Thundercluck! Read online

  “Oh,” said Brunhilde.

  “Thor and I must go now,” Odin said. “We will gather our warriors in Valhalla. Arise at dawn, for that is when we make our stand.”

  * * *

  That night, Thundercluck and Brunhilde camped on the summit. They sat by a campfire, listening to crickets and looking at stars. From the kingdom below, they heard Valhalla’s army cheer.

  “I thought I was starting to prove myself,” Brunhilde said.

  Thundercluck blinked and said, “Ba-gerk?”

  “All I get is guard duty and messenger jobs,” she said. Then she smiled and added, “But at least I got to bring you home.”

  Thundercluck leaned his head against her.

  “We used to have slumber parties when we were little,” she said. “Do you remember any of that?”

  The chicken scrunched his brow, but all he could remember was the farm.

  “Maybe it’ll come back. For now, let’s get some rest. It’s been a big day, and tomorrow’s going to be even bigger!”

  Thundercluck thought he might be too excited to sleep, but exhaustion soon took over. As he drifted off, words from the day echoed in his mind: Magic. Hero. Monsters. Danger.

  And just before he slept, he thought of Brunhilde and one more word: Friend.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE BATTLE OF DAL

  Thundercluck and Brunhilde woke at dawn. They could see Valhalla’s army below. At its front stood Thor with his hammer. Odin sat astride his eight-legged horse. In the morning’s first rays, the enemy approached: a mass of man-pigs.

  “Charge!” cried Odin, and Valhalla’s army surged.

  Thundercluck and Brunhilde watched the armies clash. At first the battle went well. The gods, the Valkyries, and the Vikings fought valiantly, pushing the pigs back.

  But then, from behind two mountains, the monsters appeared.

  Brunhilde recognized them from her studies: they were the ice giantess Frostiik and the fire dragon Blimpor. Throughout the realms, Frostiik’s breath had frozen villages into ice, while Blimpor’s fire breath had set towns ablaze. Each was devastating alone, but never before had they teamed up.

  “What treachery is this?” Odin yelled.

  The monsters’ approach was slow, but menacing. The giantess lumbered with bone-shaking steps, and the floating, gassy dragon batted its wings.

  THUD … Flap, flap … THUD … Flap, flap … THUD … Flap, flap …

  Thor broke from the main battle to face the beasts. He held his hammer high.

  BA-ZOWWWW!

  A blinding bolt of lightning hit the dragon.

  Wow, thought Thundercluck, that’s a lot more power than I have!

  The dragon was shaken, but not slain. Thor prepared to strike again.

  WHOOSH!

  Frostiik’s breath rushed over the god, freezing his hand and hammer in a block of ice. Thor was pinned.

  “They need help,” Brunhilde said. “Let’s launch plan B: the hidden troops!”

  She and Thundercluck turned to the other side of the mountain, but their hearts sank. Man-pigs had surrounded Mount Fjell, and the hidden troops were already busy in battle.

  Turning back, the pair saw Thor struggling to escape the ice, but it held fast. Blimpor hovered closer, preparing to scorch the god.

  Brunhilde looked at Thundercluck. “We’ve got to do something!”

  The chicken gulped.

  FWOOOOM!

  Blimpor unleashed his fire. A figure dropped in front of Thor in a blur, just as flames began to engulf him. Valhalla’s army gaped in fear.

  The fiery wave parted to reveal Brunhilde. She crouched in front of Thor, her shield casting a protective dome around herself and the god.

  Frostiik inhaled, ready to blast the god again with ice.

  BOOM! KRA-KOWWW!

  Thundercluck hit both monsters with lightning bolts. The beasts were startled—and angry. They glared at the chicken.

  Brunhilde smacked her sword against the ice imprisoning Thor, but she barely chipped it. Thor tilted his head toward the monsters and said, “Help Thundercluck!”

  The Battle Maiden slashed with her blade. An arc of light hit the giantess. “Hey, you!” Brunhilde called. “Catch me if you can!” She took flight.

  Frostiik chased Brunhilde, leaving Thundercluck with Blimpor. The bird hit the dragon with bolt after bolt, but the beast endured and spat fireballs in return. Thundercluck spiraled around them. He prepared to launch another bolt, but he was starting to tire.

