Thundercluck! Page 5

  The chef crept backward, and the pigs glared at Brunhilde. One of them sneered, “I bet she’s not so tough without the chicken!”

  Brunhilde’s sword began to glow. “Tell me, pigs—do you know why a Valkyrie is called a Battle Maiden?”

  War-Tog snorted, and said, “No. Why?”

  Brunhilde smiled as her helmet’s visor clinked down. “Well, piggy,” she said, “you’re about to learn.”

  * * *

  “Heeere, chicken-chicken,” Gorman called to the ceiling. Thundercluck’s talons held fast to the rafter. “I see you up there,” the Cook hissed.

  An axe clattered at the chef’s feet, and he stepped aside as a man-pig flew by and tumbled to the floor. The pig lay still and groaned.

  Across the room, Brunhilde shot a quick look at the Cook, then focused back on War-Tog and the other two pigs.

  Gorman glanced at the fallen hog, then looked up at the rafter. “Your friend is putting up a fight,” he said. “I can’t reach you … Why don’t you come down and play?” He brandished his pan, and flames trailed behind it.

  Thundercluck shifted from one foot to the other, but his wings felt stuck to his sides. He tried to flap, but all he could do was twitch.

  “Very well,” sighed the chef. Another axe flew by, this time wedging itself in a chair, and a second man-pig went rolling into the first.

  Gorman stepped over the wheezing pigs and strolled through the dining hall. He traced his fingers over nearby Asgardians as they slept. “If I can’t have the Bird of Thunder,” he said, stopping behind Thor, “then I’ll settle for the god.” And with a grunt, he lifted Thor onto his shoulder.

  Thundercluck’s brows bent in rage. He managed a timid squawk, but still he stayed shaking on the rafter.

  “Oh, does that upset you, chicken?” The chef looked back at the bird. “He’s like the father you never had, isn’t he? Well, you could come down to save him.”

  Thundercluck’s heart pounded in his chest. He wanted so badly to move, but he remembered the frying pan and its terrible blaze. His eyes were locked on Thor. All he could do was tremble.

  Brunhilde slashed with her blade, and its magic sent the remaining two pigs flying. From midair, War-Tog shouted, “Sorry, Boss!”

  Brunhilde turned to the chef and called, “Hey, mustache! You’re next!”

  She charged his way, but Gorman held his gaze on Thundercluck. “Last chance!” he whispered, and with his free hand he held his pan high. When Brunhilde was almost upon him, he swung the pan down, and a cloud of smoke burst at his feet.

  Brunhilde ran coughing through the smoke, but the Cook had already vanished. So, too, had the man-pigs and Thor.

  Faint snores echoed through Valhalla. Asgard’s young heroes were alone.

  * * *

  “Thundercluck!” Brunhilde called. “Are you okay?”

  The chicken could only blink.

  Brunhilde looked around. “It’s safe. He’s gone … You can come down.”

  Thundercluck exhaled. At last, his wings would move again. He squawked and fluttered to Brunhilde. The terror in his chest had faded. Shame had taken its place.

  Brunhilde hugged him and said, “I’m glad you’re okay!” She looked around. “We have to do something,” she said. “Every single Asgardian was here … except Saga! She wanted me to tell you happy birthday, but she likes her personal space. She’ll know what to do. To the Seeing Throne!”

  They sprinted through the castle, running by the Catacombs staircase with its sculpted crow on the railing. I can’t believe it, Thundercluck thought. I just stood there! But maybe Saga can make things right …

  “Here we are!” Brunhilde shouted. The chamber’s curtain was closed. “Saga’s behind there, and she’ll know what to do!”

  Brunhilde drew aside the curtain and whispered, “Oh no.”

  The Goddess of Vision and Foresight sat slumped in her throne, an empty plate on her lap. Little pieces of pie were stuck to her cheeks and mouth. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was slow and even.

  “Saga!” Brunhilde said. “Saga, are you awake?”

  The fortune-teller’s eyes fluttered open, and with difficulty she said:

  That pie appeared before me, dear, by some unholy stealth …

  I knew that it was evil, but … I couldn’t help myself.

  Beware of Gorman’s dining hall, his vile dinner venue.

  Now, find the mystic travel book, or doom is on the menu!

