The Lost Gods (19 page)

‘How big is my limousine?' said Woden. ‘By rights, mine must be the biggest.'

‘I'm the most famous now,' said Freyja, ‘so I need the biggest limo. Is that clear?'

‘I'm more famous than you,' said Thor. ‘Always was, and always will be, so I insist—'

‘Veronica, I order you to
measure
the cars when they arrive,' said Woden. ‘If mine isn't the biggest I'm not going.'

Freya thought her head would explode if she listened to this a moment longer. Was this what fame meant to them now? Whatever happened to regaining their powers to fight the frost giants?

‘Stop! Stop!' screamed Freya. ‘What are you doing? Going to parties? Stuffing your faces, buying junk, showing off? What's happened to you? What happened to being famous for great and glorious deeds? The frost giants are coming to destroy the world and you're arguing about who's got the biggest car. The trolls take your bragging and boasting.'

Freya paused for a moment, breathing hard. The Gods stared open-mouthed at her.

‘Freya, stop,' said Roskva. Her freckled face was red.

‘You can't just be famous for doing nothing but squabbling and sashaying around in designer clothes!' Freya screamed. ‘Do something. Earn our worship. Earn our devotion. Woden, you created our world. Save it. Save us.'

She stopped speaking, breathing hard.

‘How dare you speak to your Gods like that,' said Woden. ‘Get out of my sight before I kill you.'

‘I've a mind to hurl you into Hel,' boomed Thor.
The room shook. He gripped his hammer tightly.

‘Get rid of her,' said the Goddess.

Freya put her hands on her hips. ‘The frost giants are coming,' she said.

‘I have a chat show to do,' said Woden.

‘I have a film premiere,' said Thor.

‘I'm doing my first
Vogue
cover,' said Freyja. ‘So stop bothering us, Miss Doom and Gloom. Who says the frost giants are
actually
coming anyway? It could be a trick. Where's the proof? Now Veronica, about my column in
ICE
this week, I could write about that first-night party, and the perfume launch …'

‘Go,' murmured Roskva.

‘We'll do what we can,' said Alfi.

Freya stomped out of the Archpriests Avenue mansion, slamming the massive front door behind her. She recoiled for a moment in the biting wind, then crunched across the semi-circular gravel driveway to the gatehouse, where the guard opened the electronic gates
for her. She pushed through the fans and the photographers and journalists standing around in clumps outside the high fence. She looked for Snot but he was gone. One photographer half-raised his camera, and then lowered it when he realised she was nobody.

And now the world was ending. Meanwhile, her mum was out clubbing every night. Her dad was in Dubai. The Gods were partying and drunk on fame.

It's time to take matters into my own hands, thought Freya. If they won't do something, then I will.

The golden-feathered rooster, who roused Woden's Valhalla warriors every dawn to start the day's battle, crowed a warning in the middle of the night. The startled warriors leapt from their pallets and snatched their bright weapons from the walls. The Gods trembled in their gleaming halls.

You Gods nourish your majesty
from the breath of prayer
and on dues of sacrifice,
and would be starving
were it not for beggars and fools.

Goethe,
Prometheus.

Freya stood for a moment at the entrance to the British Museum, looking at the familiar stone steps and massive columns. She hadn't been back since that fateful night a lifetime ago. She found the thought of seeing the Lewis Chessmen, now that she knew who and what they really were, impossible to bear, especially as she'd come so close to joining their ranks.

She felt sick about blowing Heimdall's horn, about being blasted once again into the icy abyss. But she'd made up her mind. If the Gods were too deranged to take charge, then she would. A magical army of Woden's great warriors could fight giants, couldn't they?
She tried not to think about her narrow escape from just one giant last time.

She climbed the stone staircase and entered room 40, the room dedicated to the Wodenic faith in the Middle Ages, the place where the Sleeping Army sat frozen on their chessboard, waiting to be woken. She paused for a moment, gathering her courage. It wasn't crowded: the hideous weather throttling Britain was keeping most people at home. There were two Japanese tourists, a whiny kid and his gran, and an elderly man dozing on a bench; otherwise the room was empty. The guard sat bored by the entrance, surreptitiously chewing gum.

The wood floor had been repaired, she noticed, the giant zig-zag crack filled in, all the fallen treasures rehung and the shattered exhibit cases replaced.

Averting her eyes, Freya walked slowly past the glass display containing the Lewis Chessmen. The ornate ivory horn, Heimdall's Horn, heavy with silver and glinting with
jewels, was behind them, hanging mutely on its massive chains.

She was the Hornblower, and it was time to wake the Sleeping Army. Who knew what special powers they had, powers that could rout giants? Hadn't Woden enchanted them to sleep until a time of deadly peril? She hoped fervently she wouldn't have to lead them into battle, but she'd face that when it happened.

Freya swallowed and stood before the magnificent jewelled horn. She looked around to check if anyone was watching her, but the guard was sitting by the door staring into space.

Army, prepare to live again, she thought. Before she could falter she raised her lips to the narrow mouthpiece, bracing herself for the horn's thunderous roaring ringing, the icy whirlwind and her body ripping apart as she spilled into freezing space. Then she squeezed her eyes shut and blew.

Silence.

Huh?

Freya opened her eyes. All was as before, the guard staring blankly, the two Japanese tourists photographing one another in front of every artefact, the crabby child, the old man asleep on the bench.

I must have done it wrong, she thought.

