It is 520 miles from London to Bettyhill as the crow flies, but if the crow in question is a fully trained shape-changer in a hurry the journey takes just over two and a half hours.
Brynjolf perched on the window-sill of the police station and preened his ruffled feathers. Apart from turbulence over Derby and a nasty moment with a buzzard passing over Dornoch it had been an uneventful flight, and he knew that the tricky part of his mission still lay ahead of him. Cautiously he peered in through the window, and listened.
“No, I don’t know who they are,” the man in blue was saying, “but they beat the hell out of us. Maybe you should send up some water-cannon or something.”
The reply to this request was clearly not the one the man in blue was expecting, for he said, “Oh, very funny,” and slammed the phone down. Brynjolf hopped away from the window-sill, spread his wings and floated away to consider what to do next.
Very tricky, he said to himself, and to assist thought he started to sharpen his beak on a flat stone. Shape-transformation is, however, only skin-deep, and he gave it up quickly. Getting the heroes out would be no problem in itself; it was one that they could handle easily by themselves. But getting them out inconspicuously, so as not to cause any further disturbance, would be difficult. He went through his mental library of relevant heroic precedent—heroes rescued by sudden storms, conveniently passing dragons, or divine intervention—but something told him that such effects might be counter-productive. The obvious alternative was the false-messenger routine, but that required a fair amount of local knowledge to be successful. He had no idea who the men in blue took their orders from, what they looked like or what identification would be needed. He had almost decided to turn himself into the key of the cell door and have done with it when he thought of what should have been the obvious solution: the duplex confusion routine or Three-Troll Trick.
First he turned himself into a fly and crawled into the building through a keyhole in the back door. Once inside, he buzzed tentatively round until he had located the cell where the prisoners were being held. It was a small cell and they all looked profoundly uncomfortable. Then he made a second trip and counted up the number of men in blue. There were only three of them; just the right number.
The Three-Troll Trick, so called because trolls fall for it every time, is essentially very simple. The shape changer simply waits until only one of the gaolers is supervising the prisoners; then he turns himself into an exact facsimile of one of the other gaolers and, claiming to have received instructions from a higher authority, releases the prisoners, who get away as best they can.
He then disappears, and leaves the other gaolers to discover the error and beat the pulp out of the one they believe has betrayed their trust. In a more robust age, the presumed traitor would not survive to clarify the misunderstanding; even if things had changed drastically over the years, Brynjolf reckoned, the mistake would still be put down to administrative confusion and quietly covered up. He set to work, and as usual the system worked flawlessly. The real gaoler lent him his key to the cell, the door swung open, and the heroes, looking rather sullen, trooped out.
What Brynjolf had overlooked was the fact that nearly three hours’ confinement in a cramped cell, with Angantyr keeping up a constant stream of funny remarks, had not improved Bothvar Bjarki’s temper, which was at the best of times chronically in need of all the improvement it could get. Also, Brynjolf had inadvertently chosen to impersonate the policeman who had been foolish enough to aim a blow at Bothvar’s head just before the fight started. So when Brynjolf, acting out his part to the full, shoved Bothvar Bjarki in the back and said, “Move it, you,” in his best gaoler’s snarl it was inevitable that Bothvar should wheel round and thump him very hard on the chin. It was also inevitable that Brynjolf, who had never really liked Bothvar because of his habit of paring his toenails with an axe-blade when everyone else was eating, should forget that he was playing a part, revert to his own shape, and return the blow with interest. The fact that he rematerialised with three extra arms was pure reflex.
Brynjolf realised in a moment what he had done, but by then it was too late. The other two men in blue had come rushing up when they heard the commotion, and they were standing open-mouthed and staring.
“That,” Bothvar said as he picked himself up from the ground, “is what comes of trying to be clever.”
“I’ll deal with you later,” Brynjolf replied. The three policemen, guessing who he meant to deal with first, made a run for the door, but the massive bulk of Starkad Storvirksson was in the way. After a one-sided scuffle, the policemen landed in a heap on the ground, and Starkad, remembering his manners, shut the door.
