by Tom Holt
Hildy suddenly remembered that she had to breathe sooner or later or else she would die, and it would be a shame to die before she had found out whether the unbelievable explanation for this spectacle, which was nevertheless the only possible explanation, was correct.
‘Excuse me,’ she said in a tiny voice, ‘but are you people for real?’ The words seemed to flop out of her mouth, like exhausted salmon who have finally given up on a waterfall.
‘Good question,’ replied the leader of the men. ‘What about you?’
Hildy wanted to say ‘I’m not sure’, but she realised that the man was being sarcastic, which was the last thing she expected. ‘I’m Hildy Frederiksen,’ she mumbled, aware that in all this vastness and mystery that one small fact could have little significance. Still, she wanted it put on record before it was wiped out of her mind.
‘Well, now,’ said the leader, still sarcastic but with a hint of sympathy in his voice, ‘you shouldn’t have told me that, should you? After all, when strangers meet by night on the fells, they should not disclose their names, nor the names of their fathers, until they have tested each other’s heart with shrewd enquiry.’ Then his face seemed to relax a little behind the fixed scowl of his visor. ‘Don’t ask me why, mind. It’s just the rule.’
But Hildy said nothing.The other men from the mound were staring at her, and for the first time she felt afraid.
‘Damned silly rule if you ask me,’ said the leader, as if he sensed her fear. ‘The hours I’ve wasted asking gnomic questions when I could have been doing something else. Is this place still called Rolfsness?’
Hildy nodded.
‘Then, allow me to introduce myself. I am Rolf. My name is King Hrolf Ketilsson, called the Earthstar, the son of Ketil Trout, the son of Eyjolf Kjartan’s Bane, the son of Killer-Hrapp of Hedeby, the son of the god Odin. I have been asleep in the howe for - how long have I been asleep in the howe, somebody?’
‘Twelve hundred years,’ said the horn-bearer.
‘Thank you. Twelve hundred years, waiting for the day when I must return to save my kingdom of Caithness from danger, from the greatest danger that has ever or will ever threaten it or its people, according to the vow that I made before the great battle of Melvich, when I slew the host of Geirrodsgarth and cast down the power of Nithspél. These are my thanes and housecarls.’
With a sweeping movement of his hand, he lifted his helmet over his head, revealing a magnificent mane of jet-black hair and two startlingly blue eyes. Hildy felt her knees give way, as if someone had kicked them from behind, and she knelt before him, bowing her head to the ground. When she dared to look up, she saw the last ray of the setting sun sparkling triumphantly on the hilt of the King’s great sword as, apparently from nowhere, a fully grown golden eagle swooped down out of the sky and perched on his gloved fist, flapping its enormous wings.
CHAPTER TWO
‘Will someone,’ said the King, ‘get this bird off me?’ The last ray of the sun faded as the standard-bearer made nervous shooing gestures with his hands. The bird shifted from one claw to the other, but made no sign of being prepared to leave. The man in the bear-skin tried prodding it gently with a huge forefinger, but it bit him and he backed away. In a sudden access of daring, Hildy rose to her feet and clapped her hands. At once the eagle flapped its wings, making a sound like a whole theatre full of people applauding at once, and soared off into the sky. It circled slowly three times and disappeared.
‘They do that,’ said the King, rubbing his wrist vigorously to restore the circulation. ‘Comes of me being a king, I suppose.’
‘I’m starving,’ said the horn-bearer. Several voices told him to be quiet. ‘But I am. I haven’t had anything to eat for twelve hundred years.’
A babble of voices broke out, and rose quickly in a sustained crescendo. ‘Ignore them,’ said the King softly to Hildy. ‘Sometimes they’re like a lot of old women.’
Laying aside his helmet on the grass, he took Hildy’s arm, and much to her own surprise she neither winced nor shrank back. He led her aside for a few paces and settled himself comfortably on a small boulder.
‘Well, now,’ he said, fixing her with his bright eyes. ‘So what’s been happening in the world while we’ve been asleep?’