  The goddess yawned and closed her eyes. She started snoring.

  After a moment, Brunhilde poked Saga’s shoulder, and her eyes flew open for one last shout:

  Yes, DOOM! It falls upon us all, unless we break this curse.

  The Cook must be defeated soon; the spell must be reversed.

  There’s treachery ahead, you two. We need you at your bravest, For Asgard’s fate is in your hands … and only you can save us.

  PART III

  THUNDERCLUCK TRAVELS

  CHAPTER 11

  THE JOURNEY BEGINS

  Thundercluck stared at Saga as she slept. The chicken lowered his head and wished he could disappear under his helmet.

  Brunhilde stayed quiet for a moment, but then said, “Well, you heard the lady. Let’s move!” Determination glowed in her eyes, but she softened when she saw Thundercluck staring at his feet.

  “Look,” she said, “I know this is bad, but we can make it better. Saga said to find a travel book, so let’s check the library.”

  They entered the Asgardian Hall of Books, dark and quiet in the night. Starlight fell through the windows, and shadows loomed among the bookshelves.

  Brunhilde grabbed a candle from the reception desk. She held it out to Thundercluck and said, “Can you light this?”

  Thundercluck looked at the candle. He pointed his wing and tried to zap it … but nothing happened. Earlier he had felt fully charged, but now he felt empty. He felt like something inside him was missing.

  “Hmm,” said Brunhilde. “I … How about I just make my sword glow.”

  The heroes wandered, and Brunhilde read the shelves’ categories as they went. “Transcendence, Transmutation … ah, here we go! Travel.”

  On the Travel shelf sat a treasure chest with a golden lock.

  “That looks special,” Brunhilde said, “but we don’t have a key.” She looked closely at the lock, where an inscription read:

  NO MAGIC OR SHOCK CAN OPEN THIS LOCK.

  NO WEAPON CAN DAMAGE THIS THING.

  BUT BIRDS OF A FEATHER CAN JOURNEY TOGETHER.

  THE SECRET IS UNDER YOUR WING.

  While the heroes pondered the riddle, a feather fell from Brunhilde’s wing. Thundercluck picked it up with his beak. He caught Brunhilde’s eye, and they both looked from the feather to the keyhole. Brunhilde took the feather and slid it into the lock. The chest opened to reveal a book called Magic and Stones May Carry Me Home: The Travels of S. Valkamor.

  Thundercluck cocked his head as Brunhilde opened the book. Flipping through the pages, she whistled and said, “Whoever S. Valkamor was, they did a lot of sightseeing! And had a thing for poetry.” She stopped on a dog-eared page, which read:

  TO THE ROOTS (A VALKAMOR VERSE)

  When mystery calls, an elder knows all,

  A watcher you seldom can see.

  If tidings are bleak, if wisdom you seek,

  Then go to the roots of the tree.

  Thundercluck remembered the tree on the tapestry in Olga and Sven’s basement. Egg-dra-sill, he thought.

  “Yggdrasil,” Brunhilde whispered.

  When the word was spoken, the book’s pages fluttered on their own. They stopped on a page with a section torn off and a poem that read:

  TO THE STONES (A VALKAMOR VERSE)

  With cunning and haste, with magic and grace,

  The stones will deliver you there.

  And now I bequeath you, the first is beneath you,

  So go to the crow on the stairs.

  Brunhilde loo
ked at Thundercluck and said, “So, we’re supposed to get to Yggdrasil … using rocks? And great, part of the page is missing.” She remembered her studies. “The Bifrost only goes to Earth and back. Some wizards can teleport with spells, but that’s not magic you and I can do.”

  Thundercluck looked at his wings. He felt hollow inside.

  “Whatever these ‘stones’ are, I guess we have to find them,” Brunhilde said.

  Thundercluck reread the poem. The first is beneath you, so go to the crow on the stairs.

  Brunhilde closed the book and put it in her Battle Bag. It fit perfectly.

  “We need to hurry,” she said, turning to a nearby window. “Come look; there’s something important in the sky.”

  She pointed outside, and Thundercluck saw ribbons of color stretching across the dark night.

