Thorfinn and the Dreadful Dragon Read online

  To Isaac and Martha – D.M.

  To Dougie the doughnut muncher, my faithful companion – R.M.

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  DRAGON NAME GENERATOR

  THE BOOK OF DREKI’S TOP 5 DRAGON-CARE TIPS

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER 1

  When Vikings get together, it’s usually for one of three reasons:

  1. Feasting

  2. Fighting

  3. Catapulting prisoners into the fjord.

  However, on this occasion, it was for a very unusual reason indeed.

  The villagers of Indgar were gathered around a wooden stage set up in the marketplace. For Vikings, they were being amazingly well behaved. No one was wrestling, farting, roaring, belching, sword fighting or arm-wrestling.

  In fact, the villagers were rather quiet. There was a hushed kind of hubbub as they waited expectantly.

  A small boy with freckles stepped up in front of the curtains. This boy had an extremely unusual name for a Viking. He was called Thorfinn the Very-Very-Nice-Indeed. If you’re wondering what a normal Viking name sounds like, it would be more along the lines of Thorfinn the Tonsil-Mincer, or Thorfinn the Granny-Stretcher.

  You see, Thorfinn was the exact opposite of all the other Vikings. Thorfinn was NICE, and he was POLITE, something which was unheard of in the mean and nasty world of the Vikings.

  A pigeon perched on Thorfinn’s shoulder, a lovely speckled bird that went by the name of Percy. He was equally well mannered (for a bird, anyway) and was one of Thorfinn’s best friends. Gazing around at the gathered crowd, Thorfinn gave a pleasant smile and raised his helmet. “Good day to you all! And what a lovely morning!”

  The crowd replied with a chorus of jeers and boos, followed by a volley of rotten cabbages. Vikings grew quite a lot of vegetables, but not for eating. It was much more fun to throw them at their enemies. And Thorfinn, obviously. “We’re Vikings!” they roared. “We don’t have lovely mornings, just horrible, smelly ones! Now get on with it!”

  Thorfinn sidestepped the flying cabbages. He didn’t flinch, and his gentle, well-meaning smile never faltered. “My dear friends,” he said once a hush had descended on the crowd. “As you know, the Great Viking Fire Festival takes place on the Shetland Islands this week. We must look our best, so my father, the chief, has given me the great responsibility of making our costumes. My boat crew have kindly agreed to model them for you, so please give them a warm welcome!”

  Thorfinn stretched out his arm. The curtain drew back, to reveal not his crew, but an ancient man with a long white beard. Or rather, an ancient man’s rear end, because he was kneeling down, his bony bottom arched in the air towards the crowd, his head sideways on the floor. He was snoring loudly, like a giant hog snuffling in the feeding trough, and his beard ruffled in and out with each rasping breath.

  It was Oswald, the village wise man.

  “BOO!” cried the impatient crowd. “We want costumes, not bony old bums!”

  Thorfinn coughed politely. “Excuse me, old friend.”

  Oswald woke up with a jolt. “Thorfinn!” he cried, sounding like a startled seagull. “Sorry! I bent down and couldn’t get back up again. Must have dozed off while I was down there.”

  Thorfinn helped the old man to his feet, and Oswald hobbled offstage, muttering, “Ooh, my poor back!”

  “Now, as I was saying,” said Thorfinn, once again throwing out his arm to introduce his models.

  “TA-DAAA!”

  CHAPTER 2

  One by one Thorfinn’s crew trudged onto the stage. But there was nothing ‘TA-DAAA’ about them. They were led by Torsten the Ship-Sinker, Thorfinn’s navigator. Unfortunately, the only ships he’d ever sunk were his own. With absolutely no sense of direction whatsoever, Torsten walked straight past Thorfinn and crashed off the side of the stage.

  “AAARGH!”

  Harek the Toe-Stamper, Thorfinn’s chief warrior, followed close behind. He was the most accident-prone man in Norway, and put his foot through a plank in the floor.

  CRACK!

  He tugged his leg out, only to trip and fall off the stage, landing on top of Torsten.

  “AIEEEEE!”

  “OW!”