Hildy looked back at the champions. They seemed to be discussing something of extreme importance, and from what she could make out it was mainly to do with whose job it should have been to pack the food. She sat down beside the King.
‘It’s a long story,’ she said.
‘It would be, wouldn’t it?’ he replied, smiling. There was something about his smile that made her feel safe, as if she was under the protection of some great but homely power. She sat in silence for a while, gathering her thoughts. Then she told him.
When she had finished, she looked up. The men were still arguing; they seemed to have narrowed the responsibility down to either the standard-bearer or the horn-bearer, both of whom were protesting their innocence loudly and simultaneously.
‘That’s it, basically,’ Hildy said.
‘That’s it, is it? Twelve hundred years of history? The achievements of men? Men die, cattle die, only glorious deeds live for ever?’
‘That’s it, yes.’
The King shrugged his shoulders, and twelve hundred years of history seemed to slide down his arms and melt into the peat. ‘But you’re sure you haven’t left anything out?’
Hildy shuddered slightly. ‘Lots,’ she said.
The King nodded. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, ‘but I mean something really important.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’ He frowned. ‘No, the hell with that. If it was there, you couldn’t have left it out.’ He stopped frowning, and looked over his shoulder at the bickering champions. ‘Among the Viking nations,’ he said wistfully, ‘the model hero is regarded as being brave, loyal, cheerful and laconic. Three out of four isn’t bad, I suppose. So who are you, Hildy Frederik’s-daughter?’
‘Frederiksen,’ said Hildy automatically. ‘Oh, I forgot. We did away with -son and -daughter centuries ago.’
‘Quite right, too,’ said the King. ‘Go on.’
‘I’m an archaeologist,’ said Hildy. ‘I dig up the past.’
The King raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean you refresh old quarrels and keep alive old grievances? Surely not.’
‘No, no,’ said Hildy, ‘I dig up ancient things buried in the earth. Things that belonged to people who lived hundreds of years ago.’ As she said this, she began to feel uncomfortable. She had forgotten about the brooch.
‘Do you really?’ said the King. ‘We used to call that grave-robbing.’
Hildy wriggled nervously, and as she did so the brooch slipped out of her pocket and fell on to the ground. ‘Oh, I see,’ said the King softly. ‘Archaeologist. I must remember that one.’
Hildy picked the brooch up, trying unsuccessfully to avoid the King’s eye. ‘I was going to give it back, honestly,’ she said. ‘That’s why I came back again. I’m sorry.’
The King sighed and took the brooch. It seemed to kick out of her hand, as if it was pleased to be leaving her.
‘I was wondering where that had got to,’ said the King coldly. ‘I went to a lot of trouble. . . . Never mind.’
‘What is it?’ Hildy asked, but the King only smiled rather scornfully and pinned the brooch on to his cloak. Hildy looked away, feeling utterly miserable, like a child who has done something very wrong and been forgiven.
‘You were saying,’ said the King.
‘I came here to explore the mound,’ said Hildy. ‘The people laying the pipeline—’
‘You, of course, know what a pipeline is,’ said the King.
‘It’s a sort of tube, really. It goes under the sea, and—’
The King frowned again. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I shouldn’t have interrupted you. Some men were building a tube, and they broke open the mound. Was it an accident, or done on purpose?’
&nb
sp; ‘Oh, purely accident,’ said Hildy. ‘Then they sent for the archaeologists, in case it was an ancient burial. And I came and—’
‘Yes.’ The King smiled again, this time quite kindly. ‘You’re sure it was an accident? It’s rather important.’
‘Absolutely sure.’
Then the King started to laugh, loudly and almost nervously, as if a great fear had been rolled away from his mind. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Now, then, a pipeline is a sort of tube, is it? A tube for what?’
