Originally,” said the lecturer, “this was believed to have been the king’s standard, to which his troops rallied in time of war. It has now been reidentified as a hat-stand.”
He looked round his audience. For once, he noticed, there were a couple of intelligent faces among them. One of them, a big man with a beard, was nodding approvingly. He decided to tell them about the quotation from Beowulf after all.
“He’s wrong, of course,” whispered Brynjolf to Hildy, “but he wasn’t to know that. Only idiots like the East Saxons would use a hat-stand for a baffle-standard.”
Hildy sighed. The neatly argued little paper intended for the October edition of Heimdall in which she proved conclusively that the Chelmsford Standard was in fact a toast-rack would have to be shelved.
“These,” said the lecturer, pointing at a glass case, “are among the earliest finds from the period of Scandinavian settlement in Sutherland and Caithness. The Melvich Arm-Ring…”
Arvarodd was staring. Hildy prodded him in the ribs, but he didn’t seem to notice. “That’s mine,” he whispered.
“Are you sure?” asked Hildy.
“Course I’m sure. Given to me when I killed my first wolf. Sure, it’s only bronze, but it has great sentimental value.”
“Keep your voice down,” Hildy hissed.
“Bergthora said if I didn’t chuck it out and get a new one she’d give it to a museum,” went on the hero of Permia. “I never thought she’d do it.”
“Who was Bergthora?” Hildy asked. Arvarodd blushed. “Although the workmanship is crude and poorly executed,” continued the lecturer, “and not at all representative of the high Urnes style that was shortly to…”
“He’s getting on my nerves,” Arvarodd said. Hildy glowered at him.
The lecturer moved on and started to tell his audience about a set of drinking-horns. The King and his party hung back.
“Remember,” he said, “we’re just here to have a look, so don’t get carried away. We’ll come back later when it’s not so crowded.”
“And here we have the crowning glory of our Early Medieval collection,” the lecturer said proudly, “the Sutton Hoo treasure. Until recently, this was the richest find ever made on the British mainland. Now, however, the recently discovered Rolfsness treasure.”
Arvarodd muttered something under his breath, but the wizard was pointing. So was the lecturer.
“The dragon-brooch,” he was saying, “is one of the most interesting pieces in the entire hoard.”
When the lecture was over, and Hildy had managed to distract Arvarodd’s attention when the lecturer asked if there were any questions, the King and his company went for a drink. They felt that they had earned one.
“Simple theft is what I call it,” Arvarodd complained.
“How would he like it if I took his watch and put it in a glass case and made funny remarks about it?”
“Shut up about your arm-ring,” said the King. “They’ve got all my treasure down in their basement, and I’m not complaining. Well, almost all. That reminds me.”
From his finger he drew a heavy gold ring. Hildy had often admired it out of the corner of her eye.
“While we’re here,” he said, “we’d better sell this. I don’t suppose there’s much money left by now.”
Hildy, as treasurer, nodded sadly. She hated the thought of such a masterpiece going to some unscrupulous collector, but buying the new car had more or less cleaned them out, and even then they’d only been able to afford a horrible old wreck, held together by body putty and, after the wizard had been at it, witchcraft. She took the ring and put it in her purse.
“Back to business,” said the King. “After we’ve got this brooch, we’ll have to move quickly. I’m still worried about the others…”
At that moment the television above the bar announced the one o’clock news.
“There have been dramatic new developments,” said the newsreader, “in the manhunt in the north of Scotland, in which the police are seeking the eight armed men who are believed to have abducted a female archaeologist and a BBC producer. Helicopters equipped with infra-red sensors…”
Picture of the Castle of Borve.
“Don’t worry,” said Angantyr Asmundarson.
But Danny was very worried. He’d seen the police marksmen getting into position all morning, and the way Angantyr was testing his bowstring had made him shiver.
“How many do you reckon there are?” asked Hjort over his shoulder, as he plied a whetstone across his axe-blade.
“About ten each,” Angantyr replied. “Still, if we wait a bit longer some more may turn up.”
“Cheapskate, that’s what I call it,” Hjort grumbled. “Hardly worth sharpening up for.”
“Anyway,” said Bothvar Bjarki, “I’m having the one with the trumpet.”
“No, you’re not.”
“We drew lots,” Bothvar whined.
“You cheated,” said Hjort. “You always cheat.”
“I did not,” replied Bothvar angrily, surreptitiously slipping his double-headed coin into Danny’s jacket pocket. “Anyway, look who’s talking.”
