Who's Afraid of Beowulf

by Tom Holt

  ‘Hold your water, will you?’ Thorgeir waited breathlessly, and behind him Arvarodd patted the flat of his sword on the palm of his hand and made clucking noises. ‘Even if you’re right,’ said the sorcerer-king, ‘there won’t be time to muster any force. It’d be suicide.’

  ‘Balls,’ said Thorgeir. ‘I’m looking at them now. There’s the King and that female, the wizard, Brynjolf and Arvarodd. You know,’ he couldn’t resist adding, ‘the one who went to—’

  ‘I know, I know. Shut up a minute. I’m thinking. Look, I could get together a portable set and some Special Effects, and there’s the Emergency Kit all charged up, of course, and you could be a wolf. With that and the lads from Vouchers—’

  ‘It’d be a doddle,’ Thorgeir urged. Arvarodd was pressing his sword-point against the back of his neck. ‘Get a move on, though, or they’ll see me. God knows how I followed them so far without them spotting me.’

  ‘If this goes wrong, I’ll have your skull for an eggcup,’ muttered the sorcerer-king. Thorgeir shut his eyes and offered a prayer of thanksgiving to his patron deity. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘it’ll be no problem. Promise.’

  ‘How long will it take me to get there?’

  ‘The way you drive, forty minutes tops. It’s just past the turning to Radnage. You got that?’

  ‘The trouble with you, Thorgeir,’ said the sorcerer-king, ‘is that you combine stupidity with fecklessness. Be seeing you.’

  There was a click and the dialling tone. ‘Well,’ said Arvarodd, ‘is he coming or do I chop you?’

  ‘He’s coming,’ said Thorgeir, straight-faced. ‘Exactly like you wanted it. And he hasn’t got any time to get his forces together; it’ll be him and a couple of extras. You’ll walk it, you’ll see.’

  Arvarodd shook his head and marched Thorgeir away. As he went, Thorgeir congratulated himself on his rotten memory. He had honestly forgotten all about the Emergency Kit.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘I still think this is a bad idea,’ whispered Danny Bennett. Angantyr nudged him in the ribs, expelling all the air from his body, and told him to be quiet. Utterly wretched, he lay still in the heather and turned the matter over in his mind.

  On the credit side, he had persuaded them not to declare war. That had taken some doing, after such a conclusive victory. Hjort had already prepared the Red Arrow, to shoot over the battlements of Edinburgh Castle, and Angantyr was talking glibly of annexing Sunderland as well. It was the thought that they might conceivably win that had spurred Danny on to unimagined heights of eloquence, and in the end he had succeeded. But in order to do so he had had to make certain concessions, the main one being that they should all go to London and help the King. Although they would not admit it, some of the heroes were beginning to worry, and all of them hated the thought of missing the final excitement. So here they all were, lying in wait for the first suitable vehicle, and it was Danny’s turn to be seriously anxious, although he had no qualms at all about admitting it. There was bound to be violence. There might well be blood-shed. If they did manage to get a van or a bus, he was going to have to drive it.

  Round the bend in the road came a large red thing, with the number 87 displayed in a little glass frame above its nose. Danny closed his eyes and hoped that his companions wouldn’t notice it; but they did.

  ‘Here, Danny,’ hissed Angantyr, ‘how about that one?’

  ‘Oh, no, I don’t really think so,’ Danny gabbled. ‘I mean, it’s probably too small.’

  ‘Doesn’t look it,’ said Hjort on his other side.

  ‘They’re much smaller inside than out,’ said Danny. ‘Really.’

  Hjort shook his head. ‘No harm in trying,’ he said cheerfully. ‘What do you think, lads?’

  Several heads nodded, the boar-shaped crests of their helmets visible above the heather like a covey of skimming larks. ‘When you’re ready, Starkad,’ said Hjort.

  ‘Hold it, hold it,’ snarled Angantyr. ‘And since when were you in charge of this, Hjort Herjolfsson?’

  ‘Someone’s got to do it, haven’t they?’ Hjort raised his head to glower at Angantyr.

  Danny saw a gleam of hope. If he could start them quarrelling . . . ‘I’m with you, Angantyr,’ he said, and looked expectantly at Hjort.

