“Hey, girl, nice to see you too,” said Alfie, patting her head. “OK, daylight launch – better make it fast.”
Wyvern rocketed straight up, a blur of light too fast for anyone to notice, not levelling out till she hit cloud and turned south. Five minutes later, Alfie felt Wyvern ease her gallop as they began their descent towards Cambridge. The storm was raging now, and it was hard to see much until they were almost touching the college rooftops.
It was clear to Alfie where the Vikings had been. A trail of burning cars and smashed debris snaked through the medieval centre of the city. Terrified screams rose to greet them as they landed on a soggy lawn next to one of the colleges. Choir boys in flowing red cassocks were fleeing from a huge Gothic church, so scared that they barely noticed the white-armoured superhero striding in the opposite direction.
Alfie had never been inside King’s College Chapel before, but he had seen its magnificent interior plenty of times on television. Every Christmas Eve his father had insisted on watching the broadcast of the famous carol service and they had all been made to listen in silence to the haunting music of the boys’ choir. It was the only time Alfie could ever remember seeing his father’s face utterly serene, his eyes closed as he soaked in every angelic note.
Serene was not the word Alfie would use to describe the place today. Carnage was a better fit. Choir stalls lay broken and scattered across the black-and-white marble floor. Undead Vikings swarmed across the organ like overgrown apes, wrenching away protesting pipes and throwing them clattering into the aisle below. Guthrum himself ripped a brass candelabra from its mooring and sniffed it, before hurling it through one of the tall stained-glass windows.
Alfie opened his mouth to say something tough and impressive (or the best he could manage at short notice), but a red-faced old man in a black robe and white dog collar beat him to it. “Stop that at once! This is a house of God!”
The Viking horde stopped what they were doing and turned to see who had dared to shout at them. For a moment Alfie thought that the irate chaplain’s outburst might have done the trick. But Guthrum reached the man in a couple of mighty strides and lifted him off his feet with a single finger. The Viking growled a few words in his own tongue, green bile splattering over the chaplain’s appalled face. Alfie didn’t know what Guthrum was saying, but it didn’t sound like an apology.
“Go back to whatever hell you came from!” replied the brave man.
None of the Vikings saw Alfie’s run up. They were too eager to see the bone-breaking punishment their leader was about to inflict on the priest. The first Guthrum knew about it was when the Defender’s boots collided with the side of his head, making him lose his grip on the chaplain and sending him flying over the high altar.
“What he said,” declared Alfie, getting up and unsheathing his sword.
Norse battle cries echoed all around as the draugar charged towards the Defender from every corner of the chapel. Alfie swung his sword in a wide arc, sweeping several of them off their feet, then sidestepped to let the remaining two run into each other with a crack of colliding skulls.
Guthrum swatted the altar aside and charged at Alfie. “RIDDARI SVIKLIGR!”* he screamed.
But Alfie lifted a broken pew with his boot and flipped it at him, unbalancing the Viking enough to send his axe blow wide of the mark. Alfie aimed his sword at Guthrum’s back, going in for the kill, but the Viking was wise to it. He rolled clear and sprang to his feet, surprisingly fast for such a bulky warrior.
Now it was Alfie’s turn to play defence, summoning his shield from his arm bracelet to parry the blows from Guthrum’s axe. Not so long ago, Alfie would have turned and run away by now. But every day since the coronation he had felt a little more at ease with his powers, and more importantly Brian hadn’t let him slack off from his training. The other Vikings were getting back to their feet. He needed to keep moving.
The Defender backed off down the aisle, deflecting and dodging Guthrum’s axe as he went. As they emerged from the chapel on to the lawns outside, lightning crackled above them as if the sky itself was raging at the unnatural presence of the undead. At least out here the Vikings couldn’t corner him so easily, thought Alfie, but he still needed to contain them somehow.
“Spurs!” Alfie said, and riding on Wyvern, he put a little distance between himself and Guthrum.
