Alfie was thrown clear, landing on his back on a walkway with a hefty clang. The armour had saved his life, but the air was knocked out of him. When he opened his eyes, a weathered-looking foreman, his face stained black, was looking down at him.
“FIRE!” the foreman yelled.
Thick black smoke billowed across the oil rig as a fire raged out of control from the gaping hole where the Dragon had fallen. But this wasn’t Dragon flames, it was burning oil. As he struggled to his feet, Alfie could smell it and feel it sting his eyes even through the visor. Alarms sounded. Warning lights flashed. Workers scrambled to launch an orange lifeboat. But the winch, which would lower them from the platform to the sea, had buckled in the impact of the crash.
Back in the Keep, they had seen the whole thing. Audio had cut out some time during the aerial battle, but the Defender’s helmet cam was still beaming back pictures, giving them a Defender’s-eye view of the plummet on to the rig.
“Majesty? Can you hear me?” shouted LC as Yeoman Gillam worked on re-establishing communications. Meanwhile, Hayley was busy on her laptop, hacking into the CCTV feed from the rig itself, searching every camera for any sign of the Black Dragon.
On the rig, Alfie extended his hand towards the sea and tried to command the waters to rise and douse the fires. But every time he thought he had done it, his mental connection with the water would break, like he was trying to tune a broken radio.
“Majesty? What are you doing?” LC was back.
“The sea…” said Alfie, straining. “I can’t command it…”
“That’s because the currents are too mixed out there,” said LC. “It’s not British water alone. King Canute had much the same problem.”
“Do you know what happened to Richard?” yelled Alfie over the sound of the rig’s metal groaning in the heat of the fire.
“Nothing yet!” Hayley called out.
The foreman grabbed Alfie by the shoulders and shouted in his face. “We gotta get off here before she blows!”
“Get your men inside the boat,” Alfie said. “I’ll launch it.”
The foreman nodded and herded his men to the orange lifeboat, pushing them into the spacious cabin and shouting at them to stop gawping at the Defender and move.
An explosion shook the rig. The entire platform lurched like a groggy giant. The men inside the lifeboat cabin screamed in fear. Alfie had to launch this thing before the rig collapsed on top of it. Gripping a metal beam with one hand, Alfie drew his sword.
The foreman poked his head out of the cabin and looked up at the Defender, alarmed. “You can’t drop us from this height, we’ll break apart!”
Alfie looked at the rolling sea far below and saw it was true. They were far too high up. Another explosion sent debris tumbling on to the roof of the lifeboat. Now or never.
“Hang on!” Alfie shouted and, with a slash of his sword, cut the ropes. The lifeboat plummeted towards the sea. “SPURS!”
Wyvern emerged and they dived down, racing the boat to the ocean. At the last second, the Defender zoomed under it and braced himself. He hoped the armour could take the impact. For the second time that night, the air was punched from Alfie’s lungs as the fully laden lifeboat hit him square on the shoulders and slid over him into the sea like he was a ramp.
The workers’ screams turned to cheers as the lifeboat’s engines started and it powered away from the burning rig. Alfie flew behind it for a short way, seeing it clear. The foreman stuck his head out and waved at the Defender; his men were safe. Alfie waved, then galloped back to the collapsing rig, landing on what looked like the most stable part of the platform. Smoke bellowed as he unclipped his scout orb, sending it down into the raging fire. Had the Dragon, his brother, fallen straight through the platform? Had he drowned in the sea below? Alfie had to know.
“Richard?” Alfie called.
The scout orb showed him nothing but fire and smoke; there was no sign of his brother. Alfie commanded it back to his hand. The platform shook again, but still he searched on, pushing aside a girder, ignoring the pulsing heat, sweat pouring down his face inside the helmet. Was Richard lying in here somewhere, broken and alone? And if he was dead— Alfie flinched from the thought. He couldn’t leave him here. Maybe he’d survived and retreated?
“There’s nothing you can do, Alfie,” said Hayley over the radio. “Get out of there!”
