by Steve Cole
Pat secured the gadget in his snout, while Bo did the same with hers. Ringblenders were clever C.I.A. devices that projected an optical illusion. Any cow that dressed like a human would seem to be a human, even speaking the local lingo. Only other cattle – such as F.B.I. agents – would see through the disguise at once . . .
“There!” McMoo stuck in his own ringblender and smiled at his friends. “To human eyes we look like well-to-do Anglo-Saxons – and so the Vikings will think we’re worth a tasty ransom.” He opened the doors and set off after the angry rabble. “Come on – let’s see if we can get ourselves captured by a bunch of vicious Vikings!”
“How are we going to get ourselves captured by those Vikings when they’re so busy running away?” asked Bo, jogging alongside him with Pat.
McMoo watched the angry peasants pursue the Norsemen along a winding downhill path. “We need to reach the Vikings ahead of that mob.” He turned to Pat. “You’re good at finding things, Pat. Can you find us a short cut?”
“I’ll try.” Pat gazed around and sniffed the air. “Hmm . . . let’s try that thicket there.” He pointed to a tangle of gnarled trees. “If we can get through that lot we should come out close to the beach.”
“No sooner mooed than done!” Bo charged up to the thicket and, with a flurry of kung-moo chops and high-speed hooves, beat a path through the thick undergrowth. “There we go!”
Pat led McMoo and Bo at a gallop out of the little wood and onto a steep, sandy hillside. Sure-hoofed, he picked a direct downward path over the treacherous terrain, heading for a thin strip of beach. A long, graceful boat, shallow in depth and narrow in width, stood on the sand. There was a single white square sail and six benches for twelve oarsmen. A carved wooden dragon’s head crowned the front and rear of the vessel.
McMoo skidded to a stop at the sight of it. “Look at that! A genuine Viking longship. Light enough for the crew to carry, they could steer it through even shallow waters—”
“Better save the lecture till later, Prof!” Bo interrupted as shouts and yells further along the beach announced the arrival of a rabble of distant figures, fast approaching, with an angry mob close behind. “The Vikings are coming – straight for us!”
Chapter Three
THE PILLAGE IDIOTS
“ER, IS IT my imagination,” said Pat, “or do those Vikings look a bit . . . weedy?”
McMoo frowned. “You’re right!” The twelve Norsemen were puffing and panting, red in the face behind their beards and long moustaches. They were all shapes and sizes, wearing leather armour under their long woollen shirts, and tatty trousers bound to the knee with crisscrossed straps of fabric.
One of the Vikings was tubbier than the rest. He wore a metal helmet, a scrappy fur cloak and a terrified expression as he took in the three C.I.A. agents loitering beside the longship. He and his men skidded to a sudden, sandy stop.
“We’re cut off, Gruntbag!” One Viking, young and lanky, gazed imploringly at the big cloaked man. “What do we do?”
“I’ll think of something, Ivar.” Gruntbag, clearly the Viking in charge, looked behind him at the angry Anglo-Saxons approaching and whimpered like a petrified puppy.
“Hello. We surrender!” called McMoo brightly. “Take us hostage, please.”
“Yes, we’re worth a fortune,” said Pat.
“Especially me,” Bo added with a wink.
Gruntbag stared in amazement. Then he beamed. “D’you hear that, lads? We’ve got ourselves some captives at last!”
“Real proper prisoners!” cheered Ivar.
“It’s a miracle!” An old Viking broke into a feeble victory dance.
Pat swapped a baffled look with Bo while McMoo cleared his throat noisily. “Er, do you think you could celebrate once you’ve got away from that mad mob?”
“Death to the invaders!” roared an angry Anglo-Saxon.
“Burn their dragon ship!” screamed another. “And toast their bottoms on the flames!”
“You may have a point, Englishman.” Gruntbag waved at his men. “Launch the boat, lads, and let’s set sail for safer shores.”
Bo sighed impatiently as the Vikings struggled to lift their longship. “Give it here,” she grumbled, and helped to heave it into the water with a stupendous splash. “Now, let’s start rowing!”
“What a maiden!” Gruntbag gazed at Bo with admiration as his band scrambled to their places beside the oars. “Heave! Heave!”
