, of course, it was shut. In fact, as it was the off-season, it had been shut since mid-November and wasn’t due to open again until the end of February. During the days that it was open, actors played the parts of the inhabitants of the village, while worn mannequins represented other Vikings at work in the small houses. Except that they weren’t all really mannequins.

Following the incident with Loki, Arthur was faced with the prospect of hiding almost one hundred dead Viking soldiers who had been resurrected to help him fight the Jormungand. He came up with the plan of sneaking them into the Viking Experience. Here they could mingle with the flaking mannequins and no one would question their dark, leathery faces. It suited them perfectly. They’d feel at home and yet they’d still be hidden, in plain sight. As long as they didn’t move much during the days while there were visitors, the nights were theirs to do what they pleased. And on this night they’d lit a bonfire in the centre of the market.

The army had been hidden under the earth for over a thousand years. And yet it seemed like mere minutes from the time they’d all died silently to the time they awoke last October. They’d given their lives to protect the world – each one taking a potion to stop his heart, only for it start up again if, or when, the Jormungand was to escape – and the world would never know it.

Bjorn, the leader of the soldiers and Arthur’s second-in-command, sat closest to the fire on a papier mâché throne they’d borrowed from the prop room. Even though they were dead and the cold didn’t bother them, Bjorn was still glad to be reclining in this seat of honour. It felt good to pretend that they still needed a fire to keep warm. He looked around at his army. A handful of his men had been destroyed by the Jormungand, but most had survived. They all wore the same dusty tunics they’d put on the day they were sent to guard the World Serpent’s lair. They could have exchanged them for cleaner, more comfortable clothes from the costume room, but they didn’t want to. It was nice to still have that link to the past, to their families, to their wives and children who’d died centuries ago.

Bjorn smiled to himself as he watched his men. They were joking and laughing – although, in the grunts that were all their dried-up voice boxes could manage, the chuckles came out as wheezing, throaty sounds accompanied by shoulder-shakes. A couple were even attempting to sing songs from their homeland in high-pitched snorts. They were happy. But for how long? He had assumed that once the Jormungand was defeated they would finally have been granted a peaceful death. And yet, here they were, still alive in a strange place and a strange time.

Suddenly a shiver ran up his spine.

This was unexpected. He hadn’t felt the sensations of hot, cold or pain since he’d awoken, and yet what had just happened was unmistakable. A cold shiver, rising from the base of his spine, had shot upwards to his neck.

A nearby Viking grunted to him. It roughly translated as, ‘What was that?’ From the fearful expression on all of their faces Bjorn knew that they’d all experienced the same thing.

‘I don’t know,’ Bjorn grunted back, ‘but I fear that dark times are coming.’

In another part of Dublin, a few miles from where the bowling was now well under way, in Arthur’s empty bedroom something equally strange was happening.

It was almost totally silent in the Quinn household. The flat-screen TV downstairs was on standby, the buzzing of its tiny red light barely audible. The large refrigerator in the kitchen hummed faintly. The numbers on the alarm clock that had been a birthday gift from Arthur’s mother to Joe a few years ago blinked softly in the dark. The light was on in the downstairs hallway to dissuade potential burglars. Abruptly all of these things and every other electrical item in the house simultaneously switched off, as all electrical power was drained within a two-mile radius of the Quinn home, plunging the area into darkness. Mobile phones turned themselves off, MP3 players stopped playing, laptop computers ceased to run. Even cars were stopped in their tracks, their electronics failing instantaneously.

There was only one glimmer of light in the entire blackout area, but nobody was around to see it. It was in Arthur’s room, emanating from under his bed. It was a steady and pulsing green glow coming from a mysterious object: a hammer with an iron head, curved at the top. There were runes – ancient letters – carved into the head, while fine rope was wrapped around the short handle. Arthur had found it in the Jormungand’s lair with the Vikings. He’d used it to defeat Loki and then, unsure of what it was or what to do with it, but sure it might come in handy at a later date, he’d stashed it under his bed. And now it was glowing vividly.

It was Arthur’s third turn to bowl. After the second round, Stace was in the lead, which surprised even her. Arthur stepped up to their lane – to cheers of encouragement from the others behind him – and concentrated on the pins at the far end. He squinted and lined up his ball. When he was happy with his aim, he took two steps backwards.