  “Thundercluck, wait!” Brunhilde called. She ducked under a blast of ice and flew to the chicken. “I’m not having much luck, either,” she said. Her teeth chattered, and frost covered part of her armor. “They’re immune to our magic, and they don’t have soft spots!”

  Thundercluck looked worried, but Brunhilde reassured him. “They’re tough, but we’re fast. Follow my lead!”

  She flapped upward, and Thundercluck followed. The monsters kept belching ice and fire, and every time their attacks crossed, the collision burst into steam. Soon they were all surrounded by thick, puffy clouds.

  “Now they can only see a few feet ahead!” Brunhilde shouted. “You fly so the dragon can see you, and I’ll do the same with the giantess. When you hear my call, come toward the sound of my voice. Let’s go!”

  The heroes split, and when Thundercluck got close enough, he wiggled his tail in the dragon’s face. Blimpor roared a fiery blast. The chicken whirled aside, and then he heard Brunhilde shout, “Now, Thundercluck! To me!”

  He swooped in a backflip, and Blimpor chased him with his fire breath. With Frostiik at her heels, Brunhilde caught Thundercluck in midflight and guarded him with her shield. Flames soared above them. An icy gust flew beneath. Two roars erupted so loudly that all the steam blew away.

  Both armies stopped fighting to look. As the smoke cleared, everyone saw Frostiik and Blimpor spinning in distress. The dragon’s rump was frozen, and the giantess’s loincloth was on fire. They had breathed fire and ice on each other.

  Each monster tried to blow on its own rear, but neither one could reach it. They howled as they fled, the giantess’s loincloth leaving a trail of smoke in the air and the dragon’s behind frosting the grassy plain as it passed.

  “Retreat!” cried the biggest man-pig. “Retreeeeaaaaat!”

  The word echoed through the battlefield, and soon the whole horde had dispersed. Valhalla’s army cheered. Thor’s ice block thawed, and the god broke free.

  Across the plain, Brunhilde caught Odin’s eye. She shrugged as if to say, Sorry we broke the rules … and saved everybody’s lives. The elder god nodded silently.

  “Ba-bwak?” Thundercluck inquired.

  “I think that means we’re heroes,” Brunhilde said. “But we also might be grounded.”

  * * *

  In another realm, under a blistering sky, a giant volcano smoldered. Deep within a cave, Gorman Bones sat hunched on his kitchen stool.

  He snapped his skeletal fingers, and a rush of smoke came swirling up. The cloud parted, and in its wake stood the man-pig who had ordered the retreat. He bowed with a bashful snort.

  “Captain War-Tog,” said the Cook. “Tell me, how did the battle go?”

  “Uh, B-Boss,” War-Tog stammered, “we—we woulda won, Boss, but … but they had this pair of warriors, a Valkyrie and a chicken—”

  “A chicken, you say?” Gorman leaned forward with a grin. “Well then, everything is going as planned.”

  War-Tog blinked. “You … You’re not mad, Boss?”

  “Mad?” The Cook rose from his stool, and from his apron’s pocket he lifted The Recipe Book of the Dead. “Mad with anticipation, perhaps. And soon … mad with power!”

  Gorman began to chuckle, then he threw his head back with a cackle. War-Tog looked confused, but he started to laugh, too. “Good … Good one, Boss,” the man-pig chuckled.

  “I know!” barked the Cook, and the laughter stopped immediately. “Now,” he went on, “it’s time
to make something sinister, but sweet.”

  War-Tog nodded enthusiastically.

  “And once it’s ready,” Gorman concluded, “I’ll serve Asgard my revenge.”

  CHAPTER 9

  HOME TO ROOST

  In the weeks that followed, Thundercluck and Brunhilde became celebrities in Asgard. Saga’s warning faded from memory, and the kingdom welcomed the chicken’s return.

  For disobeying orders, the heroes’ only punishment was to wash the palace dishes. This led to the greatest bubble fight the realm had ever known. When the suds were wiped away, the castle shone like never before.

  Ballads were sung and tapestries hung to honor the duo’s glory. In the market, Frizzy Pat sold wizard hats inspired by their helmets. From the castle to Valhalla to the Asgardian Historic District, fans met the heroes with gratitude. Thundercluck and Brunhilde kept busy, always shaking hands and kissing babies.

