Thundercluck! Page 7

  “No one’s here!”

  “But look, feathers!”

  “Whoever it was, I bet they flew up. Let’s climb!”

  Thundercluck almost squawked again, but Brunhilde covered his beak. She whispered, “They don’t know there’s two of us! I don’t want you fighting without your thunder, so you hide in the boulder, and I’ll handle the pigs.”

  They heard the man-pigs climbing, and Thundercluck scurried into the boulder’s crack. Brunhilde wedged her shield in front of him. Thundercluck could see out, but no one could see in.

  The hogs clambered into view. From his hiding spot, Thundercluck counted three of them.

  “Hey,” one shouted at Brunhilde. “You’re not a chicken, you’re a girl!”

  “Aren’t you observant?” Brunhilde said, and her helmet dropped into battle mode.

  “Boss Bones didn’t say nuthin’ ’bout a girl,” another pig snorted, “but let’s take her hostage. Maybe she can serve us in the dining hall!”

  Brunhilde twirled her sword. “Oh, you’re getting served, all right.”

  The man-pigs charged, but the warrior girl was ready. She dodged and kicked two of them together, then sent the third flying with an arc of light.

  Thundercluck wiggled and thought, Way to go, Brunhilde! We’ll be out of here in no time.

  The flying pig hit the ground with a thud. “This was a mistake,” he moaned. “Call Captain War-Tog!”

  One of the others lifted a horn from his belt and blew on it. A low note rang through the air.

  Sounds of a pickax and grunting quickly followed, and a bigger man-pig heaved himself onto the cliff. Brunhilde recognized him from Valhalla.

  War-Tog gaped. “That’s Brunhilde!”

  One of the fallen pigs wheezed, “Who?”

  War-Tog snorted. “When Boss Bones went to Asgard, me and three pigs tried to fight her. But she whupped us! We gotta call Boss!”

  The other man-pigs staggered back. War-Tog struck a wide stance, took a deep breath, and raised a tiny dinner bell. He rang it in the air.

  A cloud of smoke swept over the cliff. It swirled in a vortex. When it parted, there stood Gorman Bones.

  Thundercluck trembled. Brunhilde might need me to help, he thought, but I can’t! I was so scared last time … and back then I still had my thunder!

  “Well,” said the chef, his voice like smoking charcoal, “what do we have here? You’ve made yourself useful, War-Tog—for once! I suppose even a blind pig can sniff out a truffle.”

  War-Tog pretended he understood what that meant. He nodded quietly.

  Brunhilde glared at the Cook. Her eyes were hidden beneath her helmet, but still the chef could feel their contempt.

  “I have questions for you, girl,” he said.

  “Well, I don’t feel like talking!” Brunhilde said. She slashed her sword’s magic at the Cook.

  He held up his frying pan to intercept it, and the magic bounced away. Brunhilde frowned. The chef grinned from the pan to the girl. “Nonstick coating, you see.”

  Brunhilde’s deflected light flew off into the distance, but then …

  CLANG!

  I know that sound, Thundercluck thought. That was a rune-stone! Maybe we can escape! He tried to move, but it felt like his feet were stuck to the ground. He was a frozen chicken yet again.

  Gorman kept grinning at Brunhilde. “You’ve been a thorn in my side, girl … Now, let me teach you some respect!”

  With a whoosh of smoke, he darted forward and swung down his pan. Brunhilde’s sword glowed brighter than ever before, and she swung it up at the chef. The weapons collided with a flash of light and the sound of shattering glass.

  Thundercluck covered his eyes, then slowly peered out from behind the shield. His giblets quivered.

  Brunhilde, still standing, was holding the hilt of her sword. It vibrated with a dying hum. Shards of crystal were sprinkled all around her. The Valkyrie’s blade had broken.

  Fury shone in her eyes.

  “Now,” said the chef, “you’ve lost your sword, and I don’t see your shield … perhaps you’ll talk, after all.”

  But War-Tog spoke first. “How’d you do it, Boss? Last time you two fought, her sword could stop your pan!”

