by Tom Holt
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ said a voice.
She turned unsteadily on her heel and peered through the darkness. There were two tiny points of light . . .
‘Instead of throwing things at us,’ said the voice, ‘you might get this contraption wired up.’
‘Shine brighter,’ said Hildy. ‘I can’t see.’
The lights flared up, and Hildy could make out the outline of the car.
‘You could see well enough to throw that rock at us,’ said the light. ‘What harm did we ever do you?’
‘I wasn’t throwing it at you,’ said Hildy. ‘There was this wolf . . .’
‘Pull the other one, it’s got bells on it,’ said the light. ‘The brooch is just over there.’
The light flashed brilliantly on a garnet, and Hildy picked up the brooch. ‘What do I do?’ she said.
‘Twist the ends of the wires round our necks,’ said the light.
‘Have you two got necks?’ said Hildy doubtfully. All she could see was a pool of light. The pool of light flickered irritably.
‘Of course we’ve got necks,’ said the pool of light. ‘You’ll find them between our heads and our shoulders.’
Hildy grabbed at the light. ‘Ouch,’ it said, ‘do you mind?’
‘Sorry.’ She grabbed again.
‘Getting warmer,’ said the light. ‘Up a bit. That’s it.’
With her other hand, Hildy took the end of one of the wires. ‘Stay still,’ she begged.
‘Difficult,’ said the light. ‘It tickles.’
Hildy drew a loop in the wire and tied it. There was a spluttering noise and she apologised. She did the same with the other wire.
‘Idiot,’ said the light. ‘That’s my ankle.’
‘Oh, for Chrissakes.’ Fumbling desperately, she untied the wire and lunged. ‘That’s right,’ gasped the light, ‘throttle me.’ She tied the second knot.
Suddenly, the sun came out.
The sorcerer-king froze. Something had gone wrong. He stared wildly at the sun, riding high in the clear blue sky, and the ground, inexplicably beneath his feet. He swallowed hard.
‘But you,’ he said, ‘can call me Eric.’
‘Right,’ said the King, ‘Eric. Shall we get on with it?’ He lifted his sword and whirled it around his head.
‘I’m in no hurry,’ said the sorcerer-king, backing away. ‘As you know, I’m firmly opposed to needless violence.’
‘What about necessary violence?’ asked the King unpleasantly.
‘That, too,’ said the sorcerer-king. ‘Besides, I seem to have come out without my sword.’
‘What’s that hanging from your belt, then?’
‘Oh,’ said the sorcerer-king, ‘that.’ Very unwillingly, he drew the great sword Ifing from its scabbard. The sun flashed on its well-tended blade.
‘Ready?’
‘No,’ said the sorcerer-king.
‘Tough.’ Hrolf took a step forward.
‘Toss you for it?’ suggested the sorcerer-king. ‘Heads I go away for ever, tails I disappear completely.’
‘No,’ said Hrolf. ‘Ready now?’
‘Best of three?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, have at you, then,’ said the sorcerer-king wretchedly, and launched a mighty blow at the King’s head. Hrolf parried, and the two swords rang together like a great bell. Hrolf struck his blow, first feinting to draw his adversary over to the left, then turning his wrist and striking right; but he was wounded and exhausted, and the sorcerer-king, who had always been his match as a swordsman, was fresh and unhurt. The blow went wide as the sorcerer-king side-stepped nimbly, and Hrolf fell forward. Quickly, the sorcerer-king lifted Ifing above his head and brought it down with all his strength, hitting Hrolf on the shoulder. The blade cut through the steel rings of the mail shirt and grazed the flesh, but that was all. The armourers of Castle Borve made good armour. In an instant, Hrolf was on his feet again, breathing hard but with Tyrving firm in both hands.
‘Cheat,’ said the sorcerer-king.
‘Cheat yourself,’ replied Hrolf, and lunged. The sorcerer-king raised his guard and parried the blow with the foible of his blade. Hrolf leant back, and the sorcerer-king swept a powerful blow at his feet. But Hrolf had anticipated that, and jumped over the blade. The sorcerer-king only just managed to avoid his counter-attack.
‘Sure you wouldn’t rather toss for it?’ panted the sorcerer-king. ‘Use your own coin if you like.’
Hrolf shook his head and struck a blow to the neck. His opponent stopped it with the cross-guard, and threw his weight forward, sliding his sword down Hrolf ’s blade until the hilts locked. For a moment, Hrolf was taken off balance, but just in time he moved his feet and drew his sword away sharply. The sorcerer-king staggered, lost his footing and fell, his sword flying from his hand as he hit the ground. Before he could get up, Hrolf was standing over him, and the point of Tyrving was touching his throat.
‘Now we’ll toss for it,’ Hrolf said.
‘Why now?’ said the sorcerer-king bitterly. ‘You could have done me an injury.’
‘Heads,’ said Hrolf, ‘I let you have your sword back.’ The sorcerer-king started to protest violently, but Hrolf smiled. ‘What’s up?’ he said. ‘Lost your sense of humour?’ He lifted the sword and rested it against his shoulder.