Danny wasn’t listening. He was calculating whether it would be possible to slip out unobserved while the heroes were squabbling. But, if he did, the police might shoot him. And if he were to put on one of the mail shirts the police would take him for one of the heroes and would undoubtedly shoot him.
“This is Superintendent Mackay,” came a voice from outside. “We have you completely surrounded by armed police officers. Throw out your weapons and come out.”
That, Danny realised, could have been better phrased, given that the heroes were armed with javelins and throwing-hammers. He ducked under the parapet and put his hands over his head.
“You missed!” jeered Bothvar, as Hjort picked up another javelin.
“Of course I missed,” said Hjort, standing up to throw again. A bullet sang harmlessly off his helmet and landed at Danny’s feet. “There’s few enough of them as it is without frittering them away with javelins.”
“I don’t think they meant it like that,” Danny shouted. “I think they want you to surrender.” A CS-gas canister whizzed over the parapet, spluttered and went out.
“Surrender?” Hjort’s face fell under his jewel-encrusted visor. “Are you sure?”
“Doesn’t look like it to me,” said Angantyr cheerfully, as he caught a stun-grenade in his left hand. He looked at it, threw himself a catch from left to right, and hurled it back. It exploded. “If they want us to surrender, they shouldn’t be shooting at us.”
“They’ve stopped,” said Hjort wistfully. “Call this a siege?”
“Here, Danny,” Angantyr said, “what’s the form these days?”
But Danny wasn’t there. As soon as the shooting had stopped, he had slipped away and crawled back into the hall. Frantically he unbuttoned his shirt, which was white enough if you didn’t mind the stewed seagull down the front of it, and tied the sleeves to the shaft of a javelin. He looked around, but all the heroes were at the parapet. Very cautiously, he started to climb the spiral stair.
“Reports are just coming in,” said the newsreader, “that the police have made an attempt to storm the ruined castle where the ten men have barricaded themselves in. According to the reports, the attempt was unsuccessful. It is not yet known whether there were any casualties. A spokesman for the Historic Buildings Commission.”
The King clenched his right fist and pressed it into the palm of his left hand. His face was expressionless. “I hate this job,” he said.
Hildy had taken out the seer-stone, but the King told her to put it away. “I don’t want to know,” he said. “They’ll have to look after themselves.”
“If I know them,” said Brynjolf, “they’ll be having the time of their lives.”
“Remember,” said the superintendent, “the last thing we want is a bloodbath.”
The man in the black pullover grinned at him, his white teeth flashing out from the black greasepaint that covered his face. “Sure,” he said, and stuck another grenade in his belt for luck. He hadn’t been jolted about in a helicopter all the way from Hereford just to ask a lot of terrorists if they fancied coming quietly. “How many of them are there?”
“Ten, according to our intelligence,” said the superintendent.
“One each,” said the man in the black pullover. He sounded disappointed.
Just then, there was a rattling of rifle-bolts. A solitary figure with a white flag had appeared on the side of the cliff. “Hell,” said the man in the black pullover.
“Put your hands on your head,” boomed the megaphone, “and walk slowly over here.” The man dropped the white flag and did as he was told.
“Be careful,” said the man in the black pullover, “it could be a trap.” But his heart wasn’t in it. He started to take the grenades out of his belt.
“It’s that perishing sorcerer of yours,” muttered Hjort, staring out over the parapet. “He’s gone over to the enemy.”
“Has he indeed?” said Angantyr grimly. “We’ll soon see about that.” He bent his great ibex-horn bow and sighted along the arrow.
“Don’t do that,” said Hjort. “You’ll frighten them away. And there’s some more just arrived. In black,” he added, with approval.
“What’s going on?” said Bothvar, dropping down beside them. He had been searching everywhere for the magic halberd of Gunnar, which he’d put away safely before going into the mound at Rolfsness. Eventually he’d found it down behind the back of the treasure-chests. “I do wish people wouldn’t move my things.”
“We’ve just been betrayed by a traitor,” said Angantyr.
“That’s more like it,” said Bothvar.
§
“And we’re now going over live to the armed siege in Scotland,” said the newsreader. “Our reporter there is Moira Urquhart.”
The sorcerer-king leant forward and turned up the volume. “Are you taping this?” he asked.
Thorgeir nodded. “I’m having to use the ‘Yes, Minister’ tape, but it’s worth it.”