“Here,” said a voice from the back of the room, “let me deal with this.”
Brynjolf turned and looked for the source. “Is he one of them?” he asked, pointing to Danny Bennett.
“No,” said Ohtar, “he’s that sorcerer from the van, when you turned into an eagle.”
“Him,” Brynjolf exclaimed. “What’s he doing here?”
“We found him on the fells,” said Angantyr, putting a tree-like arm round his new friend’s shoulders. “Strange bloke. Eats a lot, very fond of seagull. But he’s on our side now. You’ll sort it all out for us, won’t you?” And he slapped Danny warmly on the back, nearly breaking his spine.
Danny stepped forward and bent over the policemen. “I’m afraid,” he said, “there’s been a slight misunderstanding.”
“You don’t say,” said the sergeant.
“You see,” Danny continued, “my—my friends here weren’t poaching salmon. Like me, I’m sure they’re firmly opposed to blood sports of every sort.” The sergeant laughed faintly, but Danny ignored him. “In fact they’re part of a team investigating a massive conspiracy to undermine democracy. Really, we need your help.”
The sergeant was curiously unmoved by this appeal. He groaned and rolled over on to his face. Danny sighed; he was used to this obstructive attitude from policemen.
“If it’s all right by you,” he said, “I’ll just go through and use your phone.” He stepped over them and left the room.
“Is that all sorted out, then?” said Angantyr. “No hard feelings?” One of the policemen raised his head and nodded. “Good,” said Angantyr. “We’ll just tie you up and then we’ll get out from under your feet.”
Meanwhile, Danny had got through to his boss in London.
“What the hell are you doing up there?” said his boss. “I’ve just had a very strange call from a film crew who claim to have been beaten up by lunatics and stranded on a deserted hillside. They also said you’d wandered off and died of exposure. I think they’re claiming compensation for bereavement because of it.”
“Listen,” Danny said, “I haven’t much time.”
“Oh, no,” said his boss. “You’re not being followed by the Wet Fish Board again, are you? I thought we’d been through all that.”
“It’s not the Wet Fish Board, it’s—” Danny checked himself. The important thing was to stay calm. “I’m on to something really big this time.”
“Whatever you’re on,” said his boss, “it can’t be legal.”
“This story’s got everything,” Danny continued. “Multinationals, nuclear power, spiritualism, ley lines, the lot.”
“Animals?”
Danny thought of the eagle that had wrecked his van. “Yes,” he said, “there’s a definite wildlife angle. Also ecology and police brutality.”
The boss was silent for a moment. “This has nothing at all to do with milk?”
“This is bigger than milk,” Danny said. “This is global.” Something told Danny that his lord and master wasn’t convinced. Desperately, he played his ace.
“You don’t- want to miss out on this one,” he said. “Like when you didn’t run the thing about that little girl’s pet hamster getting lost inside Porton Down, and the opposition got it. Got her own series in the end, didn’t she?”
“All right,” said Danny’s boss. “Tell me about it.”
“What took you so long?”
The crow flopped wearily off the roof of the van, and perched on the King’s wrist.
“Lost my way, didn’t I?” it muttered, folding its rain-drenched wings. “My own silly fault. Next time I go as a pigeon.” The crow disappeared and was replaced by an exhausted shape-changer.
“Well?” said the King, offering him the enchanted lager can. Brynjolf swallowed a couple of mouthfuls and wiped his mouth with the end of his beard.
“Not so good, I’m afraid,” he said. “Everyone safely rescued, but there were complications.” He told the King what had happened.
“And,” he continued, “there’s more. You remember those sorcerers in the vans that Hildy told us we should stop?”
“What about them?”
“One of them, the chief sorcerer, has turned up again. Apparently, the lads captured him wandering about in the hills. Angantyr thinks he’s on our side now.” He paused to allow the King to draw his own conclusions.
“And is he?”
“Who can tell? After the scuffle, he went off to use one of those telephone things. Could be he really is on our side, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“We’ll soon know,” Hildy said, and looked at her watch. “We must find somewhere with a TV set.”