With a screech, the Black Dragon rose through the smoke, his wings beating. The creature’s body was slashed and battered from their fight and the fall, but he was still very much alive. Alfie retreated out of the fire, backing out along the great metal gas flare tower that stuck out from the oil rig like a crane arm. At its far end, flames shot out of the gas vent into the night sky.
The Black Dragon stalked along the tower, hissing at him. “The Defender, so noble, such a hero. But what good has it done you?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know how you felt,” said Alfie. “You should have told me.”
“Run crying to big brother?” scoffed the Dragon. “Sorry, not my style.”
He breathed out fire, the flames licking at Alfie’s feet. The Defender drew his sword.
“That’s it, sir,” shouted LC, watching from the Keep. “YOU MUST SLAY HIM!”
Alfie looked around. The rig was falling apart. If he was going to do something, he had to do it now.
“No,” said Alfie calmly. “I can’t.”
He dropped his sword, which clattered on to the gantry below, then reached up and removed his armour.
“NO! MAJESTY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” yelled the Lord Chamberlain, as the pictures from the Defender’s helmet went dark.
“We’ve lost the link, sir!” shouted Yeoman Gillam.
“Here!” said Hayley, spinning the laptop with the CCTV feed from the rig still playing live, showing the two figures standing on the walkway, smoke and flames rising all around them.
Alfie stood in his crumpled clothes before the Black Dragon. He removed the Ring of Command and tossed it on to the Shroud Tunic along with his spurs and other regalia.
“I know you’re still in there, Richard. I saw it. We’ll find a way to get rid of this thing! Together.”
The Dragon’s head rocked from side to side, as if wrestling with Alfie’s words. He craned his neck and roared out a sheet of flame into the sky. “It is too late for that,” he croaked.
Alfie took a step towards him. “No, it’s not. Whatever Lock’s promised you, it’s all lies. Just look what he’s done to you!”
Their eyes met again and Alfie could see Richard fighting to be free of the creature that possessed him, the poison clearing, the sickness receding.
Alfie reached out his hand. “I won’t fight you, brother.”
The Dragon closed his eyes as if contemplating it. But when they opened again, they were burning red and filled with hate.
“I’m not your brother!”
The Black Dragon reached forward and picked up the regalia in his claws, except for the spurs, which he left where they lay.
“You can keep the horse. I don’t think we’d get along.”
“Richard, wait—”
Unfurling his wings, the Dragon flew up, opened his jaws wide and blasted the tower arm where Alfie stood with a relentless gust of fire. Wave upon wave of flames, until the entire rig was engulfed.
In the Keep, LC, Hayley and the Yeoman Warders watched in horror as the rig exploded with incredible force and the camera feed was obliterated. Herne threw back his head and howled.
The Dragon flew above the debris as plumes of oil-black smoke billowed into the sky. There was no sign of his brother below. Nothing could have survived such an inferno. He circled once more, shrieking in triumph, then flew away, back towards the mainland. Back to the kingdom that was now his.
Buckingham Palace was on fire. That is the sort of thing that can easily happen when one of the royal chefs suddenly turns into an insane, angry Viking warrior and starts hurling pans of hot truffle oil around. Wh
ile most of the staff fled through the palace gates on to the Mall, three more berserkers ran rampant on the roof. One of them, who until an hour ago had been an especially unpopular head footman, kicked down the flagpole and ripped the Union Jack to shreds with his new jagged, yellow teeth.
The BBC, the last news organization to go off air that day, just managed to broadcast the stark image of the burning palace to the nation before it too was overrun by berserker cameramen, canteen workers and at least one well-known game-show host.
On the Holy Island of Lindisfarne, Yeoman Burgh Keeper Rodney “Sultana” Raisin valiantly confronted Trisha Harald, the landlady of the Ship Inn, as she went crazy, interrupted a darts match and started throwing her customers out of the pub … through the windows. Sultana managed to lock her in the beer cellar where he could hear her draining the beer kegs dry and letting out belches that shook the walls.
At Harrow School, Mr Lang had just started his assembly on “Respecting One Another” when he turned berserker and started chasing teachers and pupils around the school hall.
Panic and confusion, along with a desire not to hurt friends and family, even when they had become slobbering monsters, led most people to run and hide.