  “Did Sven and Olga ever show you this? In Midgard, people call it the Northern Lights,” Brunhilde said. “It’s Asgardian magic; we call it the Aurora.” She pointed with her sword and asked, “Do you see those stars?”

  The chicken saw a line of stars shining brightly in a row.

  “When Asgard’s in danger,” Brunhilde went on, “the Aurora protects the kingdom. No one can attack while it’s on, but it only lasts nine days.”

  Thundercluck counted the stars. There were nine.

  “We’ll be able to see those from every realm,” Brunhilde said. “With each new sunrise, a star will twinkle out. We have to break the curse before all nine fade, or Asgard’s magic will be lost forever.”

  The chicken gulped.

  Brunhilde smiled and asked, “Think we can do it in time?”

  Nine days? Thundercluck thought.

  “Absolutely,” Brunhilde said with a wink. “Now, let’s find some stones. Where should we start?”

  Thundercluck remembered Brunhilde’s tour of Asgard. He thought about dress-up in the castle closets, the tea party in Valhalla … and the iron crow on the Catacombs staircase.

  “Buk-bwak!” he said, and he trotted in that direction. Brunhilde followed.

  * * *

  On the way to the Catacombs, Brunhilde grabbed her emergency backpacks from her room. Their tags said, TRAGIC JACK’S MAGIC PACKS: I’VE GOT BAGGAGE!

  “These contain all the food and camping supplies we’ll need,” she explained.

  The duo crept down the crow-marked staircase, and Brunhilde lit her sword as they entered the Catacombs. These were narrow tunnels under the castle, caves even darker than the library. Brunhilde’s sword could only shine so far, leaving shadows lurking in every corner.

  Brunhilde kicked some crumbly dust aside and whispered, “Back when Gorman was our chef, he was working on a recipe for magic muffins. Bran muffins.” She shivered. “He was always making a mess, and he stashed his work down here in the Catacombs.”

  Thundercluck was already nervous, and thinking about Gorman made it worse.

  “After Gorman vanished,” Brunhilde went on, “Thor came down to clean up the mess he’d left behind. Thor said he cleared all the muffins out … but you never know with bran muffins.”

  They came to a spiderweb, and Brunhilde stopped. “A few years later,” she said, “Loki the trickster had a little pet spider, and he set it loose down here as part of some prank. I guess it’s still alive.” She started forward again and added, “Keep your eyes open for that spider … It was itsy-bitsy, so look closely.”

  Thundercluck turned and looked over his tail. Maybe we should go back, he thought. Maybe if we go to sleep, we’ll wake up tomorrow and everything will be fine. Then he told himself, No. Our problems won’t fix themselves.

  Brunhilde peeked around a corner and said, “Oh look. There’s the spider.” Then her helmet’s visor dropped into battle mode, and she added, “It’s not itsy-bitsy anymore.”

  Thundercluck’s eyes whipped forward. The spider towered over them. After years of feeding on forgotten bran muffins, it had bloated to gargantuan size. It stood taller than Brunhilde, and its hairy legs sprawled across the tunnel.

  In the light of Brunhilde’s sword, the spider’s eight eyes glinted with fury.

  Brunhilde whispered, “I don’t think it likes us … but look!” With her sword she pointed beyond the beast to a stone on a platform.

  “Listen, spider,” she shouted, “we need to get to that stone! Will you let us pass?”

  The spider made a rattling, hissing noise and reared up, pressing its head against the tunnel’s ceiling.

  “All right,” Brunhilde said, “we tried asking nicely. Thundercluck! How about you give this thing a jolt?… Thundercluck?”

  She turned to the bird, but he was frozen stiff. His eyes darted from her to the spider and back again.

  The spider screeched and poked a hairy leg at Thundercluck. Brunhilde yelled, “It’s trying to grab you!” then swatted the leg away with her shield. The chicken stood still, and the spider crept forward.

  “Not so fast,” Brunhilde said. She lowered her sword, and for a moment everything went dark. Then a flash of light slashed through the black. The spider shrieked and ducked. The magic hit the tunnel ceiling, and all was dark again. The only sound was falling rocks.

  Brunhilde lit her sword again. She spotted the spider scuttling away through a hole she had blasted in the ceiling.