“They’ll repeat it again soon, I expect,” said the sorcerer-king. “Look, isn’t that Bothvar Bjarki?” The camera had zoomed in on a helmeted head poking out above the parapet. “I’d know that helmet anywhere.”
“I’ve just thought of something,” said Thorgeir. “That armour of theirs…”
“One of the terrorists seems to be shouting something,” said the reporter’s voice over the close-up of the helmeted head. “We’re trying to catch what he’s saying. Something about a seagull…It could be that they’re demanding that food is sent in.”
“I never could be doing with seagull,” said the sorcerer-king, spearing an olive. “Except maybe in a casserole with plenty of coriander.”
“Fried in breadcrumbs, it’s not too bad,” said Thorgeir. “Isn’t that Angantyr Asmundarson beside him?”
“It seems that the terrorists are in fact assuring us that they have plenty of food,” said the reporter. “In fact they’re telling us that they’re capable of withstanding a long siege and inviting us to storm the castle. In fact,” said the reporter, “they’ve started slow hand-clapping.”
“Childish,” said the sorcerer-king.
“And since not much seems to be happening at the moment,” said the reporter, “I’m now going to have a few words with the BBC producer, Danny Bennett, who was held hostage by the terrorists and managed to escape a few minutes ago. Tell me, Danny—”
“Who’s he?” asked Thorgeir.
“Search me,” said the sorcerer-king.
“They aren’t terrorists at all,” Danny Bennett was saying. “More like…well, it’s a long story. Big, but long.” He mopped his brow with the corner of the blanket they had insisted on putting round his shoulders. “And they didn’t kidnap me.”
“You mean you went with them voluntarily?”
“Sort of,” Danny said. “That is, they rescued me when I was wandering about lost in the mountains. I’d got separated from the rest of the crew, you see. And then they told me all about it, and it was such a big story that I decided I’d stay with them. Until the shooting started, of course.”
“I see.” The reporter was trying to get a good look at the back of Danny’s head, to see if there were any signs of a recent sharp blow. Still, she reflected, it was good television.
“I can’t say much about the story just now,” Danny went on, “because it’s all pretty incredible stuff and, anyway, I told Derek all about it over the phone from the police station at Bettyhill…”
“You mean you were in contact with the BBC at the time of the breakout?” The reporter was clearly interested. “Are you trying to say there’s been a cover-up?”
“How the hell do I know?” Danny said. “There isn’t a telly in that bloody cave.”
“What were you saying about their armour?” said the sorcerer-king.
“Oh, yes,” said Thorgeir Storm-Shepherd. “It’ll be enchanted, won’t it?”
“Sod it,” said the sorcerer-king. “Hang on, something’s happening.”
“The hell with this,” said Bothvar. He was hoarse from shouting. “If they’re just going to sit there, when they know about the secret passage and everything…”
“Maybe they don’t,” said Angantyr. “Maybe he hasn’t told them.”
Bothvar laughed, but Angantyr wasn’t so sure. Danny hadn’t seemed the treacherous type to him. “Maybe he went to negotiate,” he suggested.
“Without telling us?”
“We wouldn’t have let him go if he’d told us,” said Angantyr. Bothvar considered this.
“True,” said Ohtar, testing the edge of his sword with his thumb. “And he did say he liked my cooking. Can’t be all bad.”
“And what does that prove?” said Bothvar. “The man’s either a liar or an idiot. How are we for javelins, by the way?”
“Running a bit low,” said the hero Hring, who was quartermaster. “They don’t throw them back, you see.”
“That’s cheating,” said Bothvar. “If they go on like that, we’ll have to stop throwing them. Still, there’s rocks.”
“I think he went out there to try to negotiate,” repeated Angantyr Asmundarson. “Otherwise they’d have made an assault on the hidden passage by now.”
“Could be,” said Hjort. He could see no other possible explanation for the enemy’s lack of activity. “After all, they outnumber us at least eight to one.” He said this very loudly, in the hope that the enemy might overhear him. They obviously needed to be encouraged.
“And he did try to warn us about the big metal seagulls they used to find us. And about the Special Effects,” Angantyr continued. “I think he got frightened and went out to try to negotiate.”
“Frightened?” said Bothvar incredulously. “What by?” He picked a spent bullet out of his beard and threw it away.
“In which case,” said Hring, “they’ve detained a herald.”
“That’s true,” said Bothvar. “We must do something about that.”
“The King did say we were only to defend ourselves,” said the hero Egil Kjartansson, called the Dancer, or more usually the Wet Blanket. “No attacking, those were his orders.”