The Defender pointed his ring finger at a nearby bike rack. Focusing his mind, he commanded a bicycle to break free of its lock and hurl itself at Guthrum. The Viking lord laughed at the puny attempt to hurt him. But then the Defender commanded more bicycles to rise up like a flock of metal birds and slam themselves one after another into his enemy. The Defender turned his hand and the metal frames of the bikes twisted themselves into a tangled cage around the struggling Guthrum. Alfie kicked his heels and Wyvern swooped towards the prone Viking, but he wasn’t fast enough. Guthrum tore himself free, scattering tyres, frames and tinkling bike bells across the lawn. Behind him, his men emerged from the chapel. He fixed the Defender with a fearsome glare.
“Kjot ertu hundinum mínum!”* Guthrum said, a grin spreading across his ghoulish face.
Alfie was unnerved. It was the smile of someone who knew something you didn’t. Guthrum lifted his war horn from his belt and blew three distinct blasts into it. Not like the summoning call Alfie had heard at Lindisfarne. This was different. Guthrum’s raiders started to judder, as if each of them was having some sort of fit. They fell on to all fours as one, their bodies jerking wildly as thick, black fur burst through their armour. Alfie watched in disbelief as their limbs stretched and knee joints bent backwards; their mouths extended into jaws filled with sharp canine teeth; tails appeared behind each of them. Worst of all, where the Vikings’ eyes had been moments before, there were now only swirling pools of fire. Alfie had seen these monsters before, in the weird dreams he’d had just after he became king. Visions of devil dogs fighting his namesake Alfred the Great a thousand years ago at the Battle of Edington. But this was no dream. Now he was facing the same monsters in the flesh. Wyvern snorted and reared up. Maybe she remembered them too.
“Easy, girl!” shouted Alfie, clinging on.
One of the devil dogs crashed through a KEEP OFF THE GRASS sign and leapt into the air, clamping its jaws over Alfie’s leg. He could feel the immense pressure of the bite even through his armour. Alfie tried to grab his sword, but Wyvern panicked and flew in circles kicking her hind legs so hard that he couldn’t let go long enough to reach it. As they lost height, the other dogs joined in the attack, jumping and snapping at them, like a pack of hyenas bringing down a buffalo. He couldn’t fight them like this.
“Wyvern, retire!” Alfie said, and the horse obediently disappeared back into his spurs.
Alfie fell flat on his back in the mud. The devil dogs stalked in from every side, confident that they had him at their mercy. Through their legs, Alfie could see Guthrum striding away, back towards the river. Snarls filled the air, the hulking shapes of the dogs closing in. Alfie closed his eyes and directed his mind towards the Ring of Command. This one would be tricky and he’d only get one shot at it. He held his hand up towards the chapel. The first devil dog pounced, but as it did so, something long and shiny shot out of the chapel door. The dog looked up just in time to see the organ pipe rocketing towards it. Five more followed, streaking like missiles at their targets, each slamming over a dog’s head.
Alfie heaved himself up and watched with satisfaction as the yelping dogs clawed at the pipes that were stuck fast over their heads like giant flea collars. One by one, the groggy devil dogs finally shook them off and turned back into draugar, groaning and rubbing their ugly heads. Alfie raised his sword and was just about to charge the undead warriors, when they suddenly seemed to regain their senses and strike the ground as one with their axes. The earth shook beneath Alfie’s feet. Thinking Spurs, he summoned Wyvern just in time as a spider’s web of wide fissures opened up across the entire lawn.
A startled scre
am rose up behind him and the Defender turned to see the old priest, who had just come out of the Chapel, teetering on the edge of a crater that had appeared at his feet. Alfie kicked his heels and Wyvern darted towards the priest, allowing Alfie to scoop him up just as he began to fall.
He set the grateful man down at a safe distance from the battle-scarred green and circled back to deal with the Viking vandals. But they had already beaten a retreat and were nowhere to be seen. By the time the Defender had tracked them back to the river all that was left to see was the stern of the Viking longship disappearing beneath the water.