With one last look to make sure his aim was dead centre, he ran forward, crouching slightly with his arm back to launch his ball. He swung forward to release it, but just as his fingers slipped out of the holes, a sharp and searing pain burned into his chest. The ball thumped onto the glossy floor, wobbled slowly forward for a bit and then slid into one of the gutters as Arthur clutched his chest and fell backwards to the floor.

The pain was gone as quickly as it had started. Arthur watched the ball roll down the gutter towards the pins. Only they weren’t pins any more. They were teeth: huge razor-sharp fangs. He recognised them instantly. A forked tongue flicked out between them, globs of spit landing on the waxed floor. It was the mouth of the Jormungand! It was back. Somehow, it had returned and it was making its terrible screeching sound.

Arthur scrambled backwards in a panic, looking around to see if anyone else had noticed the transformation, but everyone was acting normally, laughing, bowling and chatting with their friends. When he looked back at the end of the lane, the mouth was gone. Once again it had become a set of white bowling pins, nothing more. But the words painted above the pins had changed. It had once read ‘bowling fun!’ in a brightly coloured font. Those letters were gone now, replaced by lines and cross-hatches. He couldn’t read them but he knew exactly what they were. Runes.

He got to his feet and looked around him. Every sign and poster in the bowling alley had changed. The letters were no longer from the English alphabet: they’d also been replaced by runes.

The pendant Arthur always wore around his neck had fallen out from inside his T-shirt and was lying against his chest, glowing bright green. With one swift motion, he pulled it off and stuffed it into his pocket. Instantly, the runes reverted to English words.

‘You all right, son?’ Joe asked. ‘You took quite a spill there.’ The others had gathered at the end of the lane, looking at him with worried expressions.

‘I’m fine,’ he uttered eventually. ‘I just slipped.’

Joe smiled sympathetically as he and Stace returned to their seats. Ash and Max waited behind with questioning faces.

‘Just slipped?’ Ash asked.

‘No,’ Arthur conceded, ‘no, I didn’t just slip.’ He took the glowing pendant out of his pocket and showed it to them, careful not to let anyone else see it.

‘What does it mean?’ Max asked, his voice trembling with trepidation.

Arthur didn’t want to say the words but he had to. ‘I think it means it’s starting again.’

Chapter Two

Bang!

Arthur woke with a start to find that he had a crick in his neck. He looked around, momentarily confused, then checked the time on his phone. It was a little after seven in the morning and Joe had just left for work, slamming the door on his way out.

After arriving home from bowling the previous night – which had taken much longer than usual thanks to the fresh and treacherous layer of frost on the roads – they were surprised to find that their street had been plunged into a blackout. There was total darkness, save for the large moon hanging in the night sky.

‘It’s probably due to the weather,’ said Joe, dropping Ash, Max and Stace off. ‘Maybe the ice on the power lines became too heavy and broke them.’

The Barry siblings went into their darkened house to find that their parents had positioned flickering candles around the rooms in place of the electric lights. Mr and Mrs Barry were reading by the soft light while their granny, who had been staying with them since Christmas, was on the couch, snoring like a jackhammer.

The Quinn men returned to their quiet home. Entering it like this, so silent and lifeless, reminded Arthur of their first time in the house a few months previously. It was all very modern inside, with white walls, pale wooden floors and recessed ceiling lighting. But now those bulbs were in darkness.

Joe tried flicking the switch but to no avail. ‘I think there’s a torch in the car,’ he said and went back out into the cold.

Arthur took his mobile phone out of his pocket to turn on the flashlight application. As he hit the key, he realised that the phone was unexpectedly off. He tried the power button, but no luck there either. With an irritated grunt, he dropped the phone back in his pocket and turned to face the darkened stairwell. His eyes had become slightly adjusted to the gloom – not by much, but enough to follow the steps upstairs.

The first-floor hallway was windowless and none of the adjacent doors were open, which meant that there wasn’t even any moonlight to penetrate the total darkness. He could just about see for a foot or two in front of his face. Arthur thought of what had happened at the bowling alley. Was the vision some kind of warning? What if Loki was hiding in the darkness?

