The Sleeping Army by Francesca Simon

… expecting us?’
    â€˜Let’s keep watch,’ whispered Roskva. ‘We’ll wait till he leaves, then sneak in.’
    â€˜And if he catches us?’ said Freya. Her heart thudded.
    â€˜We can pretend to be servants looking for work,’ said Roskva.
    â€˜Look!’ hissed Alfi, pointing down.
    There below the precipice, Freya glimpsed the back of a giant so huge his shoulders touched the mountains on either side of the valley as he strode away.
    Freya exhaled. ‘Oh my Gods,’ she breathed. Even Snot paled.
    â€˜Still fancy single combat?’ said Roskva.
    Snot glowered and bit his battle-worn shield. ‘I’ve never run from a fight and I won’t now,’ he said.
    â€˜Let’s go,’ said Roskva. ‘Fate’s given us our chance to find Idunn.’
    Please Gods, prayed Freya. Please Gods let her still be here.
    They crept through the door. Blustery winds gusted through the bleak, cavernous hall. Everyone shivered. Freya’s teeth chattered, and her fingers were raw and icy. Had she ever been so cold before?
    The wind howled, slamming doors, blowing and banging. Embers from a small fire glowed in the immense hearth by the hall’s entrance, flanked by the tallest benches Freya had ever seen. The air reeked of damp decay.
    They wandered in silence the length of the cold, dark, dank, filthy room, hewn from the bluish rock.
    There were gigantic carved gold chairs covered in filthy blankets. Globs of greasy hair and fur clumped in corners. Moth-eaten tapestries, black with smoke, flapped in the wind. Fish guts congealed where they’d slopped on to the damp stone floor. There were cracked drinking horns, vats of ale, and barrels of stinking dried herring, along with piles of wolf pelts and bear skins. Giant nets dangled from the walls, alongside fishing poles and rusty spears. Heaps of candle wax piled up below the iron-spiked wall sconces. Bones, half-eaten, were scattered on top of bloody knives and filthy gold platters crawling with mould.
    Freya felt like a little mouse scuttling about as she tried to avoid the slippery fish guts. There was junk everywhere, except the junk was all gold and silver. Thrymheim reminded her of a picture she’d once seen in
Hello!
magazine of a Russian oligarch and his spiky-talonedwife enthroned in a gilded gold room. The whole place stank of fish.
    And something much worse. Much, much worse. They passed reeking barrels of brown water, filled with huge floating … Freya recoiled, hoping it wasn’t what she thought it was. The stench was unbelievable. Freya picked her way past the slops, holding her nose and retching.
    There were enormous buckets crammed with fish heads up to her shoulders. One was knocked over, spilling its smelly contents on to the ground. Snot grabbed a fish head and munched. The eyeballs popped out and rolled on the floor. He swooped down and scooped them into his mouth.
    â€˜What?’ he said, as Freya stared at him.
    â€˜Nothing,’ she said.
    They pushed open the heavy doors to the side rooms. They found two bed chambers, and a toilet so disgusting that Freya almost fainted.
    â€˜Guess he got tired of using this stinkhole,’ said Roskva, holding her nose, ‘so he’s turned the whole place into a cesspit.’
    â€˜If he comes back let’s not say we’re servants looking for work,’ muttered Alfi.
    There was only one room left. The door was smallerthan the others, and there was a key in the lock.
    Snot hoisted Roskva up on to his shoulders. Reaching as high as she could, Roskva turned the key.
    The door opened. They all gasped as their eyes adjusted to the gloom.
    â€˜What a gold-hoard,’ breathed Alfi.
    Heaped on the floor were gleaming swords, shining shields, gold arm rings and brooches, axes with jewelled handles and ash spears inlaid with silver.
    Snot pushed past him and started stuffing his knapsack with as much gold as he could scoop up.