“But this is different,” said Angantyr. “Detaining a herald is just like attacking, really. You’ve got to rescue your heralds, or where would you be?”
There was, of course, no answer to that. “All right then,” said Egil Kjartansson, “but don’t blame me if we get into trouble.”
“Hoo-bloody-ray, we’re going to do something at last.” Hjort rubbed his hands together and put his left arm through the straps of his shield. “Starkad! Hroar! Come over here, we’re going to attack.”
The remaining heroes rushed to the parapet, while Hring distributed the javelins. Starkad Storvirksson, who was the King’s berserk, lifted his great double-handed sword and began the chant to Odin.
“Can it,” Bothvar interrupted him. “We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”
With one movement, like a wolf leaping, Starkad Storvirksson sprang up on to the parapet and brandished his sword. Then he hopped down again.
“Bothvar,” he said plaintively, “I’ve forgotten my battle-cry.”
“It’s ‘Starkad!’, Starkad,” said Bothvar. “Can we get on, please?”
With a deafening roar of ‘Starkad!’ the berserk vaulted over the parapet and led the charge. After him came Bothvar, wielding the halberd of Gunnar, with Angantyr Asmundarson close behind and Hroar almost treading on his heels. Then came Egil Kjartansson, his shield crashing against his mail shirt as he ran; Hring and Hjort, running like hounds on a tantalising scent, and finally Ohtar, who had finished up the seagull flan because nobody else wanted any more, and had raging indigestion as a result. In their hands their swords flashed, like the foam on the crests of the great waves that pounded the rocks below them, and as they ran the earth shook. A man with a megaphone stood up as they charged, thought better of it, and ducked down; a moment later, Bothvar’s javelin transfixed the spot where he had been standing, its blade driven down almost to the shaft in the dense springy peat.
“That’ll do me,” said the man in the black pullover, as the spear-shaft quivered beside him. “Let ‘em have it.” His men shouldered their automatic rifles and started to fire.
“Don’t bother with shooting over their heads,” said the man in the black pullover.
“We’re not,” said one of his men. He looked worried.
“Told you,” said Thorgeir, pointing at the screen. The picture was wobbling fearfully, as if the cameraman was running: a close-up of one of the heroes, dribbling an unexploded grenade in front of him as he charged.
“Can’t think of everything, can I?” grumbled the sorcerer-king. “Anyway, we can fix that later.”
“It’s unbelievable,” panted the reporter. “All the bullets and bombs and things seem to be having no effect on them at all. They’re just charging…And the police are running away…For Christ’s sake, will you get me out of here? This is Moira Urquhart, BBC News, Borve Castle.”
The picture shook violently and the screen went blank. Someone had dropped the camera.
“Pity,” said the sorcerer-king. “I was enjoying that.”
§
Bothvar Bjarki leant on his halberd and tried to get his breath back. “Swizzle,” he gasped.
“You’re out of condition, you are,” said Hjort, mopping his forehead with the hem of his cloak.
Overhead, the helicopters were receding into the distance, their fuselages riddled with javelins and arrows, flying as fast as they could in the general direction of Hereford. “Chicken!” Hjort roared after them. He tied a knot in the barrel of an abandoned rifle and sat down in disgust.
“I nearly got the leader of those men in black,” said Starkad Storvirksson. “I thought for a moment he was going to stand, but in the end he jumped on to the metal seagull along with all the others.” He dropped the piece of helicopter undercarriage he had been carrying and went off to help Hring pick up the arrows.
“Never mind,” said Angantyr. “It was a victory, wasn’t it?”
“I suppose so.” Bothvar yawned. “Anyway, they might come back.” He chopped up a television camera to relieve his feelings. “Oh, look,” he said, “there’s glass in these things.”
Angantyr sheathed his sword. “You know what we haven’t done?”
“What?”
“We haven’t rescued the herald,” Angantyr said. “That’s no good, is it?”
“Maybe he wasn’t a herald after all, only a traitor,” said Ohtar. He had found a lunch-box dropped in the rout and was investigating the contents. “Anyway, we did our best.” But Angantyr jumped up and started to search. He did not have to look far. Danny, with a disappointing lack of imagination, had climbed a tree, only discovering when he reached the top that it was a thorn-tree and uninhabitable.
“Hello,” Angantyr said, “what are you doing up there?”
“Help!” Danny explained. “I’m stuck.”
With a few blows of his sword, Angantyr chopped through the tree and pushed it over. Danny crawled out and collapsed on the ground. “What happened?” he said.