  Away from the crowds, the friends remained inseparable. They explored the palace grounds and played dress-up in the castle closets. When they hosted a tea party in Valhalla, all the gods attended. Even Odin—always so serious and grim—came with a fancy bib and teacup.

  Everywhere they went, Thundercluck saw statues of birds and wings. Even the staircase to the Catacombs had a crow made of iron on its railing. For the first time he could remember, Thundercluck felt like he was home.

  * * *

  One peaceful day, Thor called Thundercluck to the fields. The god had arranged two wooden man-pigs under a sign that read POWER TRAINING. Thundercluck cocked his head, and Thor said, “Come with me, my feathered friend.”

  They walked until the targets were almost out of sight.

  “You have talent,” the Thunder God said, “but do you have skill? Try to strike a target from here.”

  Thundercluck squinted and launched a bolt. It shot through the air, but over the distance it weakened, fizzling out before its goal.

  “You must practice,” Thor said, raising his hammer at the targets, “and focus. Keep in mind what matters most.” Lightning erupted from the hammer and blasted both targets to ash.

  The chicken’s beak fell open.

  “Make no mistake, I am proud of you,” Thor said. “You have prevailed in battle—but how much of that is thanks to Brunhilde? If you find yourself without her, can you stand alone?”

  Thundercluck looked at the ground.

  Thor placed a finger under Thundercluck’s beak and lifted his gaze. “I ask because I care,” he said, “and I know you have great potential.”

  Thus began Thundercluck’s training. Over the weeks, he learned not only to control his bolts, but also to heed his instincts, to hear the bagaws within. He came to trust Thor with every feather of his being.

  One day during practice, a horn sounded from the castle. “My father calls you,” Thor said. “Find him on the castle’s highest balcony.”

  Thundercluck flew to the balcony. He found King Odin and Queen Frigg looking out upon the realm.

  Frigg turned to him and said, “Greetings, hero. You have proved yourself vital to our kingdom. Long have we wondered what to tell you of your past … and what to foretell of your future.”

  Thundercluck cocked his head.

  “What lies ahead,” Odin said, “is yours to discover, but we must warn you of your greatest foe: the grim chef Gorman Bones.”

  That name was new to Thundercluck, but his heart skipped a beat. Then he felt a presence behind him and turned.

  In the balcony’s doorway stood Saga.

  Thundercluck had heard of this goddess—the ethereal fortune-teller—but this was the first time he could remember seeing her in person. In her eyes he saw wisdom and compassion. She placed her hand upon his cheek and spoke:

  You fight with honor, Thundercluck; your glory has begun.

  But gird your loins and chicken bits—the worst is yet to come.

  An evil chef is plotting with a diabolic book;

  You’ll need your courage, and your wits, to face the Under-Cook.

  Thundercluck shuddered, but then he shook his head and tried to look brave. He bowed to the goddess and said, “Buk-bwok.”

  Brunhilde isn’t scared of anything, he thought, and neither am I! I’m the Chicken of Thor. What could go wrong?

  * * *

  Months passed peacefully, and the heroes kept training. “Next time evil comes our way,” Brunhilde said, “we’ll whup it even better than before!”

  Thundercluck’s twelfth birthday came, and Valhalla honored him with a feast. The good chef Andy made cake for all, and he served the bird a shiny plate of seeds. Thundercluck perched at the head of a table with Brunhilde and Thor beside him. Hennda, Odin, and Frigg sat nearby. Everyone came to celebrate, except Saga, who was not much of a party person.

  “A toast!” Thor shouted, tapping his hammer on his goblet. “To the rooster of the hour; to the bird with the bolts—to the hero Thundercluck!”

  “TO THE HERO THUNDERCLUCK!” cheered the crowd.

  But then a deathly chill descended.

  “Well, well,” a disembodied voice called out. Thundercluck’s blood ran cold. “Doesn’t this look scrumptious. Mind if I join you for dessert?”

  Valhalla went dark with smoke. The Asgardians started coughing, but then a gust of wind cleared the air. The hall’s doors swung open, and there stood a skeleton with an apron, a mustache, and a cook’s hat.

  “Gorman,” Thor growled, rising from his seat. “You look thin.”

  “Please,” replied the Cook as fire danced in the sockets of his skull, “call me Bones.”

  CHAPTER 10

  FROZEN CHICKEN

  “How long has it been since last I was here?” Gorman Bones asked. He looked at the banner that read, HAPPY TWELFTH BIRTHDAY, THUNDERCLUCK.