As soon as the thought formed in his head, he regretted it.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said to himself out loud, just to break the silence, and moved forward towards his bedroom door. He pushed the door inward, expecting to be confronted with more darkness. Instead, he was surprised to find a soft green light filling his room. It pulsated gently and reminded him of the light the pendant gave off. Only it wasn’t the pendant: that had stopped glowing before they left the bowling alley and, besides, it was safely tucked away in his pocket.

The light could only be coming from one place. He ducked to the ground and reached under the bed, brushing aside a flimsy spider’s web. He faintly heard its former occupant scuttling across the wooden floor. As soon as his fingertips brushed the hammer, the glowing stopped. He heard a low hum that hadn’t been there seconds previously and things grew brighter. He sat up and looked out the window. The streetlights were back on, as was his desk lamp.

‘Power’s back!’ Joe called from downstairs. ‘How about some hot chocolate?’

‘Yes, please!’ Arthur replied. He sat back on his feet, mystified at what had just happened, then got up and went to join Joe downstairs.

When the hot chocolate was ready, and topped with a generous portion of marshmallows each, they sat sipping it together and watching The Sound of Music on TV for the third time this holiday season. Joe hummed along to the songs and giggled at little Gretl the same way he did every year. But Arthur barely paid attention to the singing Austrian children. The only thing on his mind was what had happened at the bowling alley. What could it possibly mean? Was Loki back? Did the Jormungand somehow survive? Were the Viking soldiers in danger? Too many questions and too few answers.

When the film was over, Joe moved to clear up the hot chocolate mugs.

‘Are you finished, Arthur?’ he asked as he reached for his son’s half-full mug. ‘You’ve barely touched yours.’

Arthur looked down at the drink in his hands. He’d thought he’d finished it but had been so deep in thought that he’d simply forgotten about it.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I think I’m still full from all that junk we had at bowling.’

Joe put his own mug on the coffee table and sat back down on the sofa. He awkwardly rested his arm across Arthur’s shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, Son,’ he said.

Arthur looked him in the eye. ‘For what?’

‘This is our first Christmas … without her.’

‘Oh. Yeah.’ It was something that had been on Arthur’s mind almost constantly over the holidays, only just not right at that moment.

‘I’m sorry I have to go back to work tomorrow. But you’ll have fun on Tuesday.’

‘I know. It’s fine. Honestly.’ And then, because he glimpsed a look of sadness in his father’s eyes, he added, ‘I love you, Dad.’

‘I love you too, Son.’ Joe stood up, taking the mugs with him. ‘Well, goodnight. Don’t stay up too late.’

Arthur watched his dad go into the kitchen, limping slightly on his right leg – the one constant reminder of Loki’s vicious attack. At the thought of it, Arthur was suddenly filled with rage. He clutched the pendant in his pocket. Even though it had stopped glowing, he could still feel a faint warmth from it. At that moment he swore to himself that he wouldn’t allow Loki to hurt his father or his friends ever again.

He bounded upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, and stepped into his bedroom. His desk lamp was still switched on – a bad habit that Joe was always scolding him about – but he turned it off, plunging the room into darkness. After a few seconds, his eyes became accustomed to the dark, brightened slightly by the amber glow from the streetlights penetrating the darkness in the room.

He knelt down and reached under his bed, pulling out the hammer. The head of the hammer was forged from a dark and dented iron, with runes beaten into each side. The handle was half as long as the head was wide – barely long enough for an adult hand to wrap around it. The whole thing looked very heavy and Arthur knew from the way it thudded to the ground if he dropped or threw it that it was a dead weight. And yet it didn’t feel heavy when he lifted it – in fact when he held it, it was like an extension of his arm and felt just right.

Shortly after the incident with Loki, he’d asked the Vikings what it was and what it meant. All he’d managed to grasp from the rather one-sided conversation was that it was very powerful and none of the soldiers wanted it. It was his now, they’d indicated. He made a mental note to try asking them again soon.

