King's Army

by Mark Huckerby

  On the other side of the barricade of cabs, Ged lifted his bonnet and pretended to be working on the engine. The checkpoint official was hurrying towards them, waving his hands.

  “You can’t stop there! What are you doing?”

  Ged intercepted him before he could get past, handing him an oily dipstick.

  “Sorry, mate, engine trouble. Reckon it might be the oil level, what do you think?”

  The startled official held the dipstick at arm’s length as if it were a venomous snake.

  “I don’t know! If Lord Protector Lock sees all this…”

  The Viking bent down, sniffed the dipstick and licked it as if it were an ice lolly.

  “Ekki illr…”* he grunted.

  At the back of the hearse, the other cabbies were struggling to pull the third and final holdall out of the coffin. In the phone box, Hayley waited anxiously. Together the cabbies wrenched the bag out, but it clattered against the side of the hearse. The guard heard it and strained his neck to try to see round the cabs.

  “What was that?”

  “Just the lads taking a cheeky tea break, probably,” said Ged, none too convincingly. “Here, maybe it’s the spark plugs. What do you reckon?”

  But the guard pushed past him, heading round the screen of cabs. In the phone box, Hayley watched the last holdall fall through the hole, donned a head torch and checked the second number on the back of her hand. LC had stressed the importance of dialling it before she climbed down, as it would close the floor after her. But to her horror, Hayley saw that with all the effort of off-loading the bags, the last two digits had become smudged with sweat. The first was an eight, the second maybe a six or nine, but the third was completely rubbed away. If she got it wrong the floor wouldn’t close and they’d all be caught red-handed. It was the end date of King Alfred’s reign, but what was it? She stuck her head back out of the phone box and looked to the back of the first cab. But LC wasn’t there; he was busy helping Ged delay the increasingly frustrated guard’s progress round the cabs. He took the guard’s hand and gripped on to it, shaking it warmly.

  “I just wanted to thank you for your understanding,” blustered LC. “I know a lot of people call your sort rather unkind names like quisling and collaborator, but not me. You’ve been most helpful.”

  “Eh, get off me!” said the guard in a shrill voice, pulling his hand back. “Now let me past!”

  The cabbies meanwhile were debating the date of King Alfred’s death.

  “Was it 1066?” offered one in a whisper.

  “That was the Battle of Hastings, you numpty,” whispered another. “What school did you go to?”

  Hayley could see she was going to have to remember herself.

  She pressed the first two numbers in – 8 … 9 – then closed her eyes and focused. 871 to 89… 89… 899! That was it. She punched in the last nine and dropped through the hole, landing on the soft bags in the tunnel a few feet below.

  “You – move them out of the way!” yelled the guard to the Viking.

  The undead Norseman pounded forward, heaving a cab aside with each hand, and pulled the hearse away from the curb to reveal … the undisturbed coffin, rear doors closed and three cabbies sipping tea from their thermos mugs next to the empty phone box. The guard marched forward, looking at them suspiciously, then jumped as Ged slammed his cab bonnet shut.

  “All fixed! Tea break’s over, lads.”

  The cabbies got back in their cabs and started their engines.

  “Sorry for the trouble!” called Ged.

  The breathless guard watched as the convoy pulled away and drove out of Parliament Square. As it turned the corner, he saw the dotty old man sitting in the back of the hearse, but he couldn’t see the girl with him. The guard spun back to the phone box and pulled the door open. Inside all seemed normal, except for one thing – the receiver was hanging loose. He picked it up, inspected it and replaced it on its cradle.

  Six feet below, Hayley waited till she heard the clunk of the phone box’s door closing before she dared to move. She unzipped the first bag and checked the black, grainy contents – gunpowder. They had spent the last few nights retrieving it from its hiding place in Woolwich, south of the river. While Ged kept lookout from his cab, his mates had helped them access the secret store beneath a block of luxury flats that stood on the site of the former Master Gunner of England’s mansion. LC explained that for hundreds of years this had been where the gunpowder for the king’s cannons had been stored and that when it was closed, the then Defender, Queen Grace, decided to leave some there in case of emergencies.