  “Oh, just a bit of kitchen magic,” the Cook replied. He whirled his pan in the air, sending up pillars of flame. Then he held the pan close, eyeing the notch Brunhilde had cut in it before. “After Asgard,” he said, “I knew this pan needed more enchantment. So first I fried some dragon scales—medium heat, mind you—then I deglazed the pan with the grease of an elbow, and the blood from a stone, and then—”

  “I don’t care,” Brunhilde said, dropping her bladeless hilt to the ground. “Do you ever not talk about cooking?”

  “Hmph,” Gorman said. “I spend hours in the kitchen, and no one appreciates it. Now, tell me … where is the chicken?”

  “No idea,” Brunhilde said. “He and I split up a while back … He had a lead on how to bring you down. I bet by now he knows your weakness!”

  Thundercluck squirmed in his hiding place.

  One of the pigs grunted and said, “But I heard wings, and we saw feathers. I thought it was the chicken!”

  Brunhilde said, “Those were mine, genius,” and she gave her wings a flutter. “You know I have these, right?”

  The Cook glared at the girl and said, “Very well. I’m preparing a dinner party, and I insist that you be my guest.” He nodded at War-Tog, who lumbered over to Brunhilde. The pig picked up her fallen hilt and chained her wrists together.

  “Perhaps…” the chef continued, gazing around the plateau, “with a bit of luck, Thundercluck might join us.”

  He tossed a handful of spices into his pan, and a cloud of smoke erupted. It engulfed the Cook, the girl, and the pigs … and then it blew away. Everyone was gone.

  Thundercluck was alone.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE CHICKEN’S CHOICE

  Thundercluck peeked out from inside the boulder. The cliff was deserted, as was the path below. He wriggled through the crack, and the shield popped out with him. He grabbed it with his foot and secured it to his backpack. He looked around, lonesome and desolate, and wondered what to do.

  The more he thought, the more fear took over. I’m alone! Brunhilde knew what to do, but she’s gone! What do I do?

  His heart was racing, and he waddled in circles, clucking as he went.

  “Buk-buk-buk-buk-buk…”

  He made himself dizzy, then took a deep breath and tried to calm down.

  Okay, he thought. Earlier, I heard a CLANG—that was a rune-stone turning on. The book said there were two, one for the tree, the other for Earth. I’ll just follow the path and find the stones!

  The chicken flew low, and soon he arrived at a flat sheet of rock. On its surface, two rune-stones waited side by side. One was dark, and the other glowed with magic.

  Thundercluck landed and looked from one stone to the other. Both had moss around their bases, but they smelled different. The dim, unlit stone had an otherworldly smell that filled Thundercluck with wonder. The glowing stone smelled like the farm.

  The only stone ready to use, thought Thundercluck, is the one that takes me back to safety!

  He looked from stone to stone. Holding his wings to his chest, he felt no power inside himself.

  I guess that’s it, he thought. If I had my thunder, I could activate the other stone and get to the cosmic tree … But I don’t have it. I’ve done all I can. And Brunhilde wanted me to be safe. So I should go back to the farm.

  He nodded to himself and thought, Well, I tried. I’ve had a good run, but I’m going back to the farm. Maybe this time, I’ll pretend I fit in.

  When he tried to step on the platform, though, his feet refused to move.

  The chicken thought, Huh? That happens when the Cook’s around, but he’s nowhere near! Why am I afraid? I’ll finally be safe!

  He looked back at the other stone. Then he thought about his que
st, Thor, and Brunhilde—and found his feet could move again.

  * * *

  At the other end of Muspellheim, Gorman Bones and War-Tog led Brunhilde in chains. They marched to the giant volcano. Its base was surrounded by a lava moat. A drawbridge lowered before them, and a pair of towering gates flew open.

  “Welcome,” said the Cook, “to Castle Igneous.”

  Brunhilde frowned. She sniffed the air. “Smells like something’s burning.”

  “When I’m done cooking,” the chef replied, “everything will burn.” He turned to War-Tog. “You! Take our guest to her cage. I’ll check on Thor, and then I’ll be up to visit.” He vanished in a puff of smoke.

  So Thor’s alive, Brunhilde thought. She wiggled her wrists, but the chains held tight. I need to escape, but first I should scope this place out.

  She followed War-Tog through the gates and into a passageway. The gates slammed shut, and torches lit themselves along the passage.

  Brunhilde whistled. “Quite a collection!”