  Then came Grut the Goat-Gobbler, munching on a gigantic chicken leg. His costume was bursting at the seams in an effort to contain his rather large behind, and he left an oily trail of chicken grease as it dripped all over the floor behind him.

  Grimm the Grim trudged on next. Every part of the man was droopy – his face, his shoulders, even his moustache looked sad. He slipped on the grease from Grut’s chicken and landed on his bottom, moaning, “Oh, this is so unfair. Why does it always happen to me?”

  Grut bent over to hoist his friend up, but he slipped too, his legs scissoring in the air before he crashed onto his back. He managed to keep hold of his chicken leg, waving it aloft, shouting, “No one panic – I didn’t drop it!”

  The last member of the crew was the only one left standing: Gertrude the Grotty, Thorfinn’s slimy-haired cook (the word ‘cook’ being used in the loosest possible sense). Her favourite ingredients were insects, which were usually found crawling, wriggling or buzzing all around her. Gertrude grinned and twirled her long straggly hair, posing for the crowd. “Finally I is on the catwalk,” she screeched. “Look hows beautiful I am!”

  A tiny red-haired girl wearing a helmet that was far too big for her stood at the side of the stage, one elbow propped up on the hilt of her giant axe. This was Velda, Thorfinn’s other best friend. She rolled her eyes. “This is SOOOO embarrassing.”

  It takes a lot to make Vikings gasp, but gasp is what they did. A gasp full of shock and horror, like the winter wind whistling through a massive pair of Viking underpants hanging on the washing line.

  But it wasn’t the multi-Viking pile-up and greasy bums that did it. Oh no, it was the costumes.

  Sparkly costumes. Sparkly and purple with shoulder pads and dangly, spangly tassels. And huge, tall hats made of fuzzy violet-coloured felt, all finished off with a sprinkle of glitter.

  There was a moment of shocked silence from the crowd, before the wailing and pointing and shouting began. Not to mention the looks of murderous rage cast in Thorfinn’s direction.

  “THESE are the costumes?!”

  “Is that… GLITTER?!”

  “What have you done?” the crowd cried. “We’ll be laughed out of the festival!”

  One or two of the villagers sank to their knees in despair. A great cry went up as the shock turned to full-on outrage.

  “Where’s the shiny armour, Thorfinn?!” someone yelled.

  “Where are the sharp swords?!”

  “How are we supposed to look SCARY and TOUGH wearing sparkles and fuzzy felt?!”

  “LET’S GET HIM!” someone cried. A mighty Viking roar came from the crowd as swords were drawn and axes were raised, until a booming voice halted them in their tracks.

  “STOP!!”

  CHAPTER 3

  A giant, hulking figure cast an enormous shadow over the crowd. It was Thorfinn’s father, the village chief, Harald the Skull-Splitter.

  Harald was one of the t
oughest and meanest Vikings in all Norway. His skull-splitting skills were the stuff of legend, and he had been voted Most Terrifyingly Terrifying Viking of the Year six times in a row. Harald had an eye that twitched madly when he was angry, and a beard so huge you could hide weapons in it, which he often did.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he bellowed.

  “It’s Thorfinn!” Erik the Ear-Masher pushed through the crowd. He was Harald’s second in command. He only had one eye, and a nose like a mangled marrow. “Look at the horrible costumes he wants us to wear for the Great Fire Festival!”

  “We can’t wear those!” said Olaf, Erik’s son, who elbowed his way to his father’s side. Olaf had a nose just like his father’s, except in his case the marrow was not only mangled, it had also been dropped from a great height, rolled around in the dirt for a bit, and then trampled by a horse. “We’ll be a laughing stock!”

  Onstage, the crew struggled to their feet. Thorfinn kindly helped Torsten and Harek back up the steps as Harald eyed the costumes with growing horror. “Thorfinn, explain yourself!”

  “Father!” Thorfinn beamed with happiness. He skipped off the stage and tipped his helmet. “I’m so glad you could make it. And what a lovely—”

  “YES, YES, YES – ENOUGH!” roared Harald. “I want you to explain this… NONSENSE!”