So Hildy told him all about oil, and natural gas, and electricity, and even nuclear power and Three-Mile Island, and by the time she had finished the champions had finished quarrelling and come across to listen. But Hildy didn’t notice; the King’s eye was on her, and she felt absurdly proud that she was the one chosen to tell him, like a child showing off an expensive new toy to a patient uncle. When she had finished with power, she went on with technology; motor-cars and computers and telephones and television. As she did so, she felt that the King’s reaction was all wrong; he didn’t seem in the least surprised. In fact he appeared to understand everything she was telling him, even about fax machines and the way word-processors swallow whole chapters and refuse to give them back. She tailed off and stared at him.
‘I knew you’d left something out,’ said the King.
‘But how could you have known?’ Hildy said. ‘I mean, it must all be so strange to you.’
The King raised his eyebrow again. ‘What’s so strange about magic?’ he said. ‘Or don’t you know anything about the world I lived in?’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Hildy proudly. ‘I’ve read all the sagas, and the Eddas, and everything.’
The King nodded. ‘A wise-woman, evidently,’ he said with mock approval. ‘A lore-mistress, even. So you should know all about magic, then, shouldn’t you?’
‘But that’s not magic,’ Hildy said. ‘That’s science.’
‘And you’re not a grave-robber, you’re an archaeologist. ’ The King laughed again, and Hildy blushed, something she had not done for twenty years. ‘That is plain ordinary magic, Hildy Frederik’s-daughter, only it sounds rather more mundane and there seems to be more of it about than there used to be.’ As he said the words, something seemed to trouble him and he fell silent.
‘When you’ve quite finished,’ said a voice behind him, ‘there’s some of us starving and freezing to death over here.’
The King closed his eyes and asked some nameless power to give him strength. In the distance Hildy heard the sound of an approaching car. She looked quickly over her shoulder towards the road, and saw headlights. The champions looked round as well; the lights were getting closer but slowing down, and Hildy realised that the car was going to stop. One of the champions had drawn his sword, and the others were muttering something about whose turn it was to fight the dragon, and who had done it the last time, and it wasn’t fair that the same person always had to do the lousy jobs. But Hildy suddenly felt that on no account should the King and his men be seen by anybody else; whether it was just a desire to keep them all to herself, for a little longer at least, or whether she had a genuine premonition of danger, she could not tell.
‘Please,’ she said urgently to the King, ‘you mustn’t be seen. Come with me.’
The King looked at her, then nodded. The men fell silent and sheathed their swords. ‘This way,’ Hildy said, and she made for the minibus, with the King and his champions following her.
‘I’m not getting in that,’ said the standard-bearer. ‘For one thing, it’s got no oars.’
‘Shut up and get inside,’ snapped the King. The standard-bearer climbed in and sat heavily down. His companions followed swiftly, treading on each other’s feet in the process.
‘Get in here beside me,’ Hildy whispered to the King. ‘We must be quick.’
She released the handbrake, and without starting the engine or putting on the lights she coasted the van over the bumpy ground down the slope to the road. The police car had pulled up, and she could see the light of the policemen’s torches as they climbed up towards the mound. She coasted on down the road until she reckoned that she was out of earshot, then started the engine and drove away.
In the deserted mound, nothing stirred and the darkness was absolute. A golden cup, which had been disturbed by a passing foot as the Vikings had climbed out of the ship, finally toppled and slid down into the hold with a bump. But someone with quite exceptional hearing might possibly have made out a slight sound, and then dismissed it as his imagination playing tricks on him; a sound like two voices whispering.
‘That’s thirty-two above the line, doubled, and six left makes thirty-eight, and two for his nob makes forty, which means another free go, and I’m going to go north this time, so if I make more than sixteen I can pass and make another block.’
‘Nuts to you,’ said the other voice disagreeably.
There was a tiny tinkling noise. ‘Six,’ said the first voice, with ill-concealed pleasure. ‘Up six, clickety-click, and buckets of blood, down the ruddy snake.’
‘Serves you right.’
Then there was silence - real silence, unless you could hear the sound of grass forcing its roots deeper into the earth. But by now, of course, your eyes would have picked out four tiny points of soft white light, deep in the gloom under the keel of the ship.
‘This is a rotten game,’ said the first voice. ‘Why don’t we play something else?’
