King's Army

by Mark Huckerby

  “Heu! Sjáið andlit á henni!”* he had yelled to his mates, turning her head this way and that, while Brian tried to reach her.

  “Já, ötul er hún í alvöru!”† another Viking had guffawed, sending the rest into fits of belching laughter.

  “Nei, fávitar – HÚN er sú sem höfumaðurinn leita at!”‡

  At this, the other Vikings had stopped laughing and started pulling Hayley back and forth between them, trying to see her face and arguing in their strange language about whether she was the infamous Resistance fighter.

  “GET OFF!” Hayley had yelled at last, wriggling free and putting her hands on her hips defiantly. “If you just asked politely I might tell you. Yes, it’s me.”

  And with that, she’d darted past them and run off with Brian. The startled Vikings had looked at each other for a moment, then roared with anger and barrelled after them. The chase was on.

  “See? Fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be!” Brian had yelled as they ran.

  But that had been the last of the jokes as they realized these Vikings weren’t going to be shaken off so easily. One of the zombies blew into a bone horn and dozens of berserkers were summoned to join the hunt.

  Hayley and Brian rounded the corner of a row of shuttered houses, sprinted across the empty road and into the dark trees of Crystal Palace Park. They dived behind a snowdrift and sucked in lungfuls of air. Somewhere behind them, the Vikings howled and raged, but at least it sounded like they were moving away.

  “Have you still got the laptop?” Brian asked when he’d caught his breath.

  Hayley patted her backpack by way of a reply.

  “And the USB stick?”

  Hayley rolled her eyes and patted the backpack again. She was about to tell Brian to quit being such a control freak when the pitted blade of a battle axe sliced down from above and buried itself in the snow right next to Hayley’s head. Standing above them was an undead Viking, a straggler who had chanced upon them. The creature’s rusty, torn chainmail clanked as he raised the axe again. Hayley was frozen in place with terror as she stared at the Viking’s face, which was pretty much a skull with no eyes. How can it even see me?

  Brian reacted first and expertly rolled away, kicking out his legs and tripping the Viking over as he did so. But the draugar warrior landed on top of Hayley in a tangle of jagged rotten bones and stinking leather, knocking the wind out of her. The next thing she knew, Brian had grabbed the backpack and its precious cargo and hauled her to her feet.

  “I’m going to need a bath!” she managed to say as behind them the downed Viking brought a horn to his lips. The deep honk sounded across the park and once again the chase was on as the rest of the Viking pack charged back in their direction.

  “Let’s go!” Brian yelled, but Hayley was limping.

  “Brian … I can’t run!” Hayley gasped as she slowed down again, rubbing her thigh.

  “Are you injured? Cut?” Brian asked, frantically checking her for wounds.

  Hayley shook her head. The Viking had just given her a dead leg when it fell on her, which was ironic but didn’t seem that funny to her at that particular moment. They had to find somewhere to hide, right now. The Vikings closed in and hammered their weapons against their shields. Brian slung Hayley over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift and charged on.

  Suddenly, a megalosaurus loomed out of the fog, its fearsome fangs bared.

  “Dinosaur!” Hayley managed to squeak, uncomprehending. Soon they were surrounded by yet more extinct lizards: long-necked iguanadons perched on rocks and a crocodile-like telesaurus bathed in an icy pond.

  It took a few seconds to realize that they were only old, life-sized models of dinosaurs, which was still a pretty odd thing to find in the middle of a park, Hayley thought. Brian gave her a boost up into the mouth of the megalosaurus and together they scrambled inside and out of sight in the giant model’s belly.

  “What is this place?” Hayley whispered.

  “Dinosaur Court. Been here for a hundred and fifty years. Victorians were mad for them,” Brian said as he peeked out of the mouth.

  The pursuing Vikings had stopped hollering and were huddled at the edge of the dinosaur area, like they were daring each other to go first. It was hard to tell with all the rotten flesh, but they looked scared.

  “They think these are real monsters!” Brian whispered to Hayley.

  “RAAAARRGHH!” The dinosaur’s hollow belly echoed Brian’s bellow nicely.