  “Nonsense?” said Thorfinn. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, dear Dad.”

  “Now look, boy. The Great Fire Festival is the biggest event in the Viking calendar. Vikings from all over the world will be there, competing against each other.”

  “Yes, you said we have to put on a show.” Thorfinn stretched out a hand towards his crew, who looked like fuzzy disco balls, and twiddled his fingers. “TA–DAAA!”

  “Thorfinn,” Harald growled, his eye twitching dangerously. “When I gave you the job of making the costumes, I told you, very clearly, that you were to make us look FEROCIOUS!”

  “With a capital ‘F’!” added Erik.

  “And lots of RRRRRRRR!” chipped in Olaf.

  “And look what you’ve done,” said Harald. “People will think we’re a comedy dance group!” He spotted Velda, who was still propped on her axe. “You! This is all your fault!”

  “Me?!” she protested.

  “You’re supposed to be keeping him out of trouble!” Harald had given Velda the job of coaching Thorfinn, hoping some of her fierce Viking spirit would rub off on his not-very-Vikingy son. It hadn’t.

  “I can’t help it, he doesn’t listen!” she replied.

  “What’ll we do now?” snarled Erik. “There’s no way we’re walking into the festival wearing T-T-TASSELS!” He gave a revolted shudder.

  “We’ll make new costumes,” said Olaf.

  “There’s no time,” grunted Harald, stroking his beard. “The festival starts in a few days, and we need to leave for Lerwick at high tide.”

  Erik drummed his fingers on his chin. “We could smear the costumes in mud,” he said.

  “Or dung,” added Olaf.

  “Or blood!” yelled someone from the crowd. “Thorfinn’s blood!”

  “LET’S GET HIM!” A loud cheer went up from the baying crowd once more.

  But there was no time for Harald to calm them down, as just then a thunderous BOOM echoed from the direction of the village pier.

  CHAPTER 4

  All the villagers rushed towards the pier, led by Harald, but Velda soon overtook him. She was wearing furry ankle boots with tiny round logs strapped to the bottom. When she pushed against them, the logs spun round and propelled her along. She might not be the biggest or strongest Viking in Indgar, but now she was definitely the fastest.

  “Hey, what are those things?” yelled Olaf.

  “I call them roll-o-boots! Now out of the way, spud face!”

  The pier was in pieces. In its place was the giant dragon-shaped prow of a huge longship, glimmering gold in the sunlight. The men hanging over the side wore shiny, expensive-looking armour, with even shinier winged helmets. They waved their swords around, jeering.

  “Who do you think you are, smashing into my pier? Identify yourselves!” Harald’s face was purple, his knuckles were clenched white around his sword hilt, and his eye was twitching like never before.

  The leader of the crew, who was wearing an even larger and shinier helmet than the rest, grinned smugly.

  “YOU!” cried Harald.

  It was Magnus the Bone-Breaker, chief of the neighbouring village of Vennagar, and Harald’s arch-enemy. “Ho, ho, ho! Look at your faces,” laughed Magnus. “We’re on our way to the Great Fire Festival. I just thought I’d pop by and show off our costumes. Brilliant, aren’t they?” He gazed down admiringly at his own reflection in his wrist plates.

  “PAH!” said Harald, but he was a terrible liar. The costumes were good. And tassel-free.

  To make matters worse, someone on Harald’s side was applauding them. Harald turned his twitchy eye back on the crowd. Whoever it was, he’d throw them into the nearest fjord! Thorfinn appeared, smiling and clapping his hands. Harald rolled his eyes and sighed. “I should have known…”

  “Excuse me, my dear sir,” said Thorfinn, “but they really are excellent costumes. What do you use to get them so wonderfully shiny?”

  “Well I think they look ridiculous,” said Velda, folding her arms angrily.

  The rival chief ogled Thorfinn’s crew – Torsten, Harek, Grut, Grimm and Gertrude – as they shuffled along behind the other villagers, still dressed in their spangly jackets and fuzzy purple hats. “Wait, are those your costumes?”

  Harald’s eye twitched.