He placed the hammer on his desk. Then he took the pendant from his pocket and laid it alongside. He sat down and looked at the silent world outside. Arthur could see Ash’s house across the estate. All the lights were switched off, everyone in bed, asleep. He suspected some were sleeping more peacefully than others. A warm tangerine glow flickered through the living-room window – the last embers in the fireplace burning down, no doubt. All the other houses on the street were equally undisturbed. Here and there a light was still on, but no one moved and nothing stirred. The grassy knoll in the centre of the estate – known as the green – was actually white now, painted by an ever-increasing crust of frost. The trees were leafless and the cars were lifeless. And all the while, Arthur watched.

He stayed at his desk, watching the night pass by. If Loki showed up, he’d know. Every hour on the hour he got up and paced the room to stretch his legs. At one point a light flicked on in the Barry household. He wasn’t fully sure of the layout of the house but he guessed that it might have been Max’s room. Moments later, the window was in darkness again. The nightmares are back, most likely, he thought grimly.

The only movement outside all night occurred just after 4 a.m. when the young couple across the estate left their house, pulling suitcases behind them. Probably off to some warmer climate on an early flight. Arthur couldn’t help but feel jealous of them. They looked so happy to be leaving – exhausted but happy. They certainly didn’t have the worries he did.

An hour later, as he leaned back in his chair, he found that his eyelids were getting heavier by the minute. Maybe, he thought to himself, I can close them. For just a couple of minutes. To rest them. And then I’ll be able to stay awake for the rest of the night.

He allowed his eyelids to close, relishing the sweet release. The next thing he knew the downstairs door slammed as Joe left for work and it was just after 7 a.m. He shook his head, groggily cursing himself for falling asleep. Apart from Joe’s Land Rover pulling out of the drive, the estate was still deserted. The sun hadn’t risen properly yet, but there was a faint pink hue in the sky. By the looks of things, it was going to be another bright and clear day. Which probably also meant that it was going to be as cold as it had been the past few weeks. This cold snap had started well before Christmas and, although it hadn’t snowed, every outside surface was still coated with ice and frost.

He swivelled in his seat and looked at his bed. He didn’t want to crack but it did look very inviting. Arthur weighed up his options. It was getting bright now and it was unlikely that Loki would appear during the day – if he was coming at all. More people would start going to work in the next hour. Loki probably wouldn’t risk it.

Arthur stumbled from his chair and collapsed onto the mattress with a thwump. He was sound asleep seconds later, still in his clothes, lying on top of the blanket and snoring lightly.

Krzzzz …

Arthur blinked his eyes open and dazedly wiped away the line of drool that had formed between his mouth and the pillow. The room was awash with white winter light now and when he sat up in bed he had to squint. The noise that had awoken him so harshly sounded like a bee or else a large bluebottle. Either way, it shouldn’t have been in his room in the middle of winter. Unsteadily, he swung his feet off the bed and stood up. Then he spotted the source.

His phone was vibrating noisily on his desktop. It was rattling against the iron hammer, making it louder than usual. He grabbed it and pressed the answer key as quickly as he could.

‘Hello?’ he croaked in a dry, hoarse voice.

‘Hiya!’ Ash’s voice replied from the other end. ‘It’s just me. I’m outside. You up yet?’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m up.’ He stifled a yawn then cleared his throat. ‘What time is it?’

‘It’s eleven. Are you going to let me in or do I have to freeze to death out here?’

‘I’ll be down in a second.’ He hung up and pulled out a fresh T-shirt and jeans from his wardrobe. He didn’t have time for a shower with Ash waiting outside so he ran into the bathroom and sprayed some of Joe’s Lynx under each arm. It stung so much that he hopped back into his room with his arms splayed wide. When the pain subsided, he pulled on the fresh clothes and went downstairs.

He was still rubbing the crick out of his neck as he opened the door. Ash – all bundled up in a heavy waterproof coat, scarf, hat and gloves – stepped inside. A bitingly cold gust of air followed her in. Arthur, still in his bare feet, shivered and shut the door behind her.

‘What’s wrong with your neck?’ she asked, noticing him massaging the tender spot.

‘I slept in my chair,’ he explained.

‘You did what?’

‘Actually, I only slept there for a couple of hours. I stayed up most of the night.’

‘Why would you do that?’