  “GRAARGHHHHHH!” Hayley yelled and slapped the side of the iron model for good measure.

  The Vikings instantly formed a shield wall and retreated, snarling and cursing at the gathered dinosaurs. Soon Hayley and Brian could only hear them as they chased shadows in another distant part of the park.

  “Saved by dinosaurs. As if my life couldn’t get any weirder,” Hayley sighed, rubbing her leg.

  “Can you walk on it? We’re not done yet.” Brian said.

  “Don’t worry about me. You just try and keep up.” Hayley smiled.

  A little while later, they were standing at the base of the radio tower transmitter, which rose over seven hundred feet into the air, dominating the surrounding park. Not that you could see the top; it was shrouded in the thick, swirling snow. The tower’s perimeter was surrounded by a tall fence topped with razor wire and a few bunker-like brick buildings. Checking the coast was clear, Brian produced some bolt cutters and hacked his way through a padlocked door. Inside, Hayley flicked on a torch. The beam picked out banks of computers and processors standing idle; they hadn’t been used in months. A coffee cup full of mould sat on top of one of the monitors and nearby a table was smashed in half. Hayley wondered if the engineer who worked here had turned into a berserker when Lock’s magic hit all those weeks ago.

  “It’s all yours. Do your computer-y stuff,” Brian said.

  “OK. We have two options. I can run a bypass with the generators, but I’d have to override the primary phase circuits and see if I can get the backups on line. That’s if – and it’s a big if – if the whole thing doesn’t kick off a massive electricity surge with all the dirty power and cause an unstoppable overload.”

  “That sounds bad. What’s the second option?”

  “I flick this switch right here to ‘on’,” said Hayley and did just that.

  With a rush of processor fans, a multicoloured constellation of lights appeared all around them as the transmitter station came back to beeping, whirring electronic life.

  “All right, clever-clogs, well done.”

  Hayley grinned at Brian, retrieved her laptop from the torn backpack, and plugged it in. She was confident she could get her computer talking to the transmitter and boost whatever message they had to play.

  “How do we know anyone’s listening?” she asked, slotting in the USB stick and tapping away at the keyboard.

  “Trust me, they will be. This might just be the spark that starts a revolution. A rallying cry.”

  Hayley nodded and leaned in to a microphone. “OK, listeners, this next track is something special,” she said, impersonating her favourite radio DJ. “I don’t know what exactly, but my friends tell me you’re going to love it!”

  Excited, Hayley pressed play and turned the laptop’s volume up. A posh lady’s voice came on and spoke calmly:

  “North Utsire, South Utsire, variable three or four, becoming southwesterly four or five, occasionally six, rain later… German Bight, Humber, northeast four or five, occasionally six at first, becoming variable three or four later. Slight or moderate. Showers at first. Good…”

  “What’s this supposed to be?” blurted Hayley.

  But as she listened to the lady’s soothing stream of what sounded like nonsense, she realized she’d heard it before.

  “Wait a second, I know this – Gran used to listen to it on the radio sometimes late at night, said it helped her nod off to sleep. What’s it called again?”

  “This,” said Brian, with a knowing smile, “is th
e shipping forecast. Every day it tells fishermen the weather in the seas around Great Britain.”

  “Are you telling me I risked my life to broadcast the weather forecast for a bunch of fishermen? How’s that going to bring down the Vikings?” yelled Hayley.

  “It wouldn’t, if that’s all it was. You never heard of a coded message before?”

  “Rockall, Malin, Hebrides. Southwest gale eight to storm ten, veering west, severe gale nine to violent storm eleven…”

  In a cottage in the small village of Barnack in Lincolnshire, Yeoman Warder Stangroom trudged up the attic stairs as he did every day at 5:59 p.m. sharp. He was in a bad mood. A raiding party of Viking draugar had steamed through the village at lunchtime, taken over the Millstone pub and drunk it dry. It was so stupid, what did zombies want with beer? They didn’t have any guts to absorb the beautiful stuff and most of it passed straight through their ribcages and ended up on the floor. Not only that, they’d scared the village half to death before moving on.