  But the hero simply shrugged and said, ‘See if I care.’

  ‘Here,’ said Starkad, ‘do I go, or what?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hjort and Angantyr simultaneously. They glared at each other.

  Starkad was on his feet. He could run like the wind if he didn’t trip over something, and soon he had overtaken the bus.With a spring like a wild cat, he leapt at the driver’s door, grabbed the handle and, bracing his feet against the frame, wrenched it open. The bus swerved drastically, mowed down a row of snow-poles and stopped dead.

  The driver, his head spinning, pushed himself up from the steering-wheel and stared helplessly at the group of maniacs who had come running up out of nowhere. All save one of them were waving antiquated but terrifying weapons: swords, spears and axes. It could conceivably be a group of archaeology students staging a reconstruction of Culloden, but he wasn’t hopeful. The one who was unarmed leant forward into the cab and cleared his throat.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘does this bus go to London?’

  The driver dragged breath into the vacuum of his lungs. ‘If it’s the money you’re after,’ he gasped, ‘there’s three pound forty-two pence. Take it all.’

  ‘Actually,’ said the unarmed man, ‘would you mind if we borrowed your bus? It’s just for a day or a week or so.’

  ‘Are you hijacking my bus, then?’ asked the driver.

  ‘Yes,’ said the unarmed man unhappily. The driver went white, and Danny felt panic coming on. What if the man tried to resist and defend his passengers? Bothvar Bjarki would like that.

  ‘It’s all right, really,’ he said, as reassuringly as possible, ‘I’m with the BBC.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said the driver. He did not look reassured. ‘Would you be the blokes who beat up all those coppers and soldiers at Farr the other day?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Angantyr. He stuck out his bearded chin impatiently and tapped his sword-blade with his fingers.

  ‘The Army’s looking for you,’ said an old lady from the second row of seats. ‘They’re all over Strathnaver with armoured cars.’

  ‘Really?’ Angantyr’s eyes lit up. ‘Hey, lads,’ he called out, ‘did you hear that? They’ve come back.’ The heroes began to chatter excitedly.

  It was, Danny decided, a moment for action, not words. He grabbed the driver by the sleeve and pulled him out of his seat. ‘Right,’ he tried to shout (but the words came out as an urgent sort of shriek), ‘I want everybody off the bus.’

  ‘You must be kidding, son,’ said the old lady. ‘There’s not another bus till Wednesday, and I’ve the week’s shopping to do.’

  Bothvar Bjarki climbed inside. ‘You heard him,’ he growled. ‘Off you get, now.’

  ‘Are we being taken hostage?’ asked an old man in the fourth row.

  ‘No,’ said Danny. ‘You’re free to go.’

  ‘Pity,’ said the old man. ‘That would have been one in the eye for George Macleod and his pigeons.’ He shrugged his shoulders wearily and picked up his shopping-bag.

  The passengers shuffled off the bus, all of them taking a good look at Danny as they went, and the heroes scrambled in. Danny took a deep breath and sat in the driver’s seat. The driver raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Do you know how to drive a bus then, mister?’ he asked.

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ Danny confessed. ‘Is it difficult? ’

  ‘Yes,’ said the driver. ‘Very. Are you going far?’

  ‘London,’ Danny said.

  The driver shook his head sadly, and deep inside Danny’s soul something snapped. Perhaps he had Viking blood in his veins, or perhaps he was just fed up. ‘All right,’ he said quietly, ‘you drive.’

  ‘Me?’ The driver
stared. ‘All the way to London?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Danny.

  ‘Now, look here,’ said the driver. ‘The Ministry regulations say—’

  ‘Stuff the Ministry regulations.’ Danny wished he had accepted Angantyr’s offer of a sword. ‘Drive this bus to London or you’ll be sorry.’ Behind him, Angantyr nodded approvingly and clapped Danny on the shoulder.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘you tell him.’ For some reason which he could never fathom, Danny glowed with pleasure.

  ‘Right,’ he said, giving the driver a shove. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

  ‘What show?’ asked Hjort, but Danny ignored him, for he had had a sudden inspiration. He leant forward and pointed to the roller above the driver’s seat that changed the number on the front of the bus. ‘Change that,’ he ordered.