‘A couple of reasons. I was on lookout for Loki, first of all. And then … well … I didn’t want to have any more of those weird dreams.’ During their first encounter with Loki, Arthur had experienced a number of strange and vivid dreams. They were visions of a place called Asgard, where the Norse gods lived. He’d learned a lot in those dreams, like why the gods banished Loki from Asgard and what they did with him, but he still didn’t want to start having them again. If that happened, it would leave little doubt that Loki really was active once more.

‘Oh,’ said Ash. ‘And did you see anything?’

‘Nothing. No sign of Loki and no dreams.’

‘Well that’s good. Maybe it was a false alarm.’

‘Maybe. Hopefully. Max had another nightmare, though, didn’t he?’

She nodded. ‘Same as before. He’s flying over the city on the World Serpent and then he slips off. And Loki just lets him fall. He woke up screaming.’

‘I saw the light.’ He paused, reluctant to suggest what he was about to say. ‘Ash, I think we should go and see the Vikings today. Before we go to Westmeath.’

Every year after Christmas, the Barry siblings went to visit their cousin in Westmeath for a few days and this year they’d invited Arthur to join them. When they’d suggested it to his dad, Joe was thrilled at the prospect of Arthur having something to occupy him during the remaining days of the Christmas break while he was at work. They were getting the train the following morning.

‘Well, I’m free now if you want to go?’

Arthur looked down at his feet. ‘Just give me a couple of minutes to put on some shoes.’

After pulling on two thick pairs of socks, a warm, fleece-lined coat, a woolly hat with flaps that covered his ears and a matching scarf and gloves set, Arthur hid the hammer back under the bed and left the house with Ash. As they walked gingerly towards the bus stop, treading carefully to avoid slipping on the ice, he checked a couple of times to make sure he’d remembered to bring the pendant. Without it, he wouldn’t be able to communicate with the Vikings, although a couple of the younger men seemed to be picking up some English. The pendant acted as a sort of translator and let them understand him even if he couldn’t always understand their answering grunts.

As they turned the corner onto the main road, they spotted a bus hurtling towards the stop. They realised they wouldn’t make it walking so broke into an awkward sprint. Arthur could feel the soles of his shoes sliding along the icy path as he ran. The waiting crowd were boarding the bus quickly and Arthur and Ash were still only halfway there, but then they had a stroke of luck as one of the passengers dropped her coins on the ground. She took her time retrieving them, delaying the bus long enough for Arthur and Ash to glide the last few feet along the ice before the driver closed the door. They scrambled on, both out of breath, and the bus pulled off towards the city centre.

Christmas lights were still strung across the main streets of Dublin, twinkling merrily and swaying in a light breeze. Council workers in high-visibility yellow jackets were sprinkling a mixture of grit and salt on the pavements and roads to combat the ice. For a Monday morning, especially after the crowds over Christmas, Dublin city centre was surprisingly quiet. Even though most people should have been back to work that day, it seemed as if many had decided to stay at home, keeping nice and cosy, watching family films or repeats of Christmas specials. Part of Arthur wished that he had that option. But part of him was also looking forward to seeing the Vikings. He hadn’t visited them since before the start of the Christmas break and he did kind of miss them.

As the bus drove through the city streets, Arthur filled Ash in on what had happened with the hammer and how touching it had brought back the electricity.

‘What does it mean?’

‘I haven’t a clue.’

They got off the bus at Wood Quay – not far from where Joe was working at the Dublin Metro site at Usher’s Quay – and walked across the bridge to Smithfield. The high-rise apartment buildings made strange companions for the ancient cobblestone pavements, but the Viking Experience fitted right in. Arthur and Ash were very familiar with the plywood wall around the recreated village and the murals of Vikings from times past. They were also very familiar with the fire door on the south-facing wall, also covered in murals. Arthur knocked twice fast, then once, then twice fast again on the emergency exit. Moments later, the door swung open.

The dead Viking who stood on the other side was tall, with blond hair cut uncharacteristically short. Unlike most of the others, his face was fuller and fleshier and, although his skin had turned the same dark brown during death, it hadn’t turned wrinkly like old leather. His name was Eirik. He had been the youngest of the soldiers, only eighteen when he pledged his life to protect the world. Arthur thought that perhaps his age had helped his skin retain some freshness. He was also the Viking who’d learned the most English. While he still couldn’t speak it, he could understand most of what Arthur or Ash said without the assistance of the magical pendant.