With Pat, Bo and McMoo lending their strength to the rowing, the Viking longship finally began to pull away from the shore.
But the Anglo-Saxons hurled spears and flaming torches after them. “Look!” one bellowed. “The Danes have taken prisoners!”
“Yes!” Gruntbag yelled back. “Isn’t it splendid?”
The angry shouts grew fainter as the speedy Viking vessel powered away across the water. Soon the only sounds were the grunts and gasps of sweating Vikings.
“There,” said McMoo, lowering his oar. “That should do.”
“Phew!” said Gruntbag, mopping his forehead with his moustache. “Thanks for your help, prisoners. Although I’m surprised you gave it.”
“I’m surprised that blokes as weedy as you would attack a whole village,” Bo retorted.
“We didn’t attack them,” said Gruntbag indignantly. “We only asked them if they knew where all the Viking scouting parties have disappeared to.”
“Disappeared?” Pat echoed.
“Our ruler has sent four ships and many men to scout out this part of the coast,” Ivar explained. “He wants to know how well defended it is and what loot might be taken.”
“Arlik the Mighty was first to sail two weeks ago,” Gruntbag continued. “But he hasn’t been seen since. Nor have any of those valorous Vikings who followed. At least, I don’t think they have.”
Ivar sighed. “Whenever we ask the locals, they always run out and try to kill us.”
“You can’t really blame them,” said McMoo. “You Vikings have ransacked and pillaged an awful lot of England.”
“We haven’t,” Ivar protested. “We haven’t done any pillaging.”
A rat-faced man beside him nodded gloomily. “Or ransacking.”
“I once ran in a sack,” said an incredibly short Viking with a squeaky voice. “Does that count?”
“No, Henmir,” said Gruntbag sadly as a shaggy-haired Viking with an eyepatch pulled out a stringed musical instrument. “And before you start, Sven, playing a lute is not the same as looting!”
Bo peered down at a chest full of swords and axes. “Haven’t you ever used these weapons, then?”
“Are you mad, girl?” Gruntbag looked appalled. “Those things are sharp! We could cut ourselves.”
“Anyway, they’re too heavy to carry very far,” Ivar added.
Lowering her voice, Bo turned to Pat and McMoo. “This must be the most rubbishy bunch of Vikings in the world.”
McMoo looked thoughtful. “Their ruler has obviously lost a lot of good men around here – perhaps he sent this lot along to get lost too!”
“I don’t suppose we’ll learn much here.” Pat surveyed the ragbag bunch and couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for them. “Where do you think the proper Vikings went?”
Suddenly the ship lurched as though a whale was trying to rise beneath it. Ivar screamed like a baby and the rat-faced man fainted dead away.
Gruntbag clutched his stomach. “What in Odin’s name was that?”
“It’s a sea monster!” hissed Ivar.
“There’s no such thing,” said Pat. “Er, is there, Professor?”
“Let’s take a look.” While McMoo lay down and pressed his ear to the wooden deck, Bo and Pat peered about on either side of the narrow vessel. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, the water was calm and the nearest land a distant strip of chalky green.
WHUMM! Again, the longship shook under some massive impact.
McMoo jumped up. “There’s something huge moving about directly underneath
us,” he cried, grabbing an oar. “Start rowing, everyone!”
SLAMM!
“Do as he says!” Gruntbag told his ragged crew.
But suddenly a huge, fleshy white tentacle burst from the water at the rear of the ship! Sven stood up and screamed as the fat tendril curled around his waist and jerked him up into the air. “Help! Help!”
Short and squeaky Henmir was grabbed by another groping tentacle, but McMoo caught hold of his ankles and tried to twist him free.
“Help me!” the professor gasped.
Pat and Bo bundled over and grabbed McMoo, just as the giant tentacle flexed, almost pulling him and Henmir overboard. McMoo gasped as he noticed a huge yellow eye glaring up at him from the grey-green sea.
The eye sat in a bloated body patterned black and white – like a cow! – and two colossal pointed horns curved out from either side of its bulk.
“It’s some kind of giant octopus!” Pat shouted.
Bo frowned. “Looks more like an oxtopus to me.”
