Andrew Donkin - Viking Blood

Journey into Mystery with The Mighty Thor #118

Stan Lee/Jack Kirby

While the events described and some of the characters in this book may be based on actual historical events and real people, Tor Scaldbane is a fictional character, created by the author, and his story is a work of fiction.

Scholastic Childrens Books,

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First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2008

This edition published by Scholastic Ltd, 2016

Text Andrew Donkin, 2008

Cover photography Lyn Randle, 2016

eISBN 978 1407 17242 2

All rights reserved

Produced in India by Newgen

The right of Andrew Donkin and Lyn Randle to be identified as the author and cover photographer of this work respectively has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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And now, your journey must begin, God of Thunder! Many undreamed of dangers await thee, but you are armed with truth, and your own awesome strength! You must not falter.

Contents

Now

It was the end of my story. I knew as soon as I saw the wolf that I had been careless and that now he would rip me apart with those teeth.

I was annoyed that I had been so stupid as to wander and chance upon the hungriest beast in the forest without even a sword. I had never meant to go so far.

Old One Ear the wolf took a step closer. He must have spent the rest of the winter hiding in the deep forest and now there were young lambs again he was back. Just like last year.

I was in the middle of the clearing and had nowhere to run. I moved my wooden rune staff so that it was between my body and the wolf, and I held it tightly in my hand.

I thought of Ragnar and his sword with the golden hammer, but I had left him a long way behind by the waterfall.

I knew that One Ear would surely kill me and eat me right there. If only to stop me raising the alarm. If only because he hadnt been able to sink his sharp, glistening fangs into my flesh on that terrible day back in the frozen mid-winter when he hunted me and Magnus in this same forest.

One Ear shifted his head from side to side. As he moved, I saw that there was something very wrong with his left eye. It was an old wound about an inch across and flesh had healed over the eye, leaving it dead and useless. I wondered if he remembered me.

The wolf curved his old body, keeping his good eye fixed firmly on me. It was a hunting movement, and it reminded me that I was about to be eaten alive. If I turned and broke into a run, I knew the wolf would be on me and bring me down in seconds. I was a long way from the village or help.

I wanted to fight like Thor, but I had no mighty hammer. I wanted to struggle against this beast like Odin fighting Fenris at the end of days, but I knew that like him, I would lose.

I had no proper weapon again. I had my long staff of twisted wood, and if I could get it out in time, I had my small knife in my pocket for cutting plants. And, of course, I had just one hand to fight with. But this time I had no help.

What a pair we must have looked. Tor the Tale and Old One Ear. A boy of sixteen summers with a stump where his right hand should be, and a wolf with one ear and one eye.

Now I was near the end, I suddenly wondered what had happened to my hand, left so far away on a muddy battlefield, across the sea in another land. Had it been trampled by heavy leather boots and buried deep in mud? Or was it stripped to the bone by ravens with open-mouthed young to feed?

The old wolf took a step closer, bending his head down towards the ground. Not yet ready to leap, but nearly.

I carefully leaned the staff against my shoulder and moved my left hand towards the pocket where my knife was. I had it out now, hidden under my clothes so that it wouldnt catch the high midday sun and draw the wolfs attention.

In one quick sweep, I stepped forward and moved my staff so that it pointed towards One Ear like a blunt spear. The wolf snorted. My left hand held the knife low and out of sight. I had an idea of using the staff and stabbing with the knife, but then I saw again the size of his jaws and I knew this really was the end.

One Ear came a step forwards. I poked the staff. He moved back. Again he came forwards, and again I poked the staff towards him. He barely moved.

He was so close now that I could smell his breath. It smelt of rotting teeth, festering meat and death. It smelt like a battlefield.

His lips quivered, exposing sharp yellow daggers. His breath was heavy now. He was near the end of his life. But then, so was I now.

I suddenly got annoyed that this old wolf would be the finish of my story, instead of me being the end of his.

I saw his muscles tense up. He snarled. Then, in a burst of movement and fury, and hatred and hunger, One Ear leapt towards me

The story of the beginning

Thirteen moons earlier

I saw my father in the bay, but then he turned into a whale.

I was watching the ocean from my lookout point on the cliff, just where the edge of the forest meets the open ground. From this height, you could see nearly half a days rowing out to sea.

I saw a black speck getting larger. A long black speck. It was moving towards the shore against the flow of the tide. I saw spray being splashed up as the dragon figurehead of my fathers ship cut through the water on its way home. Then, as it got closer, I saw that it wasnt a ship but a whale, and the spray was from its blowhole. It was only a small whale not even half the length of the longboat. It was probably young and probably lost.

I told you, said Ragnar. Theyre not coming today.

They might be, I answered. But I didnt think they were.

Ragnar shook his head. The tides against them for one thing, and for another, its too soon. They wont be back yet. There are too many churches with too many gold plates and silver coins on the other side of the sea.

I thought he was probably right, but I didnt tell him that. Ragnar is a whole year older than me. He is my adopted brother, although hes actually my cousin. My father and his father were brothers. When we were both small, his father went on a raiding party and didnt come back. Afterwards Ragnar came to live with us. In the village, he was the best for his age at sword fighting and wrestling. (But only because he is a year taller than me.)

Im said Ragnar, pointing downhill. I knew he meant, Im going to go back to the village and see if anyone wants to practise sword-fighting by the river. Are you coming?

No. Ill I said, and I pointed out to sea which meant, No, Ill stay here for a bit and keep a watch out, but I might join you later. Most of the time we knew what the other one meant without needing to say it.

All right. But they wont be back today.

Ragnar turned and ran down the hill towards the village. Soon the thump of his footsteps were lost in the sound of the sea crashing on the rocks below.