by Tom Holt
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 Vel-Hilda. ’
‘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.’
CHAPTER TEN
‘Checkmate.’
Anyone looking through binoculars at the darkened windows of Gerrards Garth House would have thought that someone was signalling with a torch. In fact the little points of flickering light were Prexz, blinking in disbelief.
‘Ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine sets and nine games to you,’ said Zxerp, almost beside himself with malicious pleasure, ‘and nine games to me. All the nines,’ he added, and sniggered.
‘You’re cheating,’ Prexz muttered. But Zxerp only smiled.
‘Impossible to cheat at Goblin’s Teeth,’ he said benignly. ‘God knows, I’ve tried often enough. No, old chum, you’ve just got to face the fact that I’m on a winning streak. Mugs away.’
‘Let’s play Snapdragon, for a change.’
‘Your move.’
‘Or Dungeons and Dragons.You used to like Dungeons and Dragons.’
‘Or would you rather I moved first?’ Zxerp grinned broadly. ‘For once.’
Angrily, Prexz slammed down the dice and moved his knight six spaces.
‘“Go directly to Jotunheim”,’ Zxerp read aloud. ‘Hard luck, what a shame, never mind. Six,’ he noted, as he examined the dice he had thrown. ‘Getting to be quite a habit. I think I’ll take your rook.’
‘I think it’s something to do with that thing over there,’ grumbled Prexz. He pointed at the computer banks.
‘Could be,’ said Zxerp. ‘But . . .’ He quoted Rule 138. Prexz muttered something about gamesmanship and tried to get his knight out of Jotunheim. He failed.
‘And now your other rook,’ chuckled Zxerp. ‘That’s bad, losing both your rooks. Remember how I always used to do that?’
Suddenly, the room was flooded with light. From somewhere down the corridor came the noise of confused shouting and the ring of metal. Zxerp looked up, and Prexz nudged his queen on to a black square.
‘I’ll see you,’ he said.
But Zxerp wasn’t listening. ‘Something’s happening,’ he whispered.
‘I know,’ replied Prexz, ‘I’m seeing you.’
‘Shut up a minute,’ hissed Zxerp. ‘There’s someone coming.’
The door to the office flew open. Five men in boiler-suits staggered into the room, beating vainly at an enormous bear with bunches of marigolds and tulips. With a swipe of his huge paw, the bear sent them flying into the computer bank, which was smashed to pieces. The bear stopped, nibbled at the tulips for a moment, then advanced on its terrified assailants, who took cover behind the spirits’ tank. At that moment, the King, Hildy and the wizard came running in.
‘Here they are,’ shouted Hildy. The bear vanished, and was replaced by Brynjolf the Shape-Changer, spitting out tulip petals. ‘What kept you?’ asked Brynjolf.
The King looked down at the front of his coat, to make sure the Sutton Hoo brooch was still there, and drew his short sword. The men in boiler-suits covered their eyes and whimpered as he strode up to the tank, but the King paid no attention to them. With a wristy blow, he shattered the glass.
‘Quick,’ he said to the wizard. In the doorway Arvarodd appeared. He had a boiler-suited guard in each hand, and there was pollen all over his sleeves. ‘All clear,’ he said. ‘The rest of them have bolted, but I don’t think they’re going to bother us.’
The wizard had disconnected the wires around the spirits’ throats, and replaced them with wires of his own. Prexz struggled for a moment, but Zxerp was too busy bundling the pieces into their box to offer any resistance. All over the building, sirens were blaring.
‘R
ight,’ said the King, ‘that’s that done. Time we were on our way.’
At the end of the corridor, Thorgeir Storm-Shepherd crouched behind a fire-door and listened. He had been working late, trying to catch up on the Japanese deal. He had realised immediately what was happening, and had hurried down to see the King and his bunch of idiots being blasted back into the realms of folk-tale by the automatic weapons of Vouchers. From his hiding-place he had seen the guns turn into bunches of flowers, and Arvarodd and Brynjolf scattering the bemused guards. He had seen the Sutton Hoo brooch on King Hrolf’s chest. It had reminded him that he never had tracked down the prototype of the Luck of Caithness.
He should have had two options, he reflected. One would have been to stand and fight, the other to run away. The latter option would have had a great deal to be said for it, but sadly it was no longer available to him. He sighed, and glanced down at his crocodile shoes, his all-wool Savile Row suit, and the backs of his hands, which were now covered in shaggy grey fur. His nails had become claws again, and his dental plate was being forced out of his mouth by the vulpine fangs that were sprouting from his upper jaw. He pricked up his ears, growled softly, and wriggled out of his human clothes. Wolf in sheep’s clothing, he thought ruefully. He lifted his head and howled.