  ‘What to?’ asked the driver.

  ‘“Special”, of course,’ Danny replied. ‘Come on, move it.’

  The driver did as he was told, and then started the engine. Danny stuck his head out of the window and waved to the ex-passengers.

  ‘Never mind,’ he shouted, ‘there’ll be another one along in a minute.’

  The bus moved off, and Danny sat down in the front row of seats, feeling very surprised at himself but not at all repentant. He was, he realised, starting to enjoy all this.

  ‘You realise,’ said the driver over his shoulder, ‘we’ll run out of fuel before we’re past Inverness.’

  ‘Then, we’ll get some more, won’t we?’ Danny replied. ‘Now, shut up and drive.’

  Angantyr came forward and sat down beside him. ‘Have some cold seagull,’ he said. ‘I saved some for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Danny bit off a large chunk. It tasted good.

  ‘You did all right back there,’ said Angantyr Asmundson. ‘In fact, you’re coming along fine.’

  ‘It was nothing,’ said Danny with his mouth full.

  ‘I know,’ said Angantyr. ‘But you handled it pretty well, all the same.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Danny chewed for a moment, then scratched his head. ‘Angantyr,’ he said, ‘I’ve thought of something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When we get to London, how will we find them?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ said Angantyr. ‘Is it a big place?’

  ‘Quite big.’ Danny frowned. ‘So you don’t know where they’re likely to be?’

  ‘It was your idea we go,’ Angantyr replied.

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Angantyr. ‘Don’t you remember?’

  Danny leant back in his seat. After all, it was a long way to London. He would have plenty of time to think of a plan.

  ‘So it was,’ he said, and yawned. ‘You leave everything to me.’

  Angantyr grinned. ‘You’ve changed your tune a bit, haven’t you?’ he said. Danny shook his head.

  ‘It just takes some getting used to, that’s all,’ he said. ‘And you’ve got to start somewhere, haven’t you?’

  ‘That’s very true,’ said Angantyr.

  ‘It was the same when I shot my first feature,’ Danny went on. Angantyr nodded.

  ‘Did you miss?’ he said sympathetically.

  Danny remembered the reviews. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Same with me and my first wild boar,’ said Angantyr.

  ‘Nerves, principally. They all laughed.’

  Danny sighed; he knew the feeling. ‘The main thing is’, he said, ‘not to let it get to you.’

  ‘That’s especially true of wild boar,’ Angantyr agreed. ‘Tusks like razors, some of them. I remember one time in Radsey—’

  He stopped short and stared. A great black cloud had appeared out of nowhere and was covering the sky. In a few moments it was as dark as night. From where the sun should have been there came a piercing cry; but whether it was pain or triumph no one could tell. A great wind rose up all around, and the air was filled with rushing shapes, like bats or small black birds. Then a great bolt of lightning split the sky, and hailstones crashed against the windows of the bus. The driver pulled over and hid under the seat, whimpering.

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Angantyr, ‘looks like we’re going to miss all the fun.’

  King Hrolf staggered, tripped, fell and lay still. For a moment he could do nothing except listen to the beating of his own heart and the howling of the storm. Then he became aware of the blaring of the horns and the cries of the huntsmen and forced himself to rise. The savage music was too close. He commanded his knees to bear his weight, leant forward and ran.

  Something had gone wrong, many hours ago now. A man whose face was familiar had driven up in a small black car. He had climbed out and walked forward, as if to surrender. Arvarodd had turned to look, and then Thorgeir had broken free from his grip. Before anyone could stop him, he had wrenched away the wires from the brooch, and then the storm had begun. However brave and strong he may be, a man cannot fight against lightning, or waves of air that strike him like a hammer. He had clung on to his sword and ran, and the storm had followed him.

  That was all a long time ago, and he had not stopped running. He had passed through towns and villages, frozen and lifeless in the total darkness, across open fields and through woods, whose trees were torn up by the roots as he passed. Lightning had scorched his heels, flying rocks had grazed him, and the hailstones whipped and punched him as he ran. Sometimes his path had been blocked by strange shapes, sometimes human, sometimes animal; sometimes the ground had opened up before him, or burst into flames under his feet; sometimes the hail gave way to boiling rain that scalded his face and hands, or black fog that filled his lungs like mud. All these, and other things, too, he had run through or past, while all the time his pursuers were gaining on him; slowly, a yard or so each hour, but perceptibly closer all the time. So must the hour hand feel when the minute hand pursues it.