‘All right, Cleverclogs,’ said the sorcerer-king, struggling to his feet, ‘you’ve made your point. Can we call a halt to all this fooling-about now?’
Hrolf grinned and put his foot on the sorcerer-king’s sword. ‘Is your name really Eric?’ he asked.
‘There’s no need to go on about it,’ muttered the sorcerer-king. ‘I tried spelling it with a K, but people still laughed.’
‘I think it’s a nice name,’ said King Hrolf.
‘You would.’
‘Seriously, though,’ said King Hrolf, leaning on his sword, ‘I’ve got to kill you sooner or later, and I’d much rather you defended yourself.’ He kicked Ifing over to the sorcerer-king, who scowled at it distastefully.
‘I’m not really evil, you know,’ said the sorcerer-king.
‘You do a pretty good imitation.’
‘Where I went wrong was fooling about with magic,’ the sorcerer-king went on. ‘Dammit, I don’t even enjoy it. I’d far rather slop around in old clothes and play a few games of Goblin’s Teeth.’
‘Goblin’s Teeth?’
‘It’s a sort of a game, with dice and—’
‘I know,’ said the King, with a strange expression on his face. ‘So you play Goblin’s Teeth, do you?’
‘Yes,’ said the sorcerer-king. ‘Why, do you?’
The King inspected his fingernails. ‘I used to dabble a bit,’ he mumbled.
‘Really?’
‘Actually,’ the King admitted, ‘I was Baltic Champion one year. Pure fluke, of course.’
‘I won the Swedish Open two years running,’ said the sorcerer-king with immense pride. ‘I cheated,’ he admitted.
‘You can’t cheat at Goblin’s Teeth,’ said the King. ‘It’s impossible.’
The sorcerer-king smirked. ‘No, it’s not,’ he said.
‘Go on, then,’ said King Hrolf, ‘how’s it done?’
‘I can’t explain just like that,’ said the sorcerer-king. ‘I need the board and the pieces.’ He stopped, and gazed at Hrolf hopefully. ‘You haven’t got a set, by any chance? I lost mine back in the fifteenth century.’
‘No,’ said King Hrolf, his eyes shining, ‘but I know someone who has.’
Brynjolf sat up and rubbed his head. It hurt.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘No idea.’ Brynjolf looked up and saw Arvarodd leaning against the car. ‘But it’s not looking too bad at the moment. Is it, Kotkel?’ But the wizard shook his head, and made a sound like a worried cement-mixer.
‘Pessimist,’ said Arvarodd. ‘Me, I always look on the bright side. Even when that perishing wolf was standing over me making snarling nois
es, I said to myself: Arvarodd, you’ve been in worse scrapes than this one.’
‘Where?’ muttered Brynjolf. ‘In Permia?’
‘I’ll ignore that remark,’ said Arvarodd coldly. ‘And, sure enough, I just pretended to be dead and it went away. Saw a rabbit, I think. Then, I grant you, I passed out. But I’m still alive, aren’t I?’
‘Where’s Vel-Hilda?’ said Brynjolf.
‘Here,’ said Hildy as she came out from the spinney. ‘I’ve been wolf-hunting. Look.’
On the end of the piece of rope she held in her hand was a sullen-looking wolf. ‘Sit,’ she said. The wolf glared at her, and sat.
‘I’m going to call you Spot, aren’t I, boy?’ she said. The wolf growled, but she took a pebble from her pocket and showed it to him. He wagged his tail furiously and rolled on his back, waving his paws in the air.
‘What are you so cheerful about?’ said Brynjolf resentfully.
‘I’ve just seen the King through the seer-stone,’ she said. ‘He’s all right and I think he’s captured the Enemy. In fact, they seemed to be getting on fine.’ She leant forward and tickled the wolf ’s stomach. ‘Who’s got four feet then?’ she asked. The wolf scowled at her.
‘By the way,’ said Arvarodd, ‘in case you were worried, we’re all alive.’
‘I know,’ said Hildy, apparently oblivious to all irony. ‘I made sure of that before I went after the wolf. Lucky.’
‘I dunno,’ moaned Brynjolf. ‘Women.’ He turned himself into a statue of himself. Statues, especially stone ones, do not have headaches. Hildy tied the wolf ’s lead to his arm and sat down.
‘I’m glad it’s all worked out so well,’ she said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘This,’ Hildy said, ‘is for you.’
‘Are you sure?’ said the King gravely. Hildy nodded.
‘Yes,’ she said, and handed the decanter to him. She had finally traded in all her Esso tokens. ‘Think of me when you use it in Valhalla,’ she said.
‘I shall, Vel-Hilda,’ replied the King. ‘What’s it for?’
‘You could put mead in it,’ she said. ‘But be careful. It’s fragile.’
The King nodded, and with scrupulous care wrapped it up in his beaver-fur mantle. ‘It is a kingly gift,’ he lied.