  Beyond the rubble, the stone awaited, its surface marked with mystic symbols. Though the Catacombs were pitch-dark, flowers grew at the stone’s base. Among the flowers was a ragged piece of paper.

  “The missing part of the page!” Brunhilde said. She picked it up and read, “Rune-stone instructions: 1) Strike with magic. 2) Step on platform. 3) Adventure.”

  Adventure … and magic, Thundercluck thought. He shuffled his feet. They needed to activate the stone, but his magic was gone. Brunhilde looked at him and lifted her visor. Her eyes twinkled with concern.

  It quickly vanished, though, and she clinked her visor back down. “We’ll get your thunder back,” she said, “but for now, I’ll handle this.”

  She slashed a wave of light onto the stone, which sounded with a CLANG!

  The runes began to glow, bathing the pair in an emerald light.

  Brunhilde sniffed and said, “It smells like there’s a garden ahead. Let’s go!”

  Thundercluck lingered. I can’t do this, he thought. I don’t know what’s out there, and I don’t have my powers! Maybe I can get back to the farm where I grew up … I’d be safe there.

  Brunhilde turned to face him. “Hey,” she said, “I know this is scary. I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to, but”—she lifted her visor again—“you’re my best friend. I hope you’ll come with me.”

  The chicken took a deep breath. You’re my best friend, too, he thought. He stepped forward.

  Brunhilde lowered her visor with a smile. She took Thundercluck’s wing in her hand, and together they stood on the platform. With a flash of green light, they were gone.

  CHAPTER 12

  ACROSS THE REALMS

  Waves of magic swirled around the heroes. The light faded, and a night sky came into view.

  “This is Alfheim, the realm of gardens,” Brunhilde said.

  They stood on a rune-stone surrounded by flowers. It smelled like nectar and spring. The moon hung high in the sky, but brighter light shone from small, colorful orbs near the ground.

  One floated toward the heroes, and when it had neared, they saw it was a little glowing person. It had butterfly wings and wore a leaf as a tunic.

  Brunhilde leaned close to Thundercluck’s ear and whispered, “Fair folk.” She raised her hand, and the fairy landed on her knuckle. Brunhilde cleared her throat. “Greetings, fairy! We come from Asgard on a holy quest. We arrived by rune-stone.” She gestured to the stone. “Do you know where we might find another?”

  The fairy smiled and said, “I like flowers!”

  “Okay, thank you,” Brunhilde said, and the fairy flew away. Brunhilde said to Thundercluck, “Looks like we’ll need to figure
this out ourselves. Tonight, let’s camp here.”

  * * *

  The chicken tossed, turned, and clucked as he slept. He dreamed he was running from the Under-Cook, and no matter how he flapped his wings, he was too weak to fly. He looked over his shoulder, and the Cook’s pan burst into thunder and flame.

  In his tent, Thundercluck squawked, and his eyes shot open. His heart was pounding, but slowly he calmed himself. It was still dark out. The garden was tranquil. The chicken’s terror faded, but the thought remained: That Cook is still out there.

  The bird poked his head out of his tent. Brunhilde sat nearby, inspecting the book by the light of her sword. She looked his way.

  “This thing’s full of riddles,” she said, closing the book. “Let’s get some rest. We’ll need it.”

  * * *

  The sun rose, and the heroes watched a star twinkle out. Eight remained. Brunhilde opened the Valkamor travel book, whose pages flew open again to the same poem.

  “Let’s see if we can find a clue,” Brunhilde said. Thundercluck looked around. He saw flowers, streams, and lots of bushes. Four of the largest bushes, shaped like animals, were scattered in different directions: a horse, a duck, a rabbit, and a fox.

  “Hmm. Yesterday the book flipped to a page when I said ‘Yggdrasil.’ Now we’re in Alfheim, so—”

  When the realm’s name was spoken, the pages flipped again. The book settled on a new poem.

  THROUGH ALFHEIM (A HAIKU)

  The hopping bush waits

  And feels the breath of winter.

  It comes from the rose.

  “So,” Brunhilde said, “there’s a hopping bush, apparently.” She looked at the plants surrounding them, all firmly rooted to the ground. “None of these are exactly jumping.”

  Thundercluck squinted at the bushes shaped like animals, particularly the rabbit. He pointed and said, “Buk buk?”