There was a set in the third pub they tried, but it was showing ‘Dynasty’. There were several protests when Hildy switched the channels, including one from Brynjolf, but when the King stood up and looked around the bar nobody seemed inclined to make too much of it. The nine o’clock news came on. Hildy gripped the stem of her glass and waited.
First there was a Middle East story, then something about the Health Service and an interview with the minister (“I know him from somewhere,” Arvarodd said, leaning forward. “Didn’t he use to farm outside Brattahlid?”), followed by a long piece on rate-capping and a minor spy scandal. Then there was a beached whale near Plymouth—the Vikings licked their lips instinctively—and the sports news. Hildy started to relax.
“And reports are just coming in,” said the presenter, marble-faced, “of a major manhunt in the north of Scotland, which is somehow connected with the recent discovery of a Viking ship-burial and the disappearance of an American archaeologist, Hildegard Frederiksen.”
Panoramic shot of an unidentifiable mountain.
“Ten men, believed to be violent, escaped from police custody today at Bettyhill. They have with them a BBC producer, who they are believed to be holding hostage. Police with tracker dogs are searching for the men, who are thought to be armed with swords, axes and spears. Reports that the men are members of an extremist anti-nuclear group opposed to the Caithness fast-breeder reactor project are as yet unconfirmed. The connection with the burial-mound containing a rich hoard of Viking treasure discovered at nearby Rolfsness is also uncertain. A spokesman for the War Graves Commission refused to comment. The man held hostage, Danny Bennett, is best known for his evocative depictions of Cotswold life, including ‘The Countryside on Thursday’ and ‘One Man and His Tractor’, which was nominated for the Golden Iris award for best documentary.”
“I didn’t know you could disappear, Hildy,” said Brynjolf admiringly. “Do you use a talisman, or just runes?”
Back at the van, the King and his company debated what to do for the best.
“I still say we should make an attack and get it over with,” said Arvarodd. “Stick to what we know, and don’t go getting involved with all these strange people. If we stick around now, and the enemy does come looking for us, we’re done for.”
“I’m not so sure.” The King’s eyes were shining, as they had not done since they left the Castle of Borve. “I think our enemy may have got quite the wrong idea from that little exhibition.”
“How do you mean?”
“Think,” said the King, smiling. “Doesn’t it give the impression that we’re all still up there, being chased across the hills by those soldiers, or whatever they are? He won’t be able to resist the temptation to go up there and see if he can’t find us and finish us off. After all, he has nothing to fear from us, so long as he has the spirits safe here.”
“He might take them with him,” Hildy suggested.
“He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t risk them falling into our hands. But if he thinks we’re on the run up there—more important, if he thinks we’re so weak that we can be chased around by those idiots Brynjolf was telling us about”—the King grinned disconcertingly—“then he’s not going to be too worried about what we can do to him. He’ll be concentrating more on what he can do to us. And that’ll give us a chance, especially at this end.”
If that was the King’s definition of a chance, Hildy said to herself, she didn’t like the sound of it. “But what about the others?” she said. “What if he catches them?”
“They’ll have to look after themselves,” said the King shortly, and Hildy could see he was worried. “If the worst comes to the worst, Valhalla. That doesn’t really matter at this stage.”
“But surely,” Hildy started to say; but Arvarodd trod on her toe meaningfully. The pain, even through her moon-boot, was agonising. “Maybe you’re right,” she mumbled.
“And meanwhile,” said the King suddenly, “we have work to do.”
Half-past three in the morning. There were still lights in the windows of Gerrards Garth House; like a crocodile, it slept with its eyes open. Two of the lights, having failed to draw the telex machine into conversation, were playing Goblin’s Teeth.
“Are you sure about that?” said Prexz.
Zxerp smiled. “Yes,” he said. “Checkmate.”
“But what if…?” Prexz lifted the piece warily, then put it back. He was worried.
“Ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine sets and nine games to you,” said Zxerp, “and five games to me.” Could it be that his luck was about to change?