At the Tower of London, Guthrum and the draugar Vikings were still pounding the great doors of the Keep with the help of an iron cannon they had found outside.
On the other side of the buckling doors, Hayley pulled on her Yeoman’s tunic for the first time and nocked an arrow on to her bow. Her mind was weirdly blank, as if watching the Black Dragon kill the Defender – her Defender, Alfie – on the oil rig had wiped away all thoughts except one: revenge. If this was the end, then she was going to take down some Viking scum with her. The Yeoman Warders, some with tears streaming down their faces, gripped their weapons tight. The Lord Chamberlain was slumped over, his face white with grief.
“Our king … is slain. Not another… Not young Alfred,” he muttered.
Hayley pulled LC to his feet. “Look after her,” she said, pushing him towards Gran, who was hiding behind a thick stone pillar.
With a terrible groan of metal and wood, the main doors to the Keep gave way and the maniac gang of Vikings charged inside.
“OPEN FIRE!” Hayley yelled.
The Gatling gun spat shells at the first line of draugar, felling them all. Hayley stepped up, drew her bow and shot an arrow right into the forehead of the largest Viking warrior left standing. She screamed with rage, spearing arrow after arrow into their attackers. She had known grief before, but she preferred rage, and right now it was the more useful emotion. But the fallen Vikings started to move again, grunting as they got back to their feet, plucking bullets and arrows from their rotting flesh and advancing once more.
“How do we kill them?” Hayley yelled, backing off.
“With great difficulty,” replied Seabrook, impaling a Viking on his pike. “That’s the problem with the undead.”
Forced to retreat into one corner of the hall, the Yeomen fought the Vikings hand to hand, desperately fending off their swinging axes. As if that were not bad enough, one of the Vikings sounded his war horn, and several of the draugar began to shake and transform into devil dogs with bristling black fur and gnashing fangs.
Hayley shot her last arrow and found herself pinned to a wall by one of the foul-breathed dogs. She whacked at the beast with her longbow, but the hound snapped it in half and reared up, closing in for the kill. But suddenly Herne leapt on to the back of the devil dog, sunk his teeth into its neck and clung on. The devil dog thrashed and howled and transformed back into a Viking.
Hayley took her chance to reach her gran and LC behind the pillar. “We can’t stay! You need to order the retreat!”
LC looked appalled. “And abandon the Keep, His Majesty’s secret base? Never!”
“Alfie’s not coming back!” Hayley shouted through tears. “And I don’t want to lose anyone else I care about today.”
Yeoman Gillam fell towards them. Blood was pouring from a wound on his head. Hayley pulled him away from the fighting. LC looked aghast at the battle raging around him. “Very well. Chief Yeoman, full retreat!”
Seabrook gave the order and together the Yeomen heaved over the heavy ops table into the path of the Vikings, giving them precious seconds to fall back to the stairs with their injured. Hayley helped her gran into the evacuation tunnel and risked a look back into the Map Room. Herne was still fighting bravely, holding the Viking squad at bay with ferocious snarls and bites.
“HERNE! HERE, BOY! COME ON!”
The grey dog turned his shaggy head to look at her, but as he did, two devil dogs fell on top of him and they rolled out of view.
“MISS HICKS!” LC was beckoning from the tunnel.
Distraught, Hayley pulled the tunnel door closed and ran after them.
As they emerged at street level, blinking into the light, the extent of their defeat was obvious. There were no police cars, no ambulances, no soldiers restoring order. Just the last few people to find shelter running blindly from door to door. And the grunts and howls of the berserkers not far off. The city belonged to them tonight. The Yeoman Warders stood to attention.
“What are your orders, sir?” asked Seabrook.
LC bowed his head, solemn. For a moment, Hayley didn’t think he would reply at all. Then he spoke, even and commanding once more.
“Yeomen Warders of His Majesty’s Royal Palace and Fortress the Tower of London. You have fought gallantly, but the Keep is lost. Now, you are to remove your uniforms and conceal yourselves among the population.”
There was much muttering and grumbling, but he continued:
“Tend to the injured, lie low. When the time is right you will be contacted in the traditional manner. Now leave. God save the King.”