She blew again, as hard as she could.

And again there was no sound. The guard suddenly turned to look at her. Freya reeled sharply away from the horn.

Feeling light-headed, her ears ringing in the silence, she walked over to the Lewis Chessmen.

The glass case was empty. The chessboard was still there, and the plinth, but the entire army had vanished.

Freya stifled a scream.

How had they escaped without shattering the case? Where were they? Why wasn't she with them? What had gone wrong?

There was a tiny white card inside the display. Freya read:

THE LEWIS CHESSMEN ARE CURRENTLY ON LOAN TO THE CLOISTERS MUSEUM, NEW YORK.

On … loan? The Sleeping Army was on loan?
On loan?

Why was she so unlucky?

‘When are the chessmen back?' she gabbled to the guard.

The man yawned.

‘The summer solstice, I think. Don't worry, we'll get them returned safe and sound.'

‘But we need them now,' wailed Freya. Everyone in the room stopped to stare at her. Even the smelly old man asleep on the bench woke.

Shivering, Freya walked back to the empty case and leaned her forehead against the cool glass. What now? She'd been all ready to sacrifice herself, and now this.

Why was her fate so hard?

She heard the sound of laboured breathing. The shrunken old man shuffled up to her, wearing several layers of mismatched, torn clothes and mumbling to himself. He smelled of grease and decay. Spittle collected on his chin. Freya moved away from him. Ugh. Gross. He looked like he was over 100 he was so wrinkled and decrepit. She didn't want to talk to anyone. Especially not now when she needed to think.

He tugged on her sleeve with his gnarled, spotted hands. His broken nails were filthy. Freya jerked away sharply.

‘Looking for something, dearie?' he said, wheezing loudly. ‘Perhaps I can help.' His breath was rank.

Freya shook her head firmly and walked away, then pretended to be engrossed by the mosaic image of Woden displayed in the next Perspex case. Just leave me alone, she thought. I so don't need this.

The bent old man slowly sidled up beside her.

‘Fate was with you last time, Freya,' he rasped. ‘But no longer.'

She looked into his rheumy eyes, one red, one green.

Loki.

The Trickster God who had almost killed her. The Trickster God who had almost killed the Immortals. The shape-shifter. The Wolf's father. Loki the Liar and the father of monsters.

Freya choked. Her body jolted.

Run, she thought.

Loki gripped her wrist with surprising strength, then his hand weakened. She broke his shaky grip easily and pulled away, trembling and gasping. Should she scream? Could she scream?

‘Not looking my best,' said Loki, coughing and leaning on the empty display case for support. His breathy, reedy voice crackled with age. ‘Haven't been back to Asgard, obviously, so no apples of youth for me. I've become a sad, harmless, homeless old God since we last
met. Yeah, my daughter the corpse – thanks for asking, she's miserable as ever – she kicked me out. Can't say I blame her, but still, Hel isn't usually choosy about her guests.' He smiled. His few remaining teeth were cracked and black.

‘Stay … away … from … me,' hissed Freya, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘I'll tell the All-Father, he'll sort you out. Thor will put a hammer in your head. You monster.'

Loki waved his gnarled hand as if flicking away a fly.

‘How about you buy me something to eat? I could murder a piece of chocolate cake. Great invention, chocolate.'

The Sly One leered at her with eager, sunken eyes.

‘My brain is still working, you know. Not for much longer, so you'd better hurry up and decide. I just might be able to solve your little problem. Or – to be accurate – your giant problem. Heh heh, well, you gotta laugh, don't you?' he continued, then doubled over
in an agonised fit of coughing. He was clearly struggling to breathe.

Freya hesitated as Loki gasped. Was this just a clever disguise? A trick to catch her off guard?

‘Good girl. I knew I wouldn't regret not tearing you to pieces,' he rasped.

And somehow, without agreeing to anything, she was following him slowly downstairs to the great rotunda buffet café. Loki paused frequently to rest every few stairs.

There was some safety in a public place, thought Freya.

Loki piled up his tray with sandwiches, cakes and drinks. He slipped even more into his many pockets. Freya checked her purse. This would clean her out. Loki began stuffing his face with food even before she had paid. His hands shook so much she took the tray from him. His spilled drinks sloshed around the plastic.

They sat down at a wooden table beneath a banner advertising the forthcoming Viking exhibit. The other people at their table
immediately got up and moved away.

Loki grinned a wolfish smile. ‘I don't even notice my own stink any more,' he said, gobbling another sandwich. ‘But then every man loves the smell of his own farts.'

Freya flinched.

‘What are you doing here?' she hissed. ‘You tried to kill me. You tried to kill all the Gods.'

Loki shrugged his sunken shoulders.

‘It's true. I've been a bad boy. But I've learned my lesson. That was then. This is now.'

‘You're the reason we're in this mess,' said Freya. ‘You gave Idunn and her apples to the giants. You let the Gods get old.'

‘I was unavoidably detained – Woden turned me into an ivory horse before I could rescue Idunn.'

‘Liar. You stole Idunn from us,' spluttered Freya. ‘You snatched her out of my hand.'

‘Nonsense. I took her to Hel for safekeeping. How could you be trusted with such a precious prize? I wanted to make sure all was well in Asgard before risking her return. What
if the frost giants had invaded while the Gods were … indisposed?' said Loki. He drew his hand across his throat. ‘Then
they'd
have the apples of youth.'