Prexz knocked over his goblin petulantly. “All right, then,” he said, as casually as he could, “I’ll accept your resignation.”
“Who’s resigning?” Zxerp was setting out the pieces.
“You offered to resign after the last game. I’m accepting.”
“I’ve withdrawn,” said Zxerp, shuffling the Spell cards.
“Can’t do that,” replied Prexz. “Rule fifty-seven.”
“Yes, I can,” said Zxerp. “Rule seventy-two. Mugs away.” Sullenly, Prexz threw the dice and made his opening gambit. ChuChullainn’s Leap; defensive, but absolutely safe. There was no known way to break service on ChuChullainn’s Leap.
“Checkmate,” said Zxerp.
In the street below, a van had drawn up outside the heavy steel doors. The King loosened his short sword in its scabbard and pulled his jacket on over it.
“Remember,” he said. “You two wait down here, keep quiet, and do nothing. Just be ready for us when we come out.”
Hildy nodded, but Arvarodd made one last effort. “Remember Thruthvangir,” he said.
The King stiffened. “That was different,” he said. “The lifts weren’t working.”
“They might not be working now,” Arvarodd wheedled, “and then where would you be?”
“For the last time,” said the King, “you stay in the van and keep quiet. If we need help, we’ll signal.”
He opened the back doors and jumped lightly out, followed by the wizard and the shape-changer. They ran silently across to the doors—Hildy was amazed to see how nimbly the wizard moved—and crouched down beside them. The wizard had taken something out of his pocket and was inserting it into the lock.
“Is that an opening spell?” Hildy whispered.
“No,” replied Arvarodd, “it’s a hairpin.”
The great door suddenly opened, and Hildy braced herself for the shrill noise of the alarm. But there was silence, and the door closed behind them.
“Well,” said Arvarodd, “they’re on their own now.” He shrugged his shoulders and ate the last digestive.
“I still don’t understand,” Hildy said. “Why tonight?”
“Obvious,” said Arvarodd with his mouth full. “The Enemy, we hope, has gone off to Scotland. Tomorrow he’ll probably be back, having guessed that we aren’t there. So now’s our only chance.”
“But that’s not what the King said earlier.”
“Him,” Arvarodd grunted. “Changes his mind every five minutes, he does.”
“The King said,” Hildy insisted, “that it was too dangerous to try it now. That’s why he was so glad that the others had won us some time.”
Arvarodd sighed. “If you must know,” he said, “he’s worried about the others. He doesn’t think they’ll be able to cope on their own. Probably right. He knows he ought to leave them to it but, then, he’s the King. His first duty is to them. It’s going to be Thruthvangir all over again.”
“What happened at Thruthvangir?”
“The lifts didn’t work.” Arvarodd scowled at the steel doors. “That’s why he left me out. My orders are, if he doesn’t make it, to go back to Scotland and try to save the others. I should be flattered, really.”
So that was what they had all been whispering about while she was getting petrol. “Arvarodd,” she said quietly, “just how dangerous do you think it is?”
“Very,” said Arvarodd, grimly. “Like my mother used to say: ‘Fear a bear’s paw, a prince’s children, A grassy heath, embers still glowing, A man’s sword, the smile of a maiden.’”
“There’s a lot more of that,” he continued. “Scared me half to death when I was a kid.”
Hildy, who had, from force of habit, taken out her notebook, put it away again. The verses suggested several fascinating insights into various textual problems in the- Elder Edda, but this was neither the time nor the place. “If it’s that dangerous,” she said firmly, “we must go and help him.”
“But…” Arvarodd waved his hand impatiently.
“He is the King,” said Hildy cleverly. “Our duty is to protect him.”
“Don’t you start,” Arvarodd grumbled. He rolled the biscuit-wrapper up into a ball and threw it at the windscreen.