  Smart lady, thought Hayley as she zipped up the bag, heaved it on to its wheels and started to pull it down the long, narrow tunnel towards Parliament’s cellars. It would take her half the night to make the trip there and back three times, but if she succeeded, then the Raven Banner would be destroyed and the first real blow against Lock’s evil regime would have been struck.

  * * *

  * “BUILD FASTER! OR WE’LL FEED YOU TO THE DOGS!”

  * “They bury their dead in the ground like lapdogs! They should burn them on boats like normal people!”

  * “Not bad…”

  One hour earlier, anyone caring to gaze at the dark waters below Tower Bridge would have seen what looked like the smooth, glistening back of a small whale break the ice and bob to the surface. Luckily for the occupants of the mini-sub, there had been no traffic over the bridge for months, and Brian was able to dock at the wharf unseen. Centuries before, the “Pool of London”, as the stretch of river between London Bridge and Tower Bridge was known, would have been packed with the tall masts of cargo ships bringing in coal from the north and sugar from the West Indies. There were said to be so many ships that you could cross the river without getting your feet wet.

  Tonight there were only five travellers disembarking, but they made a strange band – a Norwegian queen, the heir to the defunct Chinese throne, the deposed British king and his mother, all led ashore by a disgraced bodyguard and former King’s Armourer. The ravens circled, then settled on the wooden posts of the wharf, pecking at barnacles and resting their wings after their long fight. Alfie noticed Gwenn peer at the dark silhouette of the nearby Tower of London’s walls, then ruffle her feathers and turn away as if sad – did she think it wasn’t her home any more, he wondered? The young king took his first step on to home soil since his exile, slipped on the slimy planks and fell on his backside.

  “That can’t be a good omen,” he said, as his mum helped him to his feet.

  “Don’t worry, sweetie,” said Tamara, brushing him clean. “William the Conqueror did the exact same thing the first time he set foot on an English beach.”

  “Mum, leave it, I’m fine,” said Alfie, embarrassed.

  “Actually, it is a good comparison,” said Queen Freya, “because like him, we are now the invading force.”

  She was gazing downriver at the crimson glow thrown into the sky from Big Ben – it reminded her of the spectacular Northern Lights from her homeland, but there was nothing wonderful about this evil counterpart.

  “First we take back His Majesty’s regalia, then we go for your banner,” said Brian, fixing her with a stern stare. “Agreed?”

  The others looked to Freya, nervous, but she shrugged. “Fine. Your turf, your rules.” She strode off the wharf, towards the Tower, then stopped and looked back at them, arching a long eyebrow. “Come on then; some of us have our own kingdoms to get back to.”

  As the submarine engaged its autopilot and submerged beneath the ice once more, the invaders crept away from the river.

  The riverside was strangely quiet and at first it was easy to pass unnoticed as they picked their way through the streets. But the area around the Tower of London’s walls was much busier. The group ducked into an alleyway as a truck ferrying stone rumbled past them. Alfie peeked out to see lines of exhausted builders marching to and fro, flanked by their Viking masters. Some brave market traders had set up s
talls in the shadows of the now darkened shopfronts and were selling soup and bread to the workers. Some appeared to be doing a good trade, even if a berserker would occasionally lumber up, scattering the customers and helping themselves, unchallenged.

  “We’re too conspicuous like this,” said Brian, worried. “We need to split up.”

  Tamara pointed at a pub on the corner that seemed to be back in use, with market traders, builders and berserkers coming and going.

  “Safety in numbers?” she said.

  Brian nodded. “You and Her Majesty wait for us there. We’ll see if we can get into the Keep through the sally-port.” He turned to Freya. “And no, er, ‘transformations’ unless things go really pear-shaped, if you don’t mind.”

  Freya scowled at him, then took Tamara’s arm and headed for the pub.