  Sculptures, paintings, and tapestries lined the tunnel. Every single piece of art had some kind of chicken in it.

  She elbowed War-Tog. “He’s like an art collector, except he’s insane.”

  War-Tog shrugged. “Some people are both. ’Specially Boss.” He bumped into a sculpture of a dancing rooster. “I just follow orders. Boss wants a chicken art? We bring him a chicken art.” He glanced from side to side, and whispered, “Mr. Boss has specific tastes.”

  War-Tog led Brunhilde through the tunnel, which took them to a cavernous dining hall. Tables, chairs, and dirty dishes filled the room.

  “This is where he feeds us,” War-Tog said. “Boss calls it, uh, the Dining Hall of Doom. We used to be regular pigs, but Boss … Boss gave us gruel.” He burped, then added, “We got big and smart.”

  Well, I can agree with “big,” Brunhilde thought. She nodded.

  “This volcano’s full of caves,” the pig went on, “and Boss made it his castle. Over there, that’s where he cooks. With the lava.”

  War-Tog pointed to a pair of doors across the room. One door was high on a balcony, and the other was at ground level.

  “That top door,” War-Tog said, “Boss calls that the Kitchen of Destiny. The lower one, that’s the Pantry of Peril. That’s where he keeps all his stuff.”

  War-Tog led Brunhilde to a smaller side door. It creaked open, and they left the Dining Hall of Doom.

  They trudged through a twisting cave. Brunhilde’s chains rattled, and the sound echoed ahead. When they reached a side cave, War-Tog said, “Here’s your room.”

  Inside was a human-sized birdcage suspended over a lava pool.

  War-Tog took Brunhilde’s Battle Bag. “I keep this,” he said. “Boss says you gotta get in the cage.” She sighed and hopped in. War-Tog locked the cage and took the chains off her wrists.

  A cloud of smoke appeared, and Gorman Bones emerged.

  War-Tog saluted. “Welcome, Boss!”

  The Cook ignored the pig and leaned over the lava toward Brunhilde. “How do you like the view?” he asked.

  “I can take it or leave it,” Brunhilde replied, “but I can’t stand the company.”

  “Well,” Gorman said with a grin, “too bad, young lady, because we have more to discuss. You saw Thor strike me down all those years ago. Tell me, don’t you wonder how I survived?”

  Brunhilde’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve got a big list of priorities,” she said, “and that question’s down at the bot—”

  “You see,” the Cook interrupted, “when Thor’s bolt hit me, it zapped me into Helheim, the realm of the dead. It was a land of fossil and shadow. I had become a skeleton, stripped of my flesh and blood!”

  War-Tog’s mouth gaped. Brunhilde crossed her arms and thought, Here we go.

  “I journeyed across mountains of ash and valleys of bone,” the chef went on, “and at last I reached the palace, Eljudnir! There lives Hel, the Goddess of Death. Once a soul enters her realm, she never lets it out—but we made a deal. For I knew Helheim had the darkest cocoa powder in all the realms. So in return for my freedom, I promised Hel … the greatest fudge brownie any world has ever witnessed.”

  War-Tog gasped. “What was innit, Boss?”

  “Oh, a little of this, a little of that. The legs of a fish, the beard of a bat. And I offered pecans, but the Goddess has a nut allergy.” His eyes took on a distant look. “I toiled in Hel’s kitchen for days, months, years! And when it was done … the brownie was spectacular. The Goddess of Death was pleased, and I was freed. So you see”—he ended with dramatic flourish—“I cheated death by chocolate.”

  War-Tog squealed and applauded. Brunhilde groaned.

  “I returned to the realms of the living,” Gorman said, “and then I plotted my revenge. I learned to teleport with my smoke. I enchanted my cookware for battle!” He lifted his pan with pride.

  War-Tog nodded and said, “Tell her ’bout the army, Boss!”

  “Yes,” answered Gorman. “Yes, it was all me! My food brought the monsters together! My food made them stronger! I’ve been commanding the man-pigs. It was me all along!”

  “You don’t say,” Brunhilde replied, still giving him a flat look.

  “I see you’re not impressed,” said the chef. “What, do you think the chicken will come? Oh, I bet he will … and when he does, I’ll be ready.”