Hildy sat still for a moment, then took the seer-stone from her bag and put it in her eye. She saw the King and his companions crossing a carpeted office. They had not seen the door open behind them, and two men in blue boiler-suits with rifles. Hildy wanted to shout and warn them. The door at the other end of the office opened, and the King shouted and drew his sword. There was a shot and Hildy cried out, but the King was still standing; the man had shot the sword out of his hand. The wizard was shrieking something, some spell or other, but it wasn’t working; and Brynjolf was staring in horror at his feet, which hadn’t turned into a bear’s paws or the wings of an eagle. The guards were laughing. Slowly, the King and his companions raised their hands and put them on their heads.
“Can you see them?” Arvarodd was muttering. There was sweat pouring down his face.
“Yes,” Hildy said. “It’s no good; they’ve been captured. Their magic isn’t working.” She looked round, but Arvarodd wasn’t there. He had snatched up his bow and quiver, and was running towards the steel doors. Wailing, “Wait for me,” Hildy ran after him.
The door was still open. Hildy tried to keep pace with Arvarodd as he bounded up the stairs but she could not. She stopped, panting, at the first landing, and then looked across and saw the lift. Against all her hopes, it was working. She pressed 4—how she knew it would be the fourth floor she had no idea—and leant back to catch her breath. The doors slid open, and she hopped out.
What on earth did she think she was doing?
She turned back, but the lift doors had shut. Down the corridor she could hear the sound of running feet. She opened the door of the nearest office and slipped inside.
It was a small room, and the walls were covered with steel boxes, like gas-meters or fuse boxes. She had a sudden idea. If she could switch off the lights, perhaps the King could escape in the darkness. She pulled out her flashlight and started to read the labels. Down in a corner she saw a little glass box.
“MAGIC SUPPLY”, read the label. “DO NOT TOUCH”. And underneath, in smaller letters: “In the event of power supply failure, break glass and press button. This will deactivate the mains-fed spell. The emergency spell will automatically take effect within seven minutes.”
With the butt of her torch Hildy smashed the glass and leant hard on the button. A moment later, the guards’ rifles inexplicably turned into bunches of daffodils.
“Daffodils?” asked the King, as he banged two heads together. The wizard shrugged and made a noise like hotel plumbing.
“Fair enough,” said the King. “Let’s get out of here.”
They sprinted back the way they had come, nearly colliding with Arvarodd, who was coming up the stairs towards them.
“What happened?” he said.
“Our magic failed,” replied the King. “Then theirs did. No idea why.”
“Have you seen Hildy?” At that moment, Hildy appeared, running towards them. “Quick,” she gasped, “we’ve only got three minutes.”
A shot from an ex-daffodil bounced off the tarmac as they drove off.
“Far be it from me to criticise,” said Thorgeir, gripping his seat-belt with both hands, “but aren’t you driving rather fast?”
The sorcerer-king grinned. “Yes,” he said. He drove even faster. Childish, Thorgeir said to himself, but, then, he’s like that. Mental age of seventeen. Only a permanent adolescent would devote hours of his valuable time to laying a spell on a Morris Minor so as to enable it to burn off Porsches at traffic lights. “I want to get back to London as quickly as possible,” he explained.
“Then, why didn’t we fly?” asked Thorgeir.
“We can do that if you like,” said the sorcerer-king mischievously. “No problem.”
“Stop showing off,” Thorgeir said. A land-locked Morris Minor was bad enough. “You don’t seem to appreciate the situation we’re in.”
“On the contrary,” said the sorcerer-king, putting his foot down hard. “That’s why I’m in such a good mood.”
“You seem to have overlooked the fact that they got away,” Thorgeir shouted above the scream of the tortured engine. He shut his eyes and muttered an ancient Finnish suspension-improving spell.
“Only by a fluke,” replied the King. “Next time they won’t be so lucky. Next time we’ll be there.”
“You think there’ll be a next time?”
“Has to be.” The sorcerer-king removed the suspension-improving spell and deliberately drove over the cat’s eyes. “What else can he do?”
Thorgeir, whose head had just made sharp contact with the roof, did not reply. The sorcerer-king chuckled and changed up into fourth.