  Brian turned to Alfie and Tony. “Right, boys. Walk like you have a purpose. Not too much, though – like we’re just going home, not planning on raiding the Tower, if you know what I mean.”

  “Determined, but casual?” asked Tony, looking nervous.

  “Can we just get it over with?” asked Alfie, pulling his cap low.

  “We’ll be fine, trust me,” said Brian.

  The three of them strolled – in a purposeful, yet relaxed way – heading across the square that ran alongside the moat, past the empty ticket office, within inches of slobbering berserkers and stomping Viking draugar.

  The Hung, Drawn and Quartered pub was bustling with activity, boorish Community Earls and collaborators enjoying a night off. If it hadn’t been for the possessed berserkers crunching on pool cues like breadsticks, and the undead Vikings thumping the tables and singing hearty battle songs in guttural Old Norse, you might have mistaken it for an average Friday night in the city. The young barmaid ignored the pair of berserkers smashing glasses over each other’s heads and turned her weary gaze to the new customers.

  “No credit cards, no cash. Gold, silver or jewellery only.”

  Freya’s hand slipped protectively over the emerald necklace concealed beneath her shirt. But Tamara smiled, removed a silver ring from her finger and slid it across the bar.

  “What’s good?” she asked.

  “The mead seems popular these days,” shrugged the barmaid.

  She held Tamara’s gaze for a moment, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. But if she knew who the ex-queen was, she didn’t say anything. Instead she poured them their drinks and went to deal with the berserker who was bending the beer taps over with his teeth. Freya took a sip from her glass and recoiled from the sweet taste of the viscous yellow liquid.

  “Urgh, they really are barbarians round here.”

  Tamara laughed and downed her drink. “I’d forgotten how much I missed English pubs.”

  Meanwhile, Alfie was amazed to find that they had made it all the way to the shadows of the Merchant Navy Memorial on Tower Hill without anyone so much as looking twice at them.

  “Ha, you were right,” he said, relieved. “Guess they’re all too busy to care about three more homeless chaps.”

  “Actually,” said Brian, wiping his brow, “I was sure we’d get caught. We got lucky.”

  He hurried to the concealed tunnel entrance that led under the moat and into the Keep beneath the Tower, and pressed the release stone, but nothing happened.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Alfie.

  “I don’t know,” said Brian. “It must have been sealed. The professor is no fool.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Duck!” blurted Tony, pointing to the sky.

  Alfie and Brian followed his gaze to see the Black Dragon flying high over the river and banking in their direction. Alarmed, they pinned themselves behind the wall, but when they peeked out again they saw that the Dragon was not aiming for them. It had landed on top of the corner of Devereux Tower. Looking at the glossy dark scales of the reptilian beast, Alfie was instantly back on the oil rig months earlier, facing off with Richard, begging him to resist the evil that had infected his body, sure that he could save him. He recalled the swell of horror in his stomach when he realized he had failed and the Dragon opened its jaws and blasted him with fire, sending him tumbling into the sea far below. He still found it hard to believe that trapped somewhere inside that nightmarish creature was his brother.

  “Who’s that?” said Tony, pointing to the girl who was swinging herself over the tower’s wall to perch precariously on a tiny ledge.

  “Ellie?” gasped Alfie.

  He went to run out from the cover of the memorial, but Brian pulled him back.

  “No, you’ll never reach her,” he said.

  “It’s my sister! We have to help her!” said Alfie.

  Brian turned to Tony. “Do you think Qilin could grab her?”

  Tony sized up the tower, rubbing his chin. “Tricky. I can’t blink-shift into thin air and there’s no room on that ledge… But I’ll try.”

  He flicked the lever on his belt buckle and his robe swirled over him as his mask and hover disc deployed.

  On the tower wall, Ellie craned her neck to peek over the battlements at the Dragon. It had its back to her, hunkered down, wings folded, like it was going to sleep. Suddenly, with a strange cracking sound, its limbs began to retract and its scales shrank, transforming into pink skin. She watched in disbelief as the monster transformed into a young man, and as he turned his face she could see who it was – Richard.