‘Hello, Eirik,’ Ash said.

The dead soldier grunted in reply, displaying his blackened teeth in a crooked grin. He stepped aside to let them enter the small dark corridor. The walls were painted black and there were doors along either side: one was labelled Office, another Props, another Costumes.

‘We want to talk to Bjorn,’ Arthur told Eirik as he pulled the emergency exit shut with a clang.

Eirik nodded at them grimly. Arthur read the expression in an instant. He knows something’s up, he thought.

The Viking led them along the corridor. It wound around to the left and they came to another door. He pushed it and they found themselves in the open air again; only this time they emerged into the imitation Viking village.

Bjorn was still seated in his throne in the centre of the market yard. With his high, sharp cheekbones and protruding brow, he was a sight to behold. There wasn’t much hair left in his beard, although he’d recently tied the loose strands into a single braid that fell to his chest. The hair on the top of his head was just as sparse, but right now he was wearing a bronze helmet to hide it. Arthur knew he only wore the helmet for battle.

Usually all the others soldiers would be milling around, talking, singing or even honing their fighting skills. But this time they were all gathered around Bjorn – all ninety-one remaining Viking soldiers standing in front of their leader, watching Arthur and Ash.

‘They’ve been waiting for us,’ Arthur whispered to Ash under his breath.

‘Why?’

‘We’ll soon find out.’ He walked forward through a corridor that formed between the assembled Vikings. As he passed them, they all dropped to one knee, bowing their heads in respect. They had never done this before and it made Arthur feel vaguely uncomfortable. These were men he thought of as his friends. He didn’t want them bowing to him. He stopped in front of Bjorn, who lowered his head.

‘Don’t bow to me, Bjorn,’ he said and then turned. ‘All of you, stand up. There’s no need to bow!’

For a moment, the Vikings looked from one to another. Bjorn grunted a command and they stood.

Arthur turned back to the man he thought of as his second-in-command. ‘Something happened, didn’t it?’

Bjorn nodded and snorted.

‘Loki’s up to something, isn’t he?’

Bjorn dipped his head sombrely.

‘Something really bad?’

Bjorn’s head bobbed affirmatively.

‘Do you know what it is?’

The dead Viking shook his head.

‘But you’re scared? You’re all really scared?’

Bjorn looked at the ground, avoiding Arthur’s gaze.

‘Bjorn?’ he asked again.

Eventually Bjorn raised his head and met Arthur’s eyes. Then he simply nodded.

Chapter Three

The Trickster God never enjoyed being in this four-legged wolf form. He much preferred to stand as a man, tall and broad with a nose that couldn’t smell the stinking earth around him. But being a wolf did have its benefits. He liked to run his coarse tongue along his piercing fangs and he could feel the great strength in his jaws even when his mouth was relaxed. Plus, being a wolf made it easier to follow the grey wolf.

They ran north all through the first night, leaping over hedges, bounding through briars and spooking sheep. They avoided towns and villages and crept past farmhouses only if necessary. The rolling Irish countryside was enduring sub-zero conditions, but they sprinted too fast to feel the cold. The grey wolf had given up any thought of escape. He was resigned to the fact that he had to lead the god to the others. As the sun rose in the east, bringing little warmth with it, the grey wolf idled to a stop. He looked back at Loki, whose golden wolf fur was almost glowing in the morning light, and scratched a paw into the hard earth.

Loki understood the gesture and, though he wasn’t pleased, he saw the sense in the grey wolf’s suggestion. It was time to stop, time to rest. The daytime was not a good time for a wolf to be out.

Too far from any caves, forests or mountainsides, they huddled together in a ditch at the side of a meadow, away from any possible prying eyes. The grey wolf slept through the day, rolling in his sleep and snoring with his great tongue lolling out. Loki didn’t need sleep so simply lay quietly. He was patient. It was something he’d learned in a thousand years of captivity. Good things come to those who wait. Or, in his case, evil things.