  He stumbled again, and crashed to the ground. This time, his knees refused to obey, and the earth he lay on shook with the sound of many feet. King Hrolf raised his head and wiped the blood away from his eyes. In front of him the ground had fallen away on all sides. He was on a plateau, with a sheer drop all around him. Suddenly the wind dropped. Absolute silence.

  King Hrolf drove his sword into the ground and used it to lever himself up to his feet. He filled his lungs with air and held it there.

  ‘So.’ The voice was all around him. ‘This is where it must end.’

  ‘This is as good a place as any,’ said the King. The voice laughed.

  ‘It is indeed. Was it worth it, Hrolf Earthstar?’

  The King jerked his sword out of the turf and held it in front of him. ‘That depends on the outcome,’ he said.

  The voice laughed again, and the skin of the earth vibrated like the surface of a drum. ‘Well said, Hrolf Ketilson. If you wish, I will let you run a little further.’

  ‘I am getting too old to run,’ replied the King. ‘I have lived long enough.’

  ‘Too long.’ The voice laughed a third time.

  ‘I have only one favour to ask you,’ said King Hrolf, raising his head and smiling. ‘It is a small thing, but it would please me to know your name.’

  ‘My name? That is no small thing. But because you have run well, and because when you are dead no one will ever be born again who would dare ask it, I shall tell you. Listen carefully, Earthstar.’

  King Hrolf lowered his sword and leant on it. ‘I am listening,’ he said.

  ‘Well, then,’ said the voice, ‘I am called Vindsval and Vasad, Bestla and Beyla, Jalk and Jafnhar. In Finnmark my name is Geirrod, in Gotland Helblindi, in Markland Bolverk, in Permia Skirnir, in Serkland Eikenskjaldi. Among Danes I was called Warfather, among Saxons Master; to the Goths I was Gravemaker, and in Scythia Emperor. The gods called me Hunferth, the elves named me Freki, to the dwarfs my name was Ganglati and to men . . .’

  King Hrolf put his hands over his ears.

  Hildy rolled over on to her side and opened her eyes. That meant she was still alive, for what
it was worth. Through the gloom she could see Brynjolf lying on his face where the first gust of wind had blown him, and the wizard Kotkel, where Thorgeir had struck him down. Painfully she lifted herself up on one elbow and looked round. There was Arvarodd, or his dead body, and over it stood a great grey wolf. She remembered how they had fought until Arvarodd’s sword had shattered into splinters in his hand, and his shield had crumpled like a flower under the impact of the wolf ’s assault. Then something had flown up into her face, and she had seen no more. Of the King there was no sign.

  The wolf turned its head and growled at her, and licked blood off its long jaws. But Hildy was no longer afraid. She had reached the point where fear can no longer help, and anger offers the only hope of survival. She hated that wolf and she was going to kill it. She looked around for a weapon, but could see none, except the hilt of Arvarodd’s sword. The wolf was trotting towards her, like a dog who has heard its plate scraping on the kitchen tiles; she watched it for a moment, suddenly fascinated by the delicacy of its movement. Then, inexplicably, her hand was in her pocket. The little roll of cloth that Arvarodd had given her all that time ago had came loose, and her fingers touched and recognised the contents of it; the stone that gave mastery of languages; the splinter of bone that gave eloquence; the pebble that brought understanding; the pebble from the shores of Asgard . . .

  If you throw it at something, it turns into a boulder and flattens pretty well anything. Then it turns back into a pebble and returns to your hand.

  She threw it. She missed.

  The wolf gave a startled yelp and galloped away. The pebble came whistling back through the air, stinging Hildy’s palm as it landed, so that she nearly dropped it. She swore loudly and threw again. A loud crash told her that this time she had hit the car. By the time the pebble was between her fingers once more, the wolf was nowhere to be seen. She started to run after it, but stopped in mid-stride.