McMoo clung grimly onto Henmir’s short little legs. “Whatever it is,” he panted, “I think we’ve found out what happened to all those missing Vikings.”
“The sea monster has drowned them all,” groaned Gruntbag as more massive tentacles snaked over the sides of the longship. “And now it will do the same to us!”
Chapter Four
TROUBLE FOR SHORE
STILL STRAINING TO hold onto Henmir, McMoo, Pat and Bo stared down at the sinister sea-cow creature as it brought the struggling Sven towards its gaping gob.
“It’s going to eat him!” Henmir squeaked.
But then the oxtopus blew a big yellow bubble around the Viking – and tugged him under the water. Sven was lost from sight . . .
When the monster’s tentacle resurfaced a few seconds later, it was Viking-free.
“Don’t let me go,” Henmir begged. “Or that’ll happen to me!”
“I’ve had enough of this eight-legged bully,” gasped Bo. “Or rather, I’ve udder-nuff!” Jumping up, she fired a long, supersonic squirt of milk right into the eye of the oxtopus. The water churned and frothed as the beast gave a nerve-shredding cry and sank beneath the surface, tugging its twitching tentacles after it.
Gruntbag flopped onto the deck, panting. “Thank Odin, it’s gone.”
“But it could be back soon.” McMoo plonked the white-faced Henmir on his rowing bench. “So we must all start rowing. We need to get out of here.”
Ivar picked up his oar sadly. “Poor Sven.”
Pat shook his head as he grabbed an oar too. “That sea-monster blew a bubble around him before it dragged him under . . . I wonder why?”
“Perhaps it was chewing gum,” suggested Bo, biceps bulging as she started to row.
“I think we need to investigate that creature a little more closely,” said McMoo. “But without putting Gruntbag and his crew at risk.”
“Unhoist the sail, lads,” called Gruntbag, “and we’ll head for Wessex’s shores.”
Pat frowned. “But you’ll be attacked by the locals again!”
“Wessex is under Viking rule,” Gruntbag reminded him. “But when our ruler learns we have come back with no news of his real warriors, he’ll probably slay us himself!”
The Vikings beached their longship on a quiet stretch of coast and fell gratefully down on the wet sand, panting for breath. Gruntbag produced a long cow horn from a pouch at his side, drank water from it, then offered it to McMoo.
“Call that a cup?” Bo scowled at the Viking. “How’d you like it if we slurped milk out of your ear?”
“Shh,” hissed McMoo, with a quick smile at the baffled Dane. “A lot of early humans used drinking horns. We’re undercover, remember?”
Pat sighed. “At least it’s a nice day. Hardly a cloud in the sky.”
Bo pointed to an oval cloud out at sea, white with darker patches that promised rain. “That cloud’s been around for ages. I noticed it before we were grabbed by that crummy oxtopus.”
“It can’t be the same cloud,” McMoo told her. “The wind’s been helping to push us along – it would push clouds along too.”
Bo shrugged. “Well, it hasn’t. Those grey spots are in just the same place – I noticed ’cos it reminded me of a cow.”
“Anyway, a bit of rain’s the last thing we have to worry about.” McMoo took another slurp from the drinking horn and jumped up. “Well, Gruntbag, being your helpless prisoners has been a wonderful experience, but now we’d best be off.”
“Oh!” The colour drained from Gruntbag’s face and he gulped loudly. “Well, it was nice knowing you all.”
“Aren’t you going to even try and stop us?” Bo asked him incredulously.
Gruntbag shook his head, pointing past her to the top of the cliffs. “Not when English soldiers are about to attack!”
Pat turned and craned his neck to find a grim-looking gang of twelve men with bows and arrows and spears lining the cliff top.
“Ho, Danes!” called a gaunt, red-haired fellow. “Move and you die!”
Henmir fell over in a dead faint.
“That didn’t count!” squeaked Ivar quickly.
Bo looked at Gruntbag. “I thought you said Vikings were in charge of Wessex?”
“There are small bands of Englishmen who resist our rule,” Gruntbag admitted. “Just our luck to find one.”
