Leif Frond and the Viking Games (3 page)

“Is there a problem?” asked my father anxiously as he bustled up. “Only I really should be getting the Games star – arrggh! –ah, er…”

“Hallfred
! Is that
you
?” trilled the Widow, whirling round. But my father was already trying to bury himself in the crowd.

Before Brownhilde could set off in pursuit, I rushed forward to intercept her. “This way, gracious lady, follow me. My father wants you to have the best seat. Hurry – the Games are about to begin!” Using every scrap of strength I could muster, I started to tow her in the opposite direction.

And all the while I was thinking,
Oh, great. Now I've got to keep the Widow away from my father, and my granny away from the Widow, and me away from all my sisters (but especially Thorhalla), and still find time to become a Champion in the Games.

Some days you'd be better off never even getting out of bed.

CHAPTER THREE

Leif's Secret

“J
ust here, ma'am. This is the best place to see the first event. Right by the archery target. They'll be unveiling it any minute now.” I was babbling, but I couldn't seem to stop. “You know, of course you do, how the Artificers of each settlement try to outdo the others in making the most spectacular archery target imaginable – and Queue the Frondfell Artificer is truly exceptional. Probably the best in the world. I just know you'll be impressed.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

You wouldn't have thought it was
possible
for the Widow's bosom to get any larger, but she really did seem to expand with indignation. She was furious.

“Have you forgotten the amazing archery target the Hildefjord Artificers created only lastsummer?” she spluttered. (How could I have? It was shaped like a giant mead cup that was supposed to fountain up spectacularly with thewinning shot. But every time one of the contestants hit it
anywhere
, it started to leak. Spectators kept running out onto the field to fill their own cups. It was all a bit of a disaster.) Then she deflated herself a little, and gave me a smile that made my blood run cold.“ Still I think it's sweet that you're so young and yet so loyal. Such a dear little fellow.”

Great Thor's Ankles
! I cried silently.
She's going to do it again
!

All the signs were there, but before she could actually execute her fiendish plan of once more hugging me, a loud trumpeting drifted across the fields, announcing that the first of the Games was about to begin.

Saved by the horn!

I gulped, and ran to fetch my bow.

Now, as I said before, I had a lot on my mind trying to keep the grown-ups under control, but right at that moment there was something else troubling me.

I don't know how to say this to make it sound good or even remotely heroic. That's probably because there
is
no way to make it sound anything but weaselly.

I was planning to cheat.

It's like this. The Midsummer Games had been looming large in everyone's minds – especially this year when it was being held hereat Frondfell. My sisters were fussing about food;Granny was telling everybody exactly what would go wrong if they didn't do things her way; my brothers were all training like mad; Queue the Artificer was very busy and being close-mouthed about his archery target-building plans. (I asked him once why he was called Queue. “Why do you think?” he snorted. “It's because I'm so good, people have to queue up to see me!” And it's true. He really is very, very good.) And I… I was desperate to qualify to compete for the very first time – and there was only one way I could see to make it happen. After a lot of arguing inside myhead I made up my mind. I went to Queue'sworkshop and after humming and hawing for ages, I came right out with it.

I asked him to make me a Magic Bow.

At first, Queue just looked at me for a long moment. Then, without saying a word, he went into the back of the workshop, where the shadows are mysterious and deep, and he brought back a bow.

“There you are,” he said. “I just finished making it last week.”

I couldn't believe it. I took the bow, feeling all tingly and awed.

“How does the magic work?” I whispered.

Queue held up a finger. “You must never ask questions about a Magic Bow,” he rumbled. “Now go away and learn how to use it.”

“Thank you! Thank you!” I called over my shoulder.

I'd been practising like crazy ever since last year's Games, but now I redoubled my efforts. At first it didn't seem as if the Magic Bow made any difference at all, but then, gradually, I started to get better. And better. Until I was good enough to hit the test target and convince my father I was ready to compete. He looked so proud. I almost blurted it all out, all about my Magic Bow, all about being a cheater, but in the end, I didn't. And now…

Now here I was, lining up with the other contestants, clutching my Magic Bow so tightly my knuckles showed white. Everything seemed unnaturally bright and clear and shiny – the sky, the grass, the spectators lining the field in their festival clothes. I could see my granny rushing about with cups of mead for the contestants, which was odd since she usually left that sort of leg work to my sisters (who usually passed it on to me). I thought she might have taken a break to cheer for me, this being my first Games and all, but there was no time left to worry about that now. My father gave the signal to Queue. There was a dramatic pause, and then our Artificer pulled away the sheet with a flourish and the Frondfell archery target was revealed.