“GOD SAVE THE KING!” came the cry.
A wretched growl rose from the end of the street as several berserkers appeared. The fearless beefeaters readied their weapons. But LC shook his head at the Yeomen, who bowed their heads and dispersed.
Hayley put a hand on LC’s arm. “What about you?”
“Me?”
“Where will you go?”
“Oh. I, um, hadn’t given it much thought, Miss Hicks. I imagine I will find lodging at an inn or hostelry.”
Hayley’s gran was peering at the group of drooling berserkers who were getting closer. “Look at that lot. Drunk as skunks,” she tutted.
Hayley ran over to an abandoned black cab and checked the ignition. The key was still in it. She hopped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. LC helped Hayley’s gran into the back.
“You’re coming too. Get in!” ordered Hayley.
The fight seemingly gone from him, LC obediently climbed in and Hayley drove off.
“HOLD UP!” cried Gran.
Hayley screeched the cab to a halt and spun round. “What is it?” she asked.
Then she saw him, running towards them, over the bridge from the Tower, a Viking’s arm dangling from his mouth.
“HERNE!” shouted Hayley, relieved.
The grey dog was being pursued by the angry owner of the arm, who was wielding an axe with his remaining hand.
Hayley flung open the passenger door as Herne ran up. “Good boy. Um, you can leave that outside, thanks.”
Herne dropped the arm and jumped on to the passenger seat. Hayley pulled the door closed and was surprised to receive a lick on the hand from the dog. CRUNCH. The Viking’s axe planted itself in the roof, which Hayley took as her cue to hit the accelerator and drive them away. She looked in the rear-view mirror as the Tower of London shrank from view. She wondered if she would ever see it again.
“What now?” asked Hayley as they pulled on to the main road, heading north out of the city.
The Lord Chamberlain gazed out at the battle-scarred capital. Berserkers were rioting with no one to stop them. Smoke from a hundred different fires rose above the office blocks and houses.
“We must find Princess
Eleanor,” he said. “All our hopes now rest with her.”
Guthrum tossed Ellie on to the cold stone floor of the cell deep in the Tower of London’s dungeons. She wiped blood from her lip and scowled up at the Viking lord.
“You’re a real tough guy, aren’t you? Throwing girls around,” said Ellie.
Guthrum snarled and raised a fist, but seemed to think better of it and walked out with a grunt. The heavy cell door swung shut behind him, magically locked by the mysterious key bundle hanging in the middle of the antechamber. The Yeoman Jailer lay nearby, unconscious.
Ellie hauled herself to her feet. The cell was small and entirely bare, the only light coming from a tiny barred window too high up to reach. She tried not to think about what it would be like to spend a whole night here. Or longer. Had they captured the rest of her family? Were her brothers prisoners too? She spotted a small grate in one wall and leaned down to it. An odd smell like copper coins hit her.
“Hello?” she called, not expecting a reply.
“Good day to you, young mistress,” came Colonel Blood’s lighthearted voice through the grate. “I would offer ye my acquaintance, but I am newly hopeful that my incarceration shall soon be at its end.”
“Come again?” said Ellie, baffled.
“Sweet freedom, princess, for me and my kind. For there has been this day … what shall one call it? A changing of the guard!”
His shrill laughter filled the dungeons, and was soon joined by a cacophony of yells and growls from the other cells. Ellie retreated to a corner and held her hands over her ears.
In Westminster, Lock gazed around in satisfaction at the fear and confusion his transformed berserkers had unleashed. But now it was time to rein them in. Grabbing the Raven Banner, Lock stalked out of the abandoned building and his berserkers fell into line behind him, compliant. Marching through the devastated streets, more and more new berserkers stopped rioting and joined his growing army, ready to do his bidding. The United Kingdom was now at his mercy.
Professor Lock smiled as he crossed the bridge into the Tower of London. The last time he had come here it had been through Traitor’s Gate. Now he strolled inside as a free man, an army at his back, the victor in a new Battle of Britain. He set a bag of clothes down behind a wall and waited. The sound of leathery wingbeats grew closer until the Black Dragon swooped down and landed behind the wall.
Dark Age Page 20