The newcomers scrambled down a narrow path in the cliff face, led by the red-haired man. “We’d heard tell of Danish ships in these waters and came looking,” he said. “It seems our thirst for battle will be quickly quenched . . .”
“We’ve had it!” sobbed Ivar, and Gruntbag hung his head.
“Play along,” McMoo hissed, then beamed up at the Englishmen. “Evening all! You can put away your weapons. My friends and I have just captured these Viking raiders for you.”
“You have?” The red-haired man paused mid-stride and gave McMoo a penetrating stare. “A nobleman, a boy and a pretty maiden have subdued a Danish raiding party with no arms?”
“No arms?” Bo waved with both her hooves. “What do you think these are, dummy?”
A bald, burly guard raised his spear. “How dare you address your king in such a fashion, girl!”
“Hold, Bryce,” the red-haired man said smoothly. “I like a maid with fire in her belly.”
Bo winked. “And milk in her udder?”
“Moo-ving on . . .” McMoo jumped in quickly. “King, eh? Don’t tell me – you’re Alfred the Great!”
“I am Alfred, son of Ethelwulf, King of Wessex,” the red-haired man informed him.
“That is great!” McMoo beamed.
“You have done well to capture these Danes,” said Alfred. “There may be much they can tell us about the wicked plans of their countrymen.”
As Gruntbag and his friends gave a sigh of relief, McMoo bowed down low, motioning Pat and Bo to do the same. “Gracious sire, I am Angus, and these are my wards, Patrick and, er . . .
Boadicea. We are travellers, and came across these Danes upon the shore.”
Pat nodded. “Their boat ran into trouble with a sea-creature.”
“I have heard lately that a great terror rises from the deep to threaten only the Danes,” said Alfred with satisfaction. “No ships of ours have been affected.”
“So it’s a picky sea-creature,” said McMoo thoughtfully. “Very interesting.”
“Excuse me, King Alfred,” said Pat politely. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t look very king-like at the moment.”
“I am in disguise,” Alfred replied loftily. “Since the Danes overran my castle and my kingdom three months ago, I have been forced to live out in the marshes with a small band of heroic men.”
“Your private life’s your own business, Al,” Bo told him.
Alfred glared at Gruntbag and the Vikings. “We have launched many surprise attacks on our invaders,” he went on. “Why, once I even disguised myself as a travelling minstrel and walked right into the Dan
es’ camp, so I could overhear their private plans.” He chuckled. “That’s how I knew to expect Viking forces in these waters.”
“And have you burned the cakes too?” asked McMoo eagerly. “Or hasn’t that happened yet?”
“Eh?” said Alfred.
McMoo nodded. “There’s a story that says you hid out undercover in a peasant woman’s house and she asked you to mind her cakes while they cooked in her oven, but you got distracted and the cakes burned and she clobbered you ’cos she didn’t know who you were—” He clamped a hoof over his own mouth. “Whoops, sorry! I’m getting carried away. That must happen in your future. Forget I said anything.”
Alfred looked at him blankly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’ll understand this,” Bo said grimly. “Look over there – loads more Vikings heading straight for us, in a big boat!”
“What?” Alfred and his men turned to follow her gaze – and gasped in dismay.
A huge longship was cutting through the waves towards the shore.
“Oh, no!” Gruntbag looked horrified. “I recognize that sail . . . That’s Arlik’s ship.”
McMoo frowned. “Arlik the Mighty, who hasn’t been seen since he disappeared a fortnight ago?”
“Arlik the drowned!” Ivar wailed. “That’s a ghost ship!”
Pat felt his spine tingle as the mysterious craft sailed closer. “Then we’d better get ready to be haunted!”
Chapter Five
ATTACK OF THE ZOMBIE VIKINGS
“GHOSTS? RUBBISH!” CRIED Alfred. “That ship looks solid enough to me – and so does its crew!”
“Something’s different about them,” Bo declared. “Professor, you said Vikings didn’t wear horns on their helmets – but this lot do!”
As the longship sped closer, Pat saw she was right. “They’ve all got horns on their helmets. And that one at the front has got the biggest of all. Even his face is gleaming like it’s metal—” He broke off in shock. “Oh, no. Tell me I’m seeing things.”