‘Jesus!’ said Hildy. ‘What was that?’
‘Just a wolf, that’s all,’ said Arvarodd, tightening his grip on the two squirming guards. ‘Hang on, though,’ he said and frowned. ‘I knew there was something odd going on, ever since I woke up in the ship, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. No wolves.’
‘There aren’t any more wolves,’ said Hildy, shuddering. ‘They’re extinct in the British Isles.’ She had never actually seen a wolf, not even in a zoo; but she remembered enough biology to know that wolves are related to dogs, and she was terrified of all dogs, especially Airedales.
‘No, you’re wrong there,’ said Arvarodd firmly. There was a hopeful light in his eyes, and he was fingering his newly recovered arm-ring. ‘For a start, there’s one just down the corridor. Here, hold these for me.’ He thrust the two guards at Hildy and ran off down the corridor. Without thinking, Hildy grabbed the guards by the collar. They made no attempt to escape.
‘Where’s he gone?’ asked the King. ‘We haven’t got time to fool about.’
‘He heard a wolf,’ said Hildy faintly.
‘Him and his dratted wolves,’ said the King impatiently. ‘All he thinks about.’
‘But there aren’t any wolves,’ Hildy insisted, ‘not any more.’
‘Oh.’ The King turned his head sharply. ‘Aren’t there now?’ He looked at the wizard, who nodded. ‘That’s awkward,’ he said.
‘Awkward?’
‘Awkward. You see, our enemy had a henchman, Thorgeir Storm-Shepherd. Originally, Thorgeir was not a human being but a timber-wolf of immense size and ferocity, whom the enemy transformed into a human being by the power of his magic . . .’ He fell silent.
‘And the magic’s been cancelled out by the brooch we took from the Museum,’ said Brynjolf. He was looking decidedly nervous. ‘So if Thorgeir’s anywhere in the building he’ll have changed back into a wolf.’
‘Who is this person?’ Hildy asked, but the King made no reply. ‘Someone ought to go and tell Arvarodd that that isn’t an ordinary wolf,’ he said quietly. ‘Otherwise he might get a nasty shock.’
As it happened, Arvarodd was on the point of finding out for himself. The excitement of the wolf-hunt had chased all other thoughts from his mind: the quest, the need to get out quickly, even his duty to his King. It did not occur to him that office-blocks are not a normal habitat for normal wolves until he rounded a corner and came face to face with his quarry. He drew his short sword and braced himself for the onset of the animal; as he did so, he noticed that this was a particularly large wolf, bigger than any he could recall having seen in all his seasons with the Caithness and Sutherland. The fact that its coat was so dark as almost to be black was not that unusual - melanistic wolves had not been so uncommon, even in his day - but the way that its eyes blazed with unearthly fire and the foam from its slavering jaws burnt holes in the carpet tiles marked it out as distinctly unusual. A collector’s item, he muttered to himself, as he tightened his grip on his sword-hilt.
The wolf was in no hurry to attack. It stood and pawed at the carpet, growling menacingly and lashing its tail back and forth. In fact it was trying to remember exactly how a wolf springs, and regretting the second helping of cheesecake it had had with its dinner at the Wine Vaults that evening. It is difficult for a wolf to feel particularly bellicose on a full stomach, unless its whelps are being threatened; and Thorgeir’s whelps, to the best of his knowledge, were quite safe in their dormitory at Harrow. He growled again, and showed his enormous fangs. Arvarodd stood still, just like the picture in the coaching manual: weight on the back foot, head steady, left shoulder well forward.
‘Get on with it,’ growled the wolf.
Arvarodd raised an eyebrow. Wolves that talked were a novelty to him, and he didn’t think it was strictly ethical. ‘Did you say something?’ he said coldly.
‘I said get on with it,’ replied the wolf. ‘Or are you scared?’
‘If I was scared, I wouldn’t be standing here,’ said Arvarodd indignantly. ‘I’d be running back down the passage, wouldn’t I?’
‘Not if you were too terrified to move,’ said the wolf. ‘Then you’d just be standing there mesmerised, waiting for me to spring. Rabbits do that.’
‘But I’m not a rabbit,’ Arvarodd pointed out. ‘And I’m not mesmerised. Neither am I stupid. It’s your job to attack.’
