Who's Afraid of Beowulf

by Tom Holt

  ‘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 spellproof.’

  ‘Spellproof ?’

  ‘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 nap
kin 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.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘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 battle-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.’