  “No!”

  Ellie screamed and lost her footing, falling from the ledge, arms pinwheeling through the air. Across the road, Alfie, Brian and Tony watched, helpless, as she fell from sight behind the Tower walls, followed a split second later by the dark shape of Richard leaping after her. Then, with a heavy whump of leathery wings, the Black Dragon flew back up, carrying the struggling girl in its claws, before disappearing once more into the grounds of the Tower.

  At the memorial, Tony removed his mask. “I’m sorry, there was nowhere to shift to. I couldn’t get her.”

  Alfie pulled away from Brian’s grip. He was angry.

  “You should have let me go!” he hissed.

  Brian scanned the street to check no Vikings had heard Alfie, but all eyes were still fixed on the Tower.

  “The princess is safe, that’s the main thing,” he said.

  “Safe?!” spluttered Alfie.

  “At least now we know where she is,” offered Tony, patting Alfie’s shoulder.

  “Come on, there’s nothing more we can do tonight,” said Brian. “We need to regroup.”

  In the pub, Freya was growing impatient. “It’s totally sexist, the men leaving us in here while they take care of business.”

  “Once Alfie has his armour back, you’ll have a much better chance of retrieving your banner,” replied Tamara, smiling to make their conversation look as normal as possible to anyone spying on them.

  “I know he’s your son, but I don’t need any Defender to help me,” scoffed Freya, “Holgatroll could take this lot single-handed.”

  A thick-set man in a pinstriped suit, with a Viking badge pinned to his lapel, wobbled up to them, spilling half his drink on the floor.

  “What did you say about the Defender, love?”

  He leaned against the bar, too close to them, breath stinking of stale cigarettes. Behind him, two more suits leered at them with hideous yellow-toothed grins.

  “Nothing,” said Tamara with a smile. “I think perhaps you misheard us. Have a good night.”

  Tamara turned away, but the yob spun her back round.

  “I know what I heard,” he sneered. “And it’s no use hoping that poxy superhero will ride to the rescue, sweetheart. He’s dead. But if you need saving, look no further.”

  Freya pushed past Tamara and went nose to nose with the lout.

  “What, by you?” she laughed. “Some spineless ex-banker who likes to suck up to Vikings?”

  “Oi, you little—”

  He grabbed Freya’s arm. But instead of heaving her off her
feet as he had intended, he found he couldn’t budge her an inch. A green glow was coming from the emerald necklace beneath her shirt. When he looked down he was astonished to see that the young girl’s arm was growing, bulging with muscles and turning dark green.

  “Freya! Don’t!” cried Tamara, but it was too late.

  She just had time to dive over the bar as the Norwegian queen transformed into the immense Holgatroll, leaving the man in the suit dangling from her tree trunk of an arm.

  Outside, Alfie, Brian and Tony were approaching the pub as fast as they could without drawing attention.

  “Time to collect the ladies and make a quiet retreat,” said Brian.

  The front window of the pub exploded as the suited man smashed through it and rolled, groaning, into the road at their feet.

  “Maybe it’s nothing to do with her?” said Tony, optimistically.

  But the ear-shattering troll’s roar from inside the pub said otherwise. Panicking customers poured from the doors and leapt through the windows, filling the street around them. Brian’s training kicked in as he efficiently diverted Alfie and Tony out of the way of the stampede, pinning them against a wall. Just in time too – as three Viking draugar came hurtling out of the pub, tossed aside one after another by the rampaging Holgatroll. A horn sounded from across the square inside the Tower grounds and Alfie turned to see a fresh troop of Viking undead charge over the drawbridge, axes raised, bellowing their battle cry.

  “Shake a leg!” yelled Brian, steering them through what remained of the shattered pub doors.

  Inside, Alfie coughed as he was hit by the dust cloud, and stepped across a carpet of smashed glasses, round pulverized tables and over groaning berserkers.

  “Mum? Freya?” he called.