“The trouble with you,” he said, “is that you can’t feel comfortable unless you’re worried about something.” Thorgeir, who was both worried and profoundly uncomfortable, shook his head, but for once the sorcerer-king had his eyes on the road. “You don’t believe in happy endings. Look at it this way,” he said, overtaking a blaspheming Ferrari. “If they had anything left in reserve, why did they try to pull that stunt last night? They’re finished and they know it. That was pure Gunnar-in-the-snake-pit stuff, a one-way ticket to Valhalla. Not that I begrudge them that, of course,” said the sorcerer-king magnanimously. “If they want to go to Valhalla, let them. Nice enough place, I suppose, except that the food all comes out of a microwave these days and the wish-maidens are definitely past their prime. A bit like one of those run-down gentlemen’s clubs in Pall Mall, if you ask me.”
Thorgeir gave up and diverted his energies to worrying about the traffic police. Last time, he remembered, the sorcerer-king had let them chase him all the way from Coalville to Watford Gap, and then turned them all into horseflies. Turning them back had not been easy, especially the one who’d been eaten by a swallow.
“Now you’re sulking,” said the sorcerer-king cheerfully.
“I’m not sulking,” said Thorgeir, “I’m taking it seriously. Who did you leave in charge, by the way?”
“That young Fortescue,” said the sorcerer-king. “Since he’s in on the whole thing, we might as well make him useful. Or a frog. Whichever.”
Thorgeir shuddered. Much as he deplored unnecessary sorcery, he felt that the frog option would have been safer.
In fact, the Governor of China elect was doing a perfectly adequate job back at Gerrards Garth House. He had seen to the removal and replacement of the anti-magic circuit, debriefed the guards and written a report, all in one morning. At this rate, he felt, he might soon count as indispensable.
After putting his head round the door at Vouchers to make sure that the prisoners were still there, he sent for the chief clerk of the department and asked him about the arrangements for tracking the getaway Van the burglars had used. All that was needed was a simple tap into the police computer at Hendon, he was told, to get the registered owner’s name and address. Then it would be perfectly simple to slip the registration number on to the computer’s list of stolen vehicles and monitor the police band until some eagle-eyed copper noticed it.
“But what if they get arrested?” Kevin asked.
“Then we’ll know where they are,” replied the Chief Clerk. “Easy.”
“No, it’s not,” Kevin objected. “They won’t get bail without having plausible identities or anything, and they’ll probably resist arrest and be kept in for that. And we can’t go bursting into a police station to get them; it’d be too risky.”
The Chief Clerk’s smile was a horrible sight. “No sweat,” he said. “Lots of things can happen to them. In the police cells, on remand, being transferred, on their way to the magistrates’ court, anywhere you like. Easiest thing would be to wait till they’re convicted and put away. We can get to them inside with no trouble at all. But I don’t suppose the Third Floor will want to wait that long. Best thing is if they do resist arrest. Dead meat,” he said graphically. “I think our police are wonderful.”
Kevin Fortescue was relieved to get back to his office, for the Chief Clerk gave him the creeps. Still, he reflected, you have to be hard to get on in Business. He dismissed the thought from his mind and took his well-thumbed Oxford School Atlas from his desk drawer.
“Winter Palace in Chungking,” he said to himself. “Not too cold and a good view of the mountains.”
Danny Bennett was being shown round the Castle of Borve.
“Mind you,” said Angantyr Asmundarson, as Danny expressed polite admiration, “it’s perishing cold in winter and one hell of a way to go to get a pint of milk. Or was,” he reflected. “We used to have our own house-cows, of course. Enchanted cows, naturally. But they were enchanted to yield mead, honey and ale, which is all very well but indigestible on porridge. Couple of Jerseys.”
Danny ducked his head under a rock lintel. The one thing he wanted was access to a television set, for his story, if it was going to break at all, would be doing so at this very minute, and it was too much to hope that anyone would tape it for him.
“That’s the mead-hall through there,” said Angantyr, “and the King’s table. The main arsenals and the still-room are round the back.”