“We came to rescue you,” said Angantyr. “You did go to try to negotiate, didn’t you?” he asked as an afterthought. Danny assured him that he had. “And you didn’t tell them about the secret passage?”
“Of course not,” Danny replied. He had tried to, but no one would listen.
“That’s all right, then,” Angantyr said cheerfully. “You’ve got thorns sticking in you.” Danny followed Angantyr back to where the other heroes were sitting and thanked them for rescuing him. He didn’t feel in the least grateful, but having seen the heroes in action he reckoned that tact was probably called for.
“No trouble,” said Ohtar. He bit into a chocolate roll he’d found in the lunch-box and spat it out again. “Don’t like that,” he said.
“You’re supposed to take the foil off first,” Danny said. “Gold-plated food,” said Ohtar admiringly. “Stylish.”
The spokesman from Highlands and Islands Development Board was refusing to comment, and Thorgeir switched the set off. The sorcerer-king was counting on his fingers.
“So that leaves four unaccounted for,” he said. “The King, the wizard, Arvarodd of Permia and Brynjolf the Shape-Shifter.”
“Plus that lady archaeologist makes five,” said Thorgeir. “Trouble is we haven’t the faintest idea where they are.”
“You’re worrying again,” said the sorcerer-king. He turned to his desk and tapped a code into his desktop terminal.
“Trying the Hendon computer again?” Thorgeir asked.
He looked at the screen. On a green background, little Viking figures were rushing backwards and forwards, vainly trying to avoid the two ravening wolves that were chasing them through a stylised maze.
“I had young Fortescue run it up for me this morning,” said the sorcerer-king. “He’s good with computers, that boy.”
Thorgeir shook his head sadly, but said nothing. There had been a word in one of the Old Norse dialects that exactly described the sorcerer-king. “Yuppje,” he murmured under his breath, and went away to get on with some work.
The new car, despite being a useless old wreck, had a radio in it, and the King’s company were listening to the news.
“The search is continuing,” said the newsreader, “for the ten men who routed police and SAS units in a pitched battle in the north of Scotland yesterday. They are believed still to be in the Strathnaver district. Two companies of Royal Marines have reinforced the police, and Harriers from RAF Lossiemouth are on standby. In the House of Commons, the Defence Minister has refused to reply to Opposition questions until the conclusion of the operation.”
The King shrugged his shoulders. “Might as well leave them to it,” he said. “They seem to be coping.”
“You should have told me about the armour,” Hildy said.
“You should have told me about the Special Effects,” replied the King. “Now you see what I mean about the decline of civilisation. But we can’t leave things too long. It depends on what he’s doing. If he’s gone up there or sent someone to put a counter-spell on the lads, it’ll all be over in a matter of minutes. Of course, he’ll have to find them first. But with luck…”
Hildy parked the car, praying that it wouldn’t be clamped while they were inside the Museum, for that would interfere quite horribly with their well-planned escape. Still, she reflected, so many things could go wrong with this lunatic enterprise that it was pointless to worry about any one of them.
The King, the wizard, Arvarodd and Brynjolf had put their mail shirts on under large raincoats bought that afternoon with part of the proceeds of the King’s ring and hung short swords by their sides. For her part, Hildy had been given a small flat pebble with a rune scratched on it which was supposed to have roughly the same effect as an enchanted mail shirt, and she had put it in her pocket wrapped up in two handkerchiefs and a scarf, to protect her against the side-effect (incessant sneezing). She had also found the magic charms that Arvarodd had lent her on her first trip to London; she offered to return them, but Arvarodd had smiled and told her to hang on to them for the time being.
Past the guards at the big revolving door without any trouble. Up the main staircase and through the Egyptian galleries, then out along a room full of Greek vases and they were there.
The lecturer was giving the afternoon lecture. This time his audience consisted of five Germans, three schoolboys, a middle-aged woman and her small and disruptive nephew. No point in even considering the Beowulf quotation.
“Well,” said Brynjolf, as they stood in front of the big glass case that contained the shield, harp and helmet, “what’s the plan?”
“Who needs a plan?” replied the King. “But we’ll just wait till these people go away again.”
“That’s all wrong, of course,” said Arvarodd, contemplating the helmet, which teams of scholars had pieced together from a handful of twisted and rusty fragments. “You imagine wearing that.”
Unfortunately the lecturer, who was just approaching the Sutton Hoo exhibit, took that as a question. After all, it was a comment he had often been faced with, and by now he had worked out a short and well-phrased answer. He gave it. Arvarodd listened impatiently.