  “Oh, of course,” the Cook said. “Twelve years.” He turned to Thundercluck and added, “To the day.”

  He eyed the cake and mused, “Hmm, when I said ‘scrumptious’ … perhaps I was too kind. What was the goal with this cake? Low sugar? Low fat? Low flavor?” He grinned at Asgard’s chef. “No offense, Andhrímnir.”

  An awkward silence followed, but Brunhilde broke it. “I think Andy’s cake is great,” she said, “and just adding ‘no offense’ doesn’t make you any less of a jer—”

  “Silence, petulant child!” Gorman barked. Brunhilde held his gaze and slowly folded her arms. The Cook cleared his throat. “Now, where was I? Ah yes, this cake is terrible. But worry not, Asgardians … I’ve brought you all a treat.”

  “We’ll eat no food of yours,” Thor grunted. “Anything you’d serve is cursed!”

  “Oh, yes,” Bones answered, “it’s cursed, all right, but you’ll eat it just the same. Each and every one of you! After all, who could say no … to homemade apple pie?” The Cook snapped his fingers, and with poofs of smoke, slices of pie appeared on everyone’s plates.

  Everyone gasped. Asgardians hated evil … but they loved apple pie.

  Odin stood and glared at Gorman. “Listen well, Under-Cook,” he said. “My kingdom will not be tempted by … Is that … Is that nutmeg I smell?”

  “Just a pinch,” the Cook replied. “Enough to enrich the flavor, but not overpower it. Go ahead. Try it.”

  A glazed look came over Odin’s eyes. He sat back down … and started eating his pie. Queen Frigg did the same, and one by one, the other Asgardians followed suit. Thundercluck’s eyes widened. Odin had warned him the Cook was dangerous, but everyone was eating his pie.

  “We must stop eating!” cried Thor, his mouth overflowing as he shoveled in more pie. “This pie must be cursed! But I … can’t stop … It’s too delicious!”

  Even Andy ate his piece, and Hennda pecked at her own little slice. But no pie had appeared for Thundercluck, and at his side, Brunhilde was the only Asgardian not digging in. Everyone else had been enticed by the apple smell, but Brunhilde was holding her nose.

  Gorman did not notice. He only had eyes for the chicken. “So sorry I
couldn’t offer the pie to you, birthday bird,” he said, striding forward with his frying pan. “But I have plans for you, and after all, I must keep my ingredients … fresh.”

  One by one, the Asgardians fell asleep where they sat. Soon the only pie eater still awake was Thor, who blurted out, “Gorman Bones has cursed us all!” before falling facedown onto his plate. The Thunder God snored so loudly it shook the table.

  That’s it, thought Thundercluck. Time to zap the Cook! He jumped from his perch and blasted out a lightning bolt, but the chef whipped up his frying pan to block it. To Thundercluck’s surprise, the pan absorbed the bolt, then sizzled and glowed red.

  The Cook waved the pan in the air, and it erupted with fire, smoke, and lightning bolts.

  Thundercluck’s stomach dropped. The bird had known that some could resist his thunder, but this was the first time anyone had absorbed it and grown stronger.

  Gorman Bones lowered his pan with a toothy grin. Thundercluck felt frozen in place. He wanted to squawk, he wanted to fight, he wanted to run … but all he could do was stand and quiver.

  “Yes, good chicken,” Gorman whispered, striding closer. “Stay still, and I’ll have you battered in no time.” He raised his pan and swung at the bird.

  CLANG!

  Inches from Thundercluck’s head, the pan came to a stop against Brunhilde’s blade. She bellowed, “YOU LEAVE MY FRIEND ALONE!”

  Gorman’s eyes darted to the girl’s plate, where her slice of pie sat with a fork jabbed in it.

  “I’ll stick with birthday cake,” she snarled.

  The chef looked at his pan, which now had a notch cut where the sword had hit it. “How dare you interfere,” he grumbled. Then he leapt back and cried, “Guards!”

  Thundercluck flew to a distant rafter, and an entourage of man-pigs—four in total—shuffled through the open doors. They formed a row between the girl and the Cook. The biggest pig grunted, and Gorman commanded, “Captain War-Tog! You and your fellow swine keep the girl at bay … I need a word with the bird.”