This man would make a good estate agent, Danny reflected. He nodded appreciatively and smiled. Why hadn’t he bought one of those portable wrist-watch televisions, like he’d seen them wearing at the Stock Exchange?
“So how long do you think we can stay here for?” he asked.
“Indefinitely,” said Angantyr. “You see, this place is totally hidden. Unless you know how to find it…”
“Yes,” said Danny, “but you’ll have to go out occasionally, to get water and food and things.”
“No need,” said Angantyr proudly. “There’s a natural spring—still there, we checked—and as for food, there’s any amount of seagulls. You like seagull,” Angantyr reminded him. “You’re lucky.”
Danny repressed a shudder. “Actually—” he started to say.
“Last time we were besieged in here,” Angantyr went on, “we stuck it out for nine months, until the enemy got bored out of their minds and went away. We were all right, though,” said Angantyr smugly. “We remembered to bring a couple of chess sets.”
“I can’t play chess.”
“I’ll teach you. It’s pretty easy once you’ve got it into your head that the knight can go over the top of the other pieces. And there’s other things to do, of course. I used to make collages with the seagull feathers. Anyway,”
Angantyr said, “we probably won’t be here too long this time. It’ll all be over soon, one way or another. That reminds me.” He dashed off, and Danny sat down on a stone seat and took off his shoes. His feet were killing him after the forced march from Bettyhill. The Vikings walked very quickly.
Angantyr came back. He was holding a helmet and a suit of chain armour, and under his arm was tucked a sword and a spear.
“Try these,” he said. “They should be small enough. Made for the King when he was twelve.”
Danny tried them on. They were much too big, and so heavy he could hardly move in them. “Thanks,” he said, as he struggled out of the mail shirt, “but I won’t be needing them anyway, will I?”
“Don’t be so pessimistic,” Angantyr said. “There’s always a bit of fighting at a siege. I remember when we were stuck in Tongue for six months—”
“You don’t understand,” said Danny, “I’m a non-combatant. Press,” he explained. “And anyway, if there is any violence, these wouldn’t help.”
“What do you mean?” said Angantyr, puzzled. Danny explained; he told him about CS gas and stun-grenades, machine-pistols and birdshot.
“You mean Special Effects,” said Angantyr. “Don’t you worry about that. All our armour is spell proof.”
“Spell proof?”
“Guaranteed. All that stuff,” he said, dismissing all human endeavour from Barthold Schwartz to napalm with a wave of his hand, “is obsolete now.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Well, it was. Don’t say you people still believe in the white-hot heat of magic and so on. Very old–fashioned. No, all our gear’s totally magic-resistant. Unless, of course, the other side’s got counter-spells.”
“Counter-spells?” All this reminded Danny of something.
“Counter-spells. Of course, most of those were done away with after the MALT talks. It was only when the Enemy started cheating and using them again after we’d all dumped ours that things got unpleasant and we had to use the Brooch. That was the biggest counter-spell of them all, you see.”
“I see.” Danny rubbed his head. There was another story here, but one he had no wish to get involved in.
“Of course,” went on Angantyr, “the Enemy’s probably still got all his, and they don’t make you invulnerable against conventional weapons. Still, it does even things up a bit.”
“Even so,” Danny said, “I’m still a non-combatant. I don’t know how to use swords and things.”
Angantyr shrugged his shoulders. “Have it your own way,” he said. “You’d better have the armour, all the same.”
Danny decided it would be easier to agree. “I’ll put it on later,” he said.
At that moment, Starkad, who had been left on watch, came running down the narrow spiral stairway. He was shouting something about a huge metal seagull with wings that went round and round. A moment later, Danny could hear the sound of rotor-blades passing close overhead and dying away in the distance.
“Dragons?” Angantyr asked. Danny told him about helicopters. “It means they’re looking for us,” he said. “They might have those infra-red things that can trace you by your body-heat. Unless those count as magic.”
But Angantyr hadn’t heard of anything like that. Danny felt vaguely proud that the twentieth century had at least one totally original invention to its credit.