“Here,” he said when the lecturer had finished, “give me a pencil and a bit of paper.” Resting the paper on the side of the glass case, he drew a quick sketch of what the helmet should have looked like. “Try that,” he said.
“But that…that’s brilliant,” said the lecturer, his audience quite forgotten. “So that’s what that little bobble thing was for.”
“Stands to reason,” said Arvarodd.
The lecturer beamed. “Tell me, Mr…”
“Arvarodd,” said Arvarodd.
The lecturer stared. Perhaps it was something in the man’s eyes, but there was something about him that made the hair on the back of the lecturer’s head start to rise. The palms of his clenched hands were wet now, and he found it difficult to breathe. He narrowed his eyebrows.
“Arvarodd?”
“That’s right,” said Arvarodd.
The lecturer took a deep breath. “Aren’t you the Arvarodd who went to Permia?” he asked.
Arvarodd hit him.
“That,” he said, “is for stealing my arm-ring.” He strode across to the glass case, drew his short sword, and smashed the glass. Alarms went off all over the building.
“Quick,” said the King. With his own short sword, he smashed open the case containing the brooch, grabbed it, and stuffed it into his pocket. The middle-aged woman shrieked, and the small nephew kicked him. “Right,” said the King, “move!”
But Arvarodd was gazing at his arm-ring, running his fingers over the beloved metal, his mind full only of the image of his first wolf, at bay on the hillside above Crackaig. The lecturer wiped the blood from his nose and staggered to his feet.
“Your arm-ring?” he said in wonder.
“Yes,” snapped Arvarodd, wheeling round. His hand tightened on his sword-hilt. “Want to make something of it?”
“But it’s eighth-century,” said the lecturer. “And you’re seventh.”
“Who are you calling seventh-century?”
“But your saga…” Heedless of personal danger, the lecturer grabbed his sleeve. “Definitely set in seventh-century Norway.”
“I know,” said Arvarodd sadly. “Bloody editors,” he explained.
Suddenly, the gallery was filled with large men in blue uniforms. Before Hildy could warn them, they ran towards the King. Glass cases crashed to the ground.
“Oh, no,” Hildy wailed, as a case of silver dishes was crushed beneath a stunned guard, “not here.” Suddenly she remembered Arvarodd’s magic charms. She fished in her pocket and pulled out the fragment of bone that made you irresistibly persuasive. Quickly she seized hold of the nearest guard.
“Not theft,” she said, “fire.”
The guard looked at her. She tightened her hand round the fragment of bone. “Fire,” she repeated. “It’s a fire alarm.”
“Oh,” said the guard. “Right you are, miss.” He hurried off to tell the others. The battle stopped.
“Then, why did he break that glass case?” asked the chief guard.
“You know what it says on the notices,” replied Hildy desperately. “In case of fire, break glass.”
The guards dashed away to evacuate the galleries.
Just as Hildy had feared, they had clamped the car. But the King was in no mood to be worried by a little thing like that. With a single blow of his sword, he sliced through the yellow metal and flicked away the wreckage. There were several cheers from passing motorists. The King and his company jumped into the car and drove away.
“That was quick thinking,” said the King, as Hildy accelerated over Waterloo Bridge.
“What was?”
“The way you got rid of those guards.”
“It was nothing,” Hildy said quietly. “It was all down to that jawbone thing of Arvarodd’s.”
“Nevertheless,” the King smiled, “I think you’ve definitely done enough to deserve a Name.”
“A Name?” Hildy gasped. “You mean a proper Heroic Name?” She flushed with pleasure.
“Yes,” replied the King. “Like Harald Bluetooth or Sigurd the Fat, or,” he added maliciously, “Arvarodd of Permia. Hasn’t she, lads?”
From the back seat, the heroes and the wizard expressed their approval. In fact Arvarodd had been addressing himself to the problem of a suitable Name for Hildy for quite some time; but even the best he had come up with, Swan-Hildy, was clearly inappropriate.
“So from now on,” said the King, “our sister Hildy Frederik’s-daughter shall be known by the name of VelHilda.”
“Vel-Hilda?” Hildy frowned. “I don’t get it,” she said at last.
The King grinned. “The Norse word vel,” he said, “as you know better than I, is short and means ‘well’. The same, Hildy Frederik’s-daughter, may be said of you. Therefore…”
“Oh,” said Hildy. “I see.”