The unnatural storm evaporated as quickly as it had arrived and the summer sun emerged over Cambridge once more. But Alfie did not feel much relief. He hated to admit it, but LC was right. The Vikings invaders were not going away. They were just getting started.
* * *
* “TREACHEROUS KNIGHT!”
* “You are meat for my dogs!”
“Is he all right in there?” the museum curator asked as she craned her neck to peer over Brian’s shoulder into the toilets.
“His Majesty is fine, ma’am,” Brian said and shifted to block her view.
Alfie had flown off to Cambridge a good forty minutes ago, and the bodyguard was starting to run out of excuses. A huddle of worried museum staff and dignitaries gossiped nearby, shooting intrigued glances in Brian’s direction. He had to tell them something.
“His Majesty is a real stickler for hand hygiene.”
CRASH.
Brian winced. He guessed (correctly) that Alfie had just fallen back into the toilets as he climbed through the window.
“Oh my,” the curator gasped.
“He likes to get a really good lather going with the soap,” said Brian, offering a weak smile.
After a few more bangs, crashes and thumps, Alfie finally emerged from the bathroom, collar askew, his face flushed with exertion from the quick change of clothes.
“Sorry about that,” Alfie announced to the worried crowd. “I don’t like rushing things. Especially in loos.”
The curator turned as bright red as her lipstick and tried not to catch the king’s eye as the royal party left the museum. Outside, there was a small crowd of photographers and members of the public waiting behind barriers to see Alfie, but when he waved only a handful waved back. With a sinking feeling, Alfie realized that the prime minister was right; people still didn’t seem to like him. Maybe he had been hiding away too much, but that was only because he was so busy being the Defender. He was trying to protect them, and it seemed unfair that he never got any thanks for it. If only he could tell people what he was really doing.
Later, as the royal train sped back to London through the gathering night, Alfie kicked his shoes off and leant back in his seat, relieved to be on the way home. Brian handed him a phone handset. “LC wants a word.”
“Since when could Vikings turn into hellhounds?” Alfie said into the phone, without waiting for LC to speak.
On his way out of the carriage, Brian turned on a television. Practically every channel was showing pictures of the “major incident” in Cambridge, including some shaky phone footage of the Defender swatting aside one of the giant dogs as it leapt at him. Scrolling, urgent headlines at the bottom of the screen announced that Britain was under some kind of “supernatural attack”, but that people should remain calm as sightings of the Defender were coming in from multiple witnesses.
“It seems even in their undead form, these Vikings retain their berserker abilities,” replied the Lord Chamberlain.
“Berserker? Like going berserk?”
“Exactly so, Majesty. Guthrum and his men were said to work themselves up into such a frenzy in battle that they could transform themselves into beasts … or even worse. The records from King Alfred the Great’s time mention them frequently.”
“But Alfred the Great … he took Guthrum down in the end, didn’t he?” Alfie asked, hopefully.
“Yes, indeed,” LC said, sounding bright before his tone darkened again. “But only after four years of battles, defeats and destruction. Guthrum pushed Alfred the Great into the very fringes of his own land and ushered in a dark age for Britain.”
Alfie stared out at the moonlit countryside as it sped by and recalled what LC had told him about the origin of his family’s powers. How Alfred the Great hid out in the swamps of Somerset with the remnants of his men, before he prayed to the gods, became the Defender and eventually returned to rout Guthrum and his Vikings.
“So what do we do about it?” Alfie asked.
“If Lock is behind this, as I suspect he is, then we need to do two things: find him and put an end to these Viking raids before they get out of hand,” LC replied. “You should get some sleep, Majesty. You’ll need it. Oh, and read up on Guthrum. Try the abridged Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. And with all these raids, we need to get Brian to keep you on top of your swordsmanship. Double drills.”
Alfie clicked the phone off, slumped back into the chair and let out a long sigh.
“You need to eat,” Hayley announced, giving Alfie a concerned look.
“I wish everyone would stop telling me what to do,” Alfie snapped, and then instantly felt bad about it. Fighting the Vikings at Cambridge had exhausted him. He felt like he’d run three cross-country races back to back. “Sorry, Hales. Long day.”
