Free Vulgar the Viking and the Rock Cake Raiders by Odin Redbeard

CHAPTER ONE
AN EARLY START
COCK-A-DOODLE-DOOOOOO!
    The cockerel’s cry tore through the early morning air.
    In a messy bedroom, in a small hut, somewhere near the centre of the sleepy town of Blubber, a young boy named Vulgar threw back his covers and leapt out of bed.
    His covers gave a loud, grumpy woof asthey landed in a heap on the floor.
    “Sorry, Grunt,” said Vulgar, looking down at the shaggy dog who had been sleeping on his legs. “Forgot you were there!”
    Grunt gave a low growl of annoyance and scratched his ear with his back leg.
    Vulgar smoothed out his leather tunic and tightened the string belt of his seal-skin shorts.
    He’d slept in his clothes last night, because today was a big day and he didn’t want to waste a moment of it getting dressed.
    Vulgar kicked open his bedroom door and hurried along the narrow passageway that led to the kitchen.
    As he bounded into the room, Vulgar spotted a huge, dark figure standing in the corner.
    The figure was so tall and so wide it looked like a small mountain.
    It blocked the kitchen window, leaving the whole room in almost total darkness. In its hand it clutched a large, sharp axe.

    “Morning, Mum,” said Vulgar.
    “By Odin’s beard!” boomed Vulgar’s mum, Helga, her voice making the flames of the fire quiver and shake. “What’s got you out of bed so early?”
    “It’s History Day!” said Vulgar excitedly. Behind him, Grunt padded into the room. The dog gave a snort as he slouched down on to the floor beside the fire, before falling asleep again.
    “History Day?” repeated Helga, splitting a log as tall as Vulgar with one blow of her axe.
    “I’ve told you about it a hundred times,” said Vulgar. “It’s a whole day of learning about Vikings.”
    Vulgar’s mum frowned. “We are Vikings,” she said.
    “No, proper Vikings!” cried Vulgar. “Like in the olden days. You know? All looting and plundering and adventure onthe high seas.” He shook his head sadly. “Not like the Vikings who live in Blubber, all snoozing and gardening and … and … knitting. ”
    Helga’s frown deepened. “Nothing wrong with knitting.”
    “Yes, there is,” groaned Vulgar. “It’s boring ,just like everything else around here. Except History Day.”
    “I’ve never seen you this excited about learning stuff before,” said Helga. She eyed her son suspiciously. “Are you up to something?”
    “No.”
    “Because you’re usually up to something.”
    “I’m not up to anything,” Vulgar said, sighing. “It’s just … it’s History Day! About real Vikings.” He puffed up his chest and clenched his fists. “Just like I’m going to be.”
    “Well, Mr Real Viking, before you go anywhere, you can get in the bath and wash that hair of yours. It’s filthy.”
    “But Mum ,” groaned Vulgar. “It’s supposed to be filthy. Whoever heard of a Viking with clean hair?”
    “What about your father?” Helga asked him. “Your father always has clean hair.”
    “Dad?!” spluttered Vulgar. “Grunt’s more of a Viking than he is.”
    At the sound of his name, Grunt opened one eye, chuffed loudly, then went back to sleep.

    “Right, fine,” sighed Helga, turning back to the log pile. “But wash your hands before breakfast. You look like you’ve been juggling elk poo.”

    Vulgar looked at his hands. His mum was right. Then again, he had been juggling elk poo. It was one of his favourite hobbies.
    “No way,” said Vulgar defiantly. He folded his arms in front of him. “Vikings don’t wash their hands. We’d sooner have them cut off.”
    Helga hefted her axe and stared hard at her son’s skinny wrists. “That could be arranged,” she growled.

    Vulgar gulped. His mum didn’t make idle threats. She’d once dangled him upside down from the window for refusing to cut his toenails.

    She’d strapped him to a boulder and rolled it down a hill when he’d refused to eat his sprouts. But surely even she wouldn’t go as far as chopping his hands