Leif Frond and the Viking Games by Joan Lennon

CHAPTER ONE
    Hosting the Games
    â€œT hor’s Elbow!” my father whispered, turning pasty pale. “It’s her!”
    We were standing on the shore, welcoming the visitors to the Midsummer Games. My fatherhad just single-handedly carried four childrenand a tent to dry land yet now all the blooddrained away from his face. He’d seen one last boat approaching – a boat flying the Hildefjord flag – a boat carrying…
    â€¦the Widow Brownhilde. Three words that would strike terror into the heart of the greatest champion ever sung about by the bards.
    Polite people called her ‘a fine figure of a woman’ and ‘quite determined’ but she was, in fact,
huge
and as relentless as a winter wolf. The Widow had used up three husbands already (first there was Knobbly Knerdman, then Bogboring the Yawn-maker and, last and least, Dogsdinner Dimson) and rumour had it she was on the prowl for Husband Four.
    Rumour had it she had her eye on my father.
    Did my father want to be Husband Four?
    He very emphatically did
not
. And as far as
I
was concerned, having the Widow as my stepmother would be similar to getting savaged by wild pigs or swallowed whole by the World Serpent. At the same time.
    â€œWhat am I going to do?” my father moaned under his breath. “Where can I hide? Is it my Fate to be bound to this horror?” I think he’d forgotten I was still there.
    It was a cry for help if ever I heard one, and champions
never
ignore a cry for help.
    â€œI’ll save you, Father!” I said. I could see it already… Leif the Champion… Leif the Father-Saver… what wouldn’t the bards give for a story like this! They would carry my fame to every settlement in the known world… I could see the little children and the women gathering round to hear the tale of my bravery, while all the men sat muttering enviously…
    â€œSave me, mighty son of mine – save me from this terrible Fate
!”
Hallfred Frondfell looked down at the Champion with desperation like a cloak over his ageing shoulders…
    (No, that wouldn’t be right. It would be, he looked
up
at me, because
I
was the Champion and therefore the tallest person in the room. And I expect he wouldn’t appreciate the ‘ageing’ crack.)
    â€œFear not, Still Fighting Fit Father,” Leif the Tall and Handsome Champion cried. “I will outwit this foul fiend or if needs must, I will slay her, and bring you her head on a platter.”
    â€œWell, that would be a bit extreme, even for the Widow Brownhilde,” said my father. “But I appreciate the thought.”
    Rats! I really
have
to stop saying the things in my head out loud. “All right, all right, no head chopping. Not when we’re hosting the Games. I can understand that. But, well, what I
can’t
understand…”
    My father sighed. “What can’t you understand?”
    â€œIf you don’t want to marry her, how can she
make
you?” I blurted out. “I mean, she’s big, for sure, but you’re bigger. You’re stronger than her too. And you know how to use an axe and a javelin and a sword and all sorts of weapons.
She
can’t do any of that.”
    My father sighed again, shaking his head. “None of that makes any difference. When a woman like the Widow makes up her mind, an army of trolls with an avalanche thrown in for good measure couldn’t stop her getting what she wants. Still, anything you can do to keep me out of her clutches for as long as possible –
short
of chopping off her head – would be much appreciated.” It was obvious he thought he was doomed. And he clearly didn’t think there was anything much
I’d
be able to do about it.
    Well, I was going to prove him wrong. A Viking Champion never ducks out of a challenge, no matter how horrifying.
    â€œOf course I’ll help you. I’ll go right now and greet the Widow and show