Hayley nodded and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll see if they can make us something. And then I’ll tell you all about the actors I beat up today.”
Alfie opened his mouth to ask what she was talking about, but she had already walked off down the train.
Hayley understood why Alfie was on edge. He looked like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Well, not the whole world, Hayley corrected herself, just the entire country. But she was annoyed that, once more, Alfie had been in the thick of the action at Cambridge while she had been wasting her time in York. Today was supposed to have been her chance for some excitement. The kitchen carriage was located at the far end of the royal train to keep cooking smells away from the living areas. Hayley paused to steady herself against the padded leather side of the train as it turned a bend. As she did, she could hear Brian on the phone behind the sliding door of his compartment. Thinking he might want to eat something as well, Hayley was just about to knock, when the royal bodyguard’s voice boomed from behind the door.
“NO! I’ve told you before!”
Hayley stopped in her tracks. She had never heard Brian sound that upset. She couldn’t see into the compartment because the blind was down. On the other side of the door, Brian continued, furtive now. He was obviously on the phone to someone and trying to keep his voice down.
“I don’t like going behind the king’s back. If LC ever found out, he'd throw me in the dungeons. All right … all right, I get it.” Brian sighed. “Look, I’ll see what I can do and let you know what happens. Yeah, yeah. I’d better crack on.”
Realizing the conversation was coming to an end, Hayley scampered away, disappeared into the kitchen carriage and slid the door closed behind her, just as Brian stuck his head out and looked up and down the corridor. On the other side of the kitchen carriage door, Hayley let out a shaky breath. She didn’t know what Brian was up to, but she had to tell Alfie.
But later, back in the royal compartment over a plate of sandwiches Hayley had barely touched, Alfie didn’t seem bothered.
“You’re being paranoid.”
“I’m just telling you what I heard. Something’s not right, Alfie. Brian’s been acting kind of weird around the Keep too,” Hayley said, thinking back to the other night when she saw him sneaking through the tunnel.
“No, he hasn’t.”
“How would you know? You’re never there!”
“I’ve been kind of busy lately, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Yeah, exactly. So you need someone to watch your back and – hello – that someone is me.”
Alfie scoffed. “There’s nothing going on with Br
ian. Before he was my bodyguard he was my mum’s. He’s practically part of the family.”
“And I’m not? I see,” Hayley said, stalking out of the carriage. “I’m going to get some sleep.”
Alfie let her go. Hayley would calm down and he’d apologize. He wasn’t sure for what, exactly, but his head was so full of undead Vikings and snarling devil dogs he couldn’t deal with anything else tonight. He sat back in the armchair and stared out of the window into the darkness, trying to think of things that would make him feel better. He’d seen off the Vikings twice. Good. Maybe they’d just go away. Don’t bank on it.
“Oh, shush,” Alfie said to himself. What else? He was getting better at sword fighting. True. Wyvern even seemed to like him more. Yep. Brian was not about to betray him. I mean, seriously? He was safe and secure on his own personal royal train. There’s someone wearing a red robe and mask sitting on the roof.
“Whoa!” Alfie stood bolt upright.
The train was passing through a town and in the reflection of a track-side office block he was sure he’d just caught a glimpse of the red-robed figure he’d seen at Glastonbury on the roof of the train! There was no time to tell Brian; if Alfie was going to find out who it was he had to move fast. Red Robe had the habit of disappearing in the blink of an eye.
Above Alfie, concealed in the padded ceiling, was an emergency escape hatch. Brian had pointed it out in his safety briefing that morning. Without thinking, Alfie opened the regalia case and slipped on the Shroud Tunic. For the second time that day, he transformed instantly into the Defender. He popped the ceiling hatch and hauled himself on to the roof.
The train was rattling through dark countryside again, but the view through the visor was always magically clear and pin-sharp. He needed to balance, though, as the train was swaying much more up here. But there was no one on the roof. Maybe he’d imagined it after all. A trick of the light or a—
Dark Age Page 8