‘Says you,’ retorted the wolf. ‘So let’s have less chat and more action, shall we? Unless,’ he added, trying to sound unconcerned, ‘you’d rather scratch the whole fixture.’
‘You what?’
‘I mean,’ said the wolf, relaxing slightly, ‘you’re not going to attack, and I’m buggered if I am. So we can wait here all night, until the sorcerer-king turns up and zaps you into a cinder, or we can go our separate ways and say no more about it. Up to you, really.’
‘You’re not really a wolf, are you?’ said Arvarodd.
‘Don’t be daft,’ said the wolf, and growled convincingly. But Arvarodd had remembered something.
‘Our enemy had a sidekick called Thorgeir,’ he said. ‘Nasty piece of work. Used to be a wolf, by all accounts. Not a pure-bred wolf, of course.’ The wolf snarled and lashed its tail. Arvarodd pretended not to notice. ‘I seem to remember there was a story about his mother and a large brindled Alsatian—’
The wolf sprang, but Arvarodd was ready for it. He stepped out of the way and struck two-handed at the beast’s neck (plenty of bottom hand and remember to roll those wrists!). But the wolf must have sensed that he was about to strike, or perhaps instinct made him twist his shoulders round; Arvarodd’s blow overreached, so that his forearms struck on the wolf ’s back and the sword was jarred out of his hands. The wolf landed, turned and prepared to spring again. Arvarodd shot a glance at the sword, lying on the other side of the corridor, then clenched his fists. As he prepared to meet the animal’s onslaught, he thought of what his coach had told him about facing an angry wolf when disarmed. ‘Stand well forward and brace your feet,’ he had said. ‘That way, the wolf might break your neck before he has a chance to get his teeth into you.’
‘Never believed that story myself,’ he said. ‘I hate malicious gossip, don’t you?’
‘No,’ snapped the wolf, and leapt at his throat.
‘Hell,’ said the King. ‘A wire’s come loose on the brooch. Look.’
When the wolf turned back into a middle-aged stark-naked businessman in mid-air, Arvarodd was surprised but pleased. He made a fine instinctive tackle, and threw his assailant through a plate-glass door. Then he made a grab for the sword. But Thorgeir had the advantage of local knowledge. He picked himself up and ran. After a short chase through a labyrinth of offices, Arvarodd gave up.
After all, his enemy might change back into a wolf again at any minute, and he was clearly out of practice. He retraced his steps, and met the King and his company by the lift-shaft.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ said the King.
‘There was this wolf,’ said Arvarodd, ‘only he wasn’t. I think it was Thorgeir.’
The King seemed to regard this as a reasonable explanation. ‘We’ve got to go now. This brooch got unconnected from its batteries for a couple of minutes, and I’m not going to take any chances.’
‘Good idea,’ said Arvarodd. He was feeling slightly foolish. But not as foolish as Thorgeir. No sooner had he escaped from Arvarodd than he changed back into a wolf; and then, as he had gone bounding down the corridor to see if he could continue the fight where he had left it, he had turned back into a human being again, at the very moment when the King (and the Sutton Hoo brooch) had left the building. He gave the whole thing up as a bad job and went to look for his clothes.
As soon as he saw the smashed tank and the cowering guards, he guessed what had happened. He sat down on a wrecked photocopier and thought hard. He ought to go at once to the sorcerer-king and warn him, to give him time to prepare his defences. But something seemed to tell him that this would be a bad idea.What if the sorcerer-king should lose and be overthrown? Thorgeir bit his lip and forced himself to consider the possible consequences. On the one hand, the boss’s magic had preserved him, in human form, for twelve hundred years - without it, he would go back to being a twelve-hundred-year-old wolf, and wolves do not, even in captivity, usually live more than sixteen years. If the sorcerer-king’s spell was broken, he would become, in quick succession, an extremely elderly wolf and a dead wolf; and if that had been the pinnacle of his ambition he would never have left the Kola Peninsula. On the other hand, King Hrolf ’s wizard was presumably competent in all grades of anthropomorphic and life-prolonging magic, and his employer might just be persuaded to do a little deal. On the third hand, if the sorcerer-king won, which was not unlikely, and he found out that his trusty aide had betrayed him, being a dead wolf would be a positive pleasure compared to the penalty the boss would be likely to impose. Tricky, Thorgeir thought. He took a small slice of marrowbone from his pocket and chewed on it to clear his head.