  Thinking about it, Yeoman Warder Stangroom had been in a bad mood ever since he had gone into hiding after the battle at the Tower of London. He hated being so helpless.

  He checked his watch and flicked on the radio, expecting to hear nothing but static as usual. But when the shipping forecast came through, he leapt into the air with joy – and banged his head on a low hanging beam.

  But he didn’t stop smiling.

  “Southeast Iceland. North seven to severe gale nine. Heavy snow showers. Good, becoming poor in showers. Moderate icing.”

  On the Holy Island of Lindisfarne, Yeoman Burgh Keeper Roderick “Sultana” Raisin danced around his fisherman’s cottage with delight, scaring Imp, his cat.

  “Oh yes, you beauty!” he shouted and then put his hand over his mouth. He couldn’t afford anyone to hear. Lindisfarne had seen the first undead Viking raid when all the trouble started, and it was still crawling with smelly Norsemen who, like the braindead idiots they were, still searched for the gold the abbey used to contain. But now he’d heard the message from London he was hopeful he’d soon see the back of them.

  “Imp, my lovely, looks like we’re going on a little trip!” he said.

  “Tyne, Dogger. Northeast three or four. Occasional rain. Moderate or poor.”

  All around the country, the surviving Yeoman Warders and Burgh Keepers tuned in and heard the secret message. Some were hiding in flats, others in houses, and there were more than a few sleeping rough, camping in isolated woods, caves and snow-covered hills, but all of them scrambled to find a pen and note down the map coordinates that were hidden in the forecast. Some of them yelled out in triumph, others nodded grimly.

  It was time. The fightback had begun.

  * * *

  * “Hey! Look at her face!”

  † “Yeah, she’s an ugly one all right!”

  ‡ “No, you idiots – it’s HER, the one the chief is looking for!”

  “That’s super annoying, you know,” said Tamara.

  “What is?” LC asked and continued tapping his umbrella impatiently on the ground.

  Tamara briefly considered snatching the umbrella out of his hands and throwing it into the bushes, then thought better of it. She was feeling tense as well. They were huddled in the shadow of a ruined medieval gate at the end of a small bridge in the middle of a park, nervously waiting for Alfie, Hayley and the others to return from their separate missions. If they make it, Tamara thought and shuddered. She and LC had been standing in the snow for what felt like hours. Conversation, never exactly flowing between the two of them at the best of times, had dried up ages ago. Even Herne became bored and was now busying himself biting chunks of ice from the edges of the frozen stream below the bridge.

  To the east, the ever-present dark snow clouds glowed with the faintest light of the rising sun. Tamara had just started to say, “Surely they’d be here by now…” when there was a startling WHOMP of air that made her ears pop and, with a flash, Qilin appeared in front them. He whipped off his robe and mask, and was followed a moment later by the thundering approach of Holgatroll, who bounded in and transformed back into Freya.

  “I win! You owe me a tenner,” Tony said to Freya.

  “What are you talking about, you simpleton? We never had a bet,” she replied.

  Tony scratched his head. “Oh, yeah. Well, if we had, I’d totally have won.”

  Freya shook her head with exasperation and turned to LC and Tamara. “Mission accomplished,” she said, straightening her clothes and checking her hair.

  “Awesome!” Tamara exclaimed with relief. “Where’s Alfie?”

  Tony pointed to the sky. “Joyriding.”

  Above them Wyvern circled around low over the roofs of the surrounding town, then dived to ground level and galloped full pelt through the park, slaloming around trees, towards them on the bridge.

  “INCOMING!” Tony shouted.

  While everyone else braced for impact, LC stood firm. Wyvern slammed to a dead stop inches from his nose and gave him a friendly nibble.

  “Good to see you again, old girl.” LC smiled as the horse disappeared with a happy whinny back into the spurs. “And you too, of course, Majesty. You look splendid.”

  “Ellie!” Tamara gasped and rushed forward to take her unconscious daughter from Alfie’s arms.

  “I think she’s in shock,” said Alfie, removing his armour.

  “We need to get her somewhere safe,” said Tamara, looking to LC.

  Hayley and Brian, exhausted and footsore, emerged from the shadows.