  Brunhilde’s face held firm, but her heart skipped a beat. She clutched the locket Saga had given her.

  “You see,” the Cook went on, “I have quite the appetite for that bird.” He held up a hand and stared at the bones of his fingers. “My skeleton arose from the underworld, but my flesh was lost. Once I eat that chicken, though, I’ll absorb his power—and I’ll have my body back!” He looked Brunhilde up and down, and added, “A high-protein diet does wonders for the figure, dear.”

  Brunhilde’s eyes rolled so far, she thought she could see her brain.

  “And that’s not all!” the Cook declared. From his apron he withdrew The Recipe Book of the Dead. “Let’s see here,” he muttered, flipping through its tattered pages, “there’s Beastly Barbecue, Nefarious Fondue … Ah yes, here it is.” He turned the book to Brunhilde, who read the grim recipe: Chicken Soup for the Wretched Soul.

  “When little Thundercluck comes to face my army,” Gorman whispered, “we’ll have ourselves a stew.”

  There was a moment of silence, then Brunhilde asked, “Aren’t soup and stew technically different—”

  “Irrelevant!” barked the chef. He straightened his cook’s hat, and his mustache curled upward with his smile. “When the chicken arrives, I will cook him in my cauldron. All the meat will be mine, but my man-pigs will feast on his broth. Then I’ll have my body back, and my army will be unstoppable!”

  Brunhilde frowned, and her eyes widened.

  “And here’s the best part,” Gorman said, enunciating every word. “When I eat Thundercluck, you and Thor … are going to watch. Yes, yes! I’ll chain you both in the dining hall, and once the soup is on, I’ll wake Thor back up. And then I’ll have my feast!”

  Gorman chuckled as he turned to leave the room. He paused at the doorway and looked over his shoulder to add, “See you at the dinner party!”

  He threw back his skull with a cackle and strode from the chamber. He was gone, but his laughter echoed behind him.

  War-Tog smirked at Brunhilde, then turned to follow the Cook.

  “Wait,” she said, and the man-pig stopped. Brunhilde gripped her cage, staring at her bag draped on War-Tog’s shoulder. “You have my Battle Ba … Ahem, you have my purse,” she said.

  War-Tog stiffened. “So what?” he asked. “Wha’s innit?”

  “Lots of stuff,” Brunhilde said, “but all I want is my nail file.” She held up her hands. “I always forget about my nails when I travel … but if I’m going to a dinner party, I ought to look nice.”

  War-Tog’s glare was half suspicious, half confused.

  Brunhilde shrugged
and said, “I think it’s what Gor—It’s what Mr. Boss would want.” She looked at the pig’s nails. They were crusty and of various lengths. “If you stick around, can I do yours, too?”

  “No!” War-Tog grunted. “No, you, uh … You wanna look nice, all yours.” He picked out the nail file and tossed it to her.

  Brunhilde smiled sweetly.

  The pig left, and Brunhilde’s smile dropped. The file was made of Asgardian gold, the toughest metal in all the realms. She took a deep breath and started filing through one of the cage’s bars.

  * * *

  Thundercluck stared at the darkened stone. Memories flooded his mind.

  He thought about his childhood, when he had always wanted to explore. He thought about his mom, the only chicken who had been nice to him. He thought about Asgard, the one place that felt like home. He thought about Thor, the closest thing he had to a father.

  And most of all, Thundercluck thought about Brunhilde. She had believed in him every step of the way, and she had given herself up to keep him safe.

  He felt a charge of thunder rising in his chest. His eyes glowed with determination. He gripped the ground with his feet and pointed his wings at the darkened stone.

  For a moment, all was quiet.

  This is for my friends, the chicken thought. Then he unleashed a “Buk, ba-GAACK!”

  A thunderbolt flowed through his chest and erupted from his wings. It struck the stone with a CLANG! The stone glowed with purple light. Its platform was ready to go.

  Thundercluck looked at his wings, then turned his gaze to the stone.

  Onward, he thought.

  * * *

  Back in Valhalla, the Asgardians were still asleep … but one goddess stirred.

  Saga twisted and turned. Her eyes remained shut, but in her sleep she murmured:

  Our heroes are divided now … The pair is torn asunder …

  Yet Thundercluck has powered on … The chicken found his thunder!