Everyone gasped. It was
stupendous
.

CHAPTER FOUR

Fate's Arrow

I
t was a monstrous demon boar.

If you looked really closely, you could see that it actually was a wooden frame,bulked out with bales of straw and cunninglycovered with cloth painted to look like roughhide and curved tusks and tiny piggy red eyes. But I'm willing to bet there wasn't a single archer there who thought about it that way. It was as if we'd fallen into the middle of a great saga. Here we stood – a line of champions – and there was the beast that must be slain.

The first archer notched his arrow.

“I will aim for the throat, for that is the way to kill a demon boar!” he cried. The crowd muttered agreement. But when his arrow pierced the boar in the throat, nothing happened.

“Everyone knows you must aim for the heart,” cried the next, “however small that might be.” The crowd agreed with that too. But the monster's heart must have been smaller than my sister Thorhalla's, for though many arrows clustered in the target's chest, none of them seemed able to find it.

“I will pierce its hump!”

“I will shoot its tusk!”

They all thought they knew best. But none of the arrows had any effect. The winning shot was supposed to make something
happen
. Artificers up and down the coast put huge effort into building targets every year – the competition to create the newest and most spectacular was fierce – but the answer to where the winning arrow needed to go was always a deep secret.

When it was my brother Karl's turn, he didn't boast or shout about what he was going to do. He just walked up to the mark, drew hisbow, aimed, and let fly.

Everyone spontaneously cheered. Karl's arrow was clearly visible. It had flown straight and true – and had pierced the boar target's tiny eye!

It was an amazing shot and yet – there was
still
no sign of any reaction from the beast of straw.

There were murmurs all around.

“If anything could kill a monster it'd be an arrow to the eye.”

“No one can beat a shot like that!”

“This isn't as much fun as the Hildefjord archery target – I think the thing's broken.”

I hope Queue didn't hear that,
I thought to myself and then I looked around and realised with horror that there was only one person left to shoot…

Me. The cheater with the Magic Bow.

I didn't know
what
to do. My stomach was trying to crawl up into my throat and I kept waiting for someone in the crowd to shout out, “Hey! Look at that! That boy's cheating – he's got a Magic Bow!” And then they'd boo. And throw things. Viking crowds like throwing things. Squishy vegetables and elderly fruit for preference. (Well, rocks and knives for preference, but not at a festival.) Getting pelted with old apples and over-ripe cabbage – what kind of Fate was that for a champion?

And that was when it hit me – not a turnip, but the answer. Fate! I'd been playing fast and loose with the rules, taking them into my own hands, and now it was time for me to hand them back.

I would leave it all up to Fate.

Suddenly my nervousness left me and I almost smiled. I pointed the bow in the general vicinity of the target, pulled back the string, and shut my eyes.

Whush – Sproingg
!

“Look
!” cried the crowd, so of course I opened my eyes again.

It was an astonishing sight.

There was my arrow, in plain view, stuck right in the monster boar's bottom. And, where all other arrows had failed to set off the target's mechanism, mine had, against all the odds, succeeded.

There was a grating and a grinding and a shuddering, and the boar began to twitch and jerk. Slowly, terrifyingly, it raised its head and then, so suddenly it made everybody jump, it spat flame from its mouth. Right up into the sky, a great torch of fire and smoke. And my shot had set it off – not only my bow, but my
arrow
must have been magic as well!

And the crowd roared. Even the spectators nearest the target who were now thoroughly covered in soot – including the Widow Brownhilde – choked and cheered. But not all ofthe contestants were happy. Archers with far greater skill than mine had hit the target in farmore difficult and, let's face it, more
heroic
places.

“My arrow pierced its
heart
,” muttered one.

“My
arrow pierced it straight through the throat,” grumbled another.