  “Sunrise in five minutes,” said Brian. “London’s going to be crawling with angry Vikings searching for us. We need to hide.”

  “If you’d all care to follow me. I thought Waltham Abbey the perfect rendezvous for one very special reason,” LC said.

  Brian carried Ellie as LC led everyone through the ruined gate, across a graveyard dotted with faded headstones and towards an old but modest-looking church. But instead of leading them inside, he stopped at a plain stone marker that poked out of a snowdrift.

  “Here we are,” said LC.

  “We don’t have time for your theatrics, LC,” hissed Tamara.

  Alfie knelt, wiped the snow away from the headstone and read the inscription carved on it.

  “Harold, King of England. Obit 1066. I take it this is where he’s buried?” Alfie said.

  “Indeed – after his defeat by the Norman invaders at the Battle of Hastings, killed by an arrow through his eye,” LC replied.

  “Yyyeah, bit of a buzz-kill, to be honest, LC,” said Alfie, scanning every inch of the headstone. “So is there a button, or what? Lever? Secret password?”

  “Merely place your hand on the stone, Majesty, if you will.”

  Alfie did as he was told, and immediately his hand tingled as the stone glowed with familiar, blue-blood magic. Something ancient was waking up.

  As they all gazed in wonder, the ghostly outlines of round columns, magnificent stone arches, stained-glass windows and a grand roof appeared out of thin air as the original abbey that once stood there was rebuilt around them. Soon the medieval building seemed to solidify, although, every once in a while, it would glitch and shimmer and they could glimpse the outside world through the walls. That wasn’t all; it felt warmer now, and there was the smell of incense in the air.

  “We call it a ‘royal peculiar’. There are a number dotted around the country: sanctuaries for the Defender in times of trouble,” said LC as the others began to explore the magical hideout.

  “Nice. So can anyone see us in here?” asked Hayley.

  “No, no,” said LC, finding a bench to rest on. “We are quite safely hidden away, as long as you don’t venture outside the walls. Anyone out there would just see a field.” He turned to Alfie. “The magnificent abbey that now surrounds us is the place that King Harold came to pray before he defeated the Vikings at Stamford Bridge earlier in his reign.”

  Alfie could only nod. An invisible abbey. He was lo
st for words.

  “Pretty neat trick, LC,” Hayley said, gazing around in awe. “It’s beautiful.”

  The mournful, haunting sound of plainsong echoed softly around the pillars and arcades of the ancient, ghostly building, but there was no sign of the monks singing it.

  “Echoes of the past,” LC whispered and closed his eyes, listening. “Now, about Princess Eleanor…”

  Brian laid her down gently. Her skin was grey and clammy, her breathing shallow. Alfie opened the regalia case and took out a sword with a blunt, square end.

  “What does that one do?” asked Tony.

  “You’ll see,” said LC. “It is the Sword of Mercy.”

  Alfie pressed the flat edge of the sword against Ellie’s chest and she reacted at once, arching her back, gasping as colour flooded back into her cheeks. She opened her eyes, taking a moment to register the crowd of faces looking down at her, until she saw Tamara.

  “MUM?!” she croaked.

  Tamara stroked her face. “Yeah, it’s me. You’re safe now.”

  Brian turned to the others. “Been a long day. Everyone, get some shut-eye,” he ordered, and then stretched out on a pew using a backpack as a pillow.

  But sleep was the last thing on Alfie’s mind. He, Hayley, Freya and Tony moved away from everyone else to fill each other in on the details of the raid on the Tower. Freya and Tony argued about how many Vikings they’d each taken out. The current score was Freya: sixty-eight, Tony: fifty-two. Hayley listened patiently until they were finished then told them about the number of Vikings she outwitted at Crystal Palace. Even Freya seemed grudgingly impressed.

  “Not bad, I suppose,” the queen sniffed.

  “Not bad? Listen, death breath, I did it all without any magic powers. Just what’s in here. And here.” Hayley said, tapping her own head and flexing her bicep.

  “Yes, that’s what I meant: not bad for a commoner,” Freya said.

  “Commoner?!” Hayley bristled and was about to launch into another verbal assault before Alfie headed it off.