‘Just because you’re losing.’
‘We’ve been playing this game for twelve hundred years,’ said the first voice peevishly. ‘I’m bored with it.’
The tinkling sound again. ‘Four,’ said the second voice. ‘Double Rune Score. I think I’ll have another longhouse on Uppsala.’
‘I’ve got Uppsala, haven’t I?’
‘You sold it to me in exchange for a dragon and three hundred below the line.’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake.’ Deep silence again. ‘What was all that moving about earlier?’
‘What moving about?’ said the second voice. ‘I didn’t notice any moving about.’
‘There was a lot of coming and going, and voices,’ said the first voice. ‘Clanking metal, and people swearing, and even a bit of light.’
‘Light,’ repeated the second voice thoughtfully. ‘That’s that stuff that comes out of the sky, isn’t it?’
‘That or rain. Is that your move, then?’
‘Just about.’
‘Right, then, I’m taking your castle, and I think that’s check . . . Oh, damn.’
‘No, you don’t. You took your hand off.’
‘Didn’t.’
‘Did.’
Complete and utter silence. Even the worms seemed to have stopped snuffling in the turf overhead.
‘Shall we go and have a look, then?’
‘What at?’
‘The noise. I’m sure there was something moving about.’
‘You’re imagining things.’
‘No, I’m not. I think it was somebody going out. Or coming in. Anyway, there was something.’
‘Look, are we playing this game or aren’t we?’
‘I’m going to have a look.’Two of the pale lights seemed to move, round the keel of the ship and up the ladder, then down again, and round the inside of the mound. ‘Here, come and look at this,’ said the first voice excitedly. ‘There’s a hole here.’
‘What sort of hole?’
‘Any old hole. I don’t know. A hole going out.’
The second pair of lights scrambled up and joined the first pair.
‘You’re right,’ said the second voice. ‘It’s a hole.’
‘So what are we going to do about it?’
‘Push.’
A moment or so later, two small forms were lying on the grass outside the mound, dazzled and stupefied by the dim starlight.
‘If this is light,’ said one to the other, ‘you can keep it.’
But the other was cautiously lifting his head a
nd sniffing. ‘It smells like light,’ he said tentatively. ‘Tastes like light. Do you know what this means, Zxerp?’
‘It means that by and large I prefer the other one. Rain, wasn’t it?’
‘It means we’re free, Zxerp. After one thousand two hundred and forty-six years, three months and eleven days in that stinking hole we’re actually free.’
They were both silent for a moment. ‘Bit of an anticlimax, really,’ said Zxerp sadly.
‘Oh, the hell with you,’ said Prexz. Unusually for a chthonic spirit, he was cheerful and optimistic by nature, and ever since he and his brother had got themselves trapped in King Hrolf’s mound he had never entirely given up hope of getting out.
‘Now what?’ said Zxerp. ‘You realise, of course, that things will have changed rather since we got stuck in there.’
‘And whose fault was that?’ asked Prexz automatically - the issue had not been resolved in over twelve hundred years of eager discussion, and minor disagreements over the precise rules of the game of Goblin’s Teeth had not helped them to find a solution to it. But Zxerp refused to be drawn.
‘I mean,’ Zxerp continued, ‘things are bound to have changed. Twelve hundred years is a long time.’
‘No, it’s not,’ replied Prexz accurately. Chthonic spirits, like the sources of energy from which they were formed at the beginning of the world, are practically immortal. Like light and electricity, they go on for ever unless they meet some insuperable resistance or negative force; but, having by some freak of nature the same level of consciousness as mortal creatures, they can fall prey to boredom, and Zxerp and Prexz, imprisoned by the staying spell that had frozen the King’s company in time, were no exception. It is in the nature of a chthonic spirit to flow imperceptibly through the veins of the earth in search of magnetic fields or feed parasitically on the currents of an electric storm; confinement gnaws at them.
‘It is when you’re stuck in a mound with nothing to do but play Goblin’s Teeth,’ said Zxerp. ‘I rather think you’ll find . . .’