“Don’t like the sound of that,” Angantyr muttered.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Danny said. “This castle may have been impregnable once, but—”
Angantyr shook his head. “Still is,” he replied. “I don’t mean that. It’s just the noise that thing makes. It’ll frighten off all the seagulls.”
“So now what do we do?” said Arvarodd.
“Speaking purely for myself,” said the King, “I’ll have the pancake with maple syrup. What is maple syrup?” he asked Hildy.
They were sitting in a deserted Little Chef in the middle of Buckinghamshire. How they had got there, Hildy had no idea; she had just kept on driving until the petrol-tank was nearly empty, then pulled in at the first service station for fuel and food. Her heroism of the previous night had thoroughly unnerved her, and she wanted to go home to Long Island.
“It’s a sort of sweet sticky stuff you get from a tree,” she said absently. “What are we going to do?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” said the King. He was taking it all very calmly, Hildy thought. Why, if it hadn’t been for her.
“If it hadn’t been for you,” said the King suddenly, “Odin knows what would have happened back there. That was quick thinking.”
“Pure luck,” Hildy said.
“Yes,” agreed the King, “but quick thinking all the same. Five pancakes, please,” he ordered. “All with maple syrup.”
“Do you think they’ll follow us?” Hildy asked.
“They’ll try,” said the King, “but not too hard. We must get rid of that van first. Isn’t that number written on the back and front some sort of identification mark? They’re bound to have seen that. We’ll sell the van in the next town we come to and get something else.”
Hildy realised that she should have thought of that. She made an effort and pulled herself together. “And after that?” she said.
“After that, we’ll do what we should have done in the first place.”
“What’s that?”
“We’ll get hold of that bloody wizard,” said the King grimly, “and hold his head underwater until he thinks of something.” The wizard made a soft grinding noise, but they ignored him. “After all, he got us into this mess.”
They stared aggressively at the wizard, who took a profound interest in his pancake. He seemed to have lost his appetite, however, and put his spoon down.
“Get on with it,” said the King. The wizard snarled and draped his paper napkin over his head. There was an anxious silence; then from under the napkin came a noise like a coffee-mill which went on for a very long time.
“Are you sure?” said the King. The coffee-mill noise started up again.
“Positive?”
The napkin nodded.
“What did he say?” Hildy demanded.
“Well,” said the King, leaning forward, “he reckons that there’s a brooch with a spell-circuit—you know, like the dragon-brooch—that might be able to cut off the magic inside the tower, and it should be possible to run it off a much weaker source of power, like a car battery.”
“How does he know about car batteries?” Hildy asked.
“Worked it out from first principles,” said the King. “Anyway, if we get hold of this brooch, we might have a chance. According to Kotkel, it was made by Sitrygg Sow, who had the design from Odin himself. But he’s only seen it once, and he’s never tried it out for himself. It’s a very long shot.”
“But God knows where it’s got to,” said Hildy. “Even if it still exists, it’s still probably buried somewhere.”
“In that case,” said the King, “all we’ll need is a shovel and a map. You see, it belonged to a king of the Saxons down in East Anglia, and it was buried with him. One of the Wuffing kings, can’t remember which one. But he was the only one buried in a ship, that I can tell you. In a minute, I’ll remember the name of the place.”
“Sutton Hoo,” Hildy murmured.
“That’s it,” said the King. “How did you know that?”
“Is this brooch,” Hildy asked, “also in the shape of a dragon?” There was a bright light in her eyes, and her hands were shaking.
“That’s right,” the King said. “More of a fire-drake, actually. Never had any taste, Sitrygg.”
“Gold inlaid with garnets?”
“Yes.”
“Then,” said Hildy, “I know where it is. It’s in London. In fact, it’s in the British Museum.” She rummaged about in her organiser bag for her copy of the latest Journal of Scandinavian Studies. “Is this it?” she said, thrusting the open book under the wizard’s nose. The wizard pointed to plate 7a and nodded.
“Is that good or bad?” asked the King.