The last rays of the setting sun shone in through the skylights of the Castle of Borve. It had not been easy getting there through the cordon of armoured cars, and in the end the wizard had had to make them all invisible. This had caused difficulties; in particular, Arvarodd kept treading on Hildy’s feet, which he could not see, and it took the wizard several hours and three or four embarrassingly unsuccessful attempts to make them all visible again. Eventually, however, they had reached the castle, where the other heroes, located by Hildy through the seer-stone and warned by Brynjolf in corvid form to expect them, had prepared a triumphant banquet of barbecued seagull and seaweed mousse.
‘Time to switch on the lights,’ said the King. He nodded to Kotkel, who connected some wires up to the two chthonic spirits, who were sulking. They had just been playing a three-handed game of Goblin’s Teeth with the sorcerer-king, and they suspected him of cheating.
‘Don’t ask me how,’ whispered Zxerp to his companion. ‘I just know it, that’s all.’
Two great golden cauldrons, filled from the enchanted beer-can, were passed round the table, and Danny Bennett replenished his horn. It had been made by Weyland himself from the horns of a prize oryx, and the spell cast on it protected the user from even the faintest ill-effects the next morning. That was probably just as well. Nevertheless, he had reason to celebrate, for his career and his BAFTA award were now both secure; his interview with King Hrolf, complete with an utterly convincing display of magical effects by the wizard to lend credibility to the story, was safely in the can, thanks to a video-camera he had recovered from the spoils of the Vikings’ most recent encounter with the forces sent to subdue them. Angantyr had been the cameraman; he had shown a remarkable aptitude for the job, which did not surprise Danny in the least. ‘You’re a born cameraman,’ Danny had said to him, as they had played the tape back on the monitor. Fortunately, Angantyr was ignorant enough to take this as a compliment.
‘I’ll make sure you get your credit,’ Danny assured him. ‘Camera - A. Asmundarson, and the EETPU can go play with themselves.’ He drained his horn and refilled it.
‘Pity I won’t see it,’ said Angantyr.
‘If only you were staying on,’ Danny said. ‘I could get you a job, no trouble at all.’
‘Wish I were,’ said Angantyr. ‘The way you describe it, sounds like the life would suit me fine. But there it is.’
‘Tell you what,’ said Danny, putting his arm round his friend’s shoulders, ‘why don’t you take the camera and the monitor with you to Valhalla? There’s plenty of spare tapes. It’d be something to do if you got tired of fighting and feasting.’
‘Good idea,’ said Angantyr. He filled up his friend’s horn. ‘In return, I must give you a gift.’
‘A gift?’ Danny beamed.
‘A gift,’ said Angantyr, wishing he hadn’t.
‘Really?’ Danny slapped him on the back, making him spill his horn. ‘That’s . . . well, I’m touched, I am really.’
‘Oh, it’s just heroic tradition,’ said Angantyr, wiping beer off his mail shirt. He felt slightly ashamed of his previous reluctance, and considered what Danny might find most useful. An enchanted helmet? An arrow that never missed its mark, in case he ever went feature-hunting again? Somehow, such a gift seemed meagre. He braced himself for the ultimate act of generosity.
‘I shall give you,’ he said tight-lipped, ‘my own recipe for cream of seagull soup.’
‘Oh,’ said Danny. ‘How nice. Hold on while I find a pencil. Right.’
‘First,’ Angantyr dictated, ‘catch your seagull . . .’
‘Count yourself lucky,’ said Arvarodd. ‘It’s a damn sight better than “Arvarodd of Permia”.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Hildy sadly. ‘Even so . . .’
‘Even so nothing.’ Arvarodd sighed. ‘I had dreams, you know, once. Poet-Arvarodd, or Arvarodd the Phrase-Maker, was what I wanted to be called. And, instead, what am I remembered for? Bloody Permia. At least,’ he said, brightening slightly, ‘my saga survived. That’s one in the eye for King Gautrek. I told him when he showed me his manuscript. Illiterate rubbish for people who move their lips when they read.’
Hildy nodded. She did not have the heart to tell him that Gautrek’s Saga had made it through the centuries as well, and was regarded as the masterpiece of the genre. Men die, cattle die, only the glories of heroes live for ever, as the Edda says.
‘But I was never satisfied with it,’ Arvarodd continued. ‘Needed cutting.’ He fell silent and blushed.
‘What is it, Arvarodd?’ Hildy asked. He looked away.
‘I don’t suppose,’ he said suddenly. ‘No, it’s a lot to ask, and I don’t want to be a nuisance.’
‘What?’ Hildy leant forward.
‘Well,’ Arvarodd said, and from inside his mail shirt he drew a thick scroll of vellum manuscript. ‘Perhaps, if you’ve got a moment, you might . . .’
Hildy smiled. ‘I’d be delighted,’ she said. She glanced at the scrawl of runes at the top of the first page. “Arvarodd’s Saga 2”, it read, “The Final Battle”. Out of the bundle of sheets floated a scrap of fading papyrus. Hildy caught hold of it and ran her scholar’s eye over it. ‘Dear Mr Arvarodd, although I greatly enjoyed your work, I regret to say that at this time . . .’ Hildy felt a tear escaping from the corner of her eye; then a sudden inspiration struck her.
‘When did you write