  “HA HA HA!” Magnus burst out laughing. So did his men, rolling around the ship in hysterics. “You look like the world’s worst marching band! You’ve got no chance of winning the big prize!”

  Harald’s face looked like a volcano that was ready to erupt. “Well, neither have you, Bone-Breaker!” he growled.

  “Oh no?” said Magnus, calmly inspecting his fingernails. “Just wait until you see my GRRRRR-AND finale. Or had you forgotten about that part?”

  Harald looked sheepish.

  “Grand finale? What does that mean?” demanded Velda.

  “My big finish!” Magnus jabbed his sword down towards the ship’s deck. “In order to win, you have to give the crowd a show: something amazing, a spectacle they’ve never seen before. Now imagine this fantastic longship, completely ablaze, and me and my men marching through the flaming embers. Ho, ho! We’ve got it all planned. They’ll make me the Guizer Jarl for sure.”

  Thorfinn turned to Oswald, who was hunched on top of Harek the Toe-Stamper’s shoulders. He had insisted on being carried down to the pier because of his bad back. “I beg your pardon, old friend, but I’ve never been to the Fire Festival before – what’s a Guizer Jarl?”

  “The Guizer Jarl is a position of great honour: Chief Viking,” whined Oswald, sounding like an elk with a gobstopper in its mouth, “given to the chief who makes the finest display.”

  “You’re going to set your own ship alight?!” scoffed Harald. “I always knew you had mashed turnip for brains, Bone-Breaker.”

  Magnus grinned smugly. “Oh, it’ll be worth it for the title – plus, the winner gets a very large, very expensive silver mace. It’ll look lovely sitting in pride of place in my feasting hall. We’ve just redecorated.”

  Harald went purple. “You’ll never win, you festering pile of dung!”

  “You wanna bet?” smirked Magnus. Winding up Harald the Skull-Splitter was one of his favourite hobbies (as well as knitting socks, but he didn’t tell anyone about that).

  “NO!” yelled Erik the Ear-Masher, tugging at Harald’s mighty shoulder. “Don’t bet anything with that trickster!”

  Harald seethed, while Magnus and his men broke out in chicken impersonations, squawking and flapping their arms up and down. “Chicken! CHICK-CHICK-CHICK! Chicken!”

  “Did someone say ‘chicken’?” asked Grut, licking his lips.
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  Harald quivered with rage and went for his sword. “I’ll run that rat through!”

  “You can’t do that, boss!” said Erik, holding him back. “Remember, there’s a truce for the Fire Festival.”

  “Yes,” piped up Oswald. “Any chief who breaks the truce forfeits his honour.”

  Harald glared at them for a second, before loosening his grip on his sword hilt. “Then I suppose I’d better WIN!” he thundered at Magnus. “I’ll become Guizer Jarl, not you!”

  “I bet you a hundred pieces of silver you don’t!” Magnus called out gleefully.

  Harald’s eyes blazed and his nostrils flared. “Ha! You big shiny wimp! How about a thousand?”

  Erik practically choked, while Magnus burst out in delighted laughter. “A thousand? You’re on!” He turned to his crew and yelled, “Now cast off, pig-dogs!” The oarsmen pushed the longship away from the ruined jetty into the fjord. As the boat turned, Magnus grinned and waved his sword at Harald and the assembled villagers of Indgar. “Cheerio, losers! I’ll be back for my thousand pieces.”

  For the second time that morning, the villagers of Indgar stood in silent shock.

  “A thousand pieces of silver!” said Olaf. “That’s more than our whole village is worth.”

  Erik sank to the ground, his head in his hands. “Chief! What have you done?!”

  CHAPTER 5

  Later, in the great hall, the Vikings of Indgar sat slumped around the feasting table, their beardy chins propped upon their fists.

  The long table stretched up the middle of the room, groaning under huge mounds of food, including leg of elk, fillet of reindeer, brisket of beef and roast partridge. This was their pre-voyage snack, but it was mostly untouched. None of them felt like eating. Even Grut the Goat-Gobbler seemed to have lost his usual appetite – all he’d eaten so far was half a wild boar, four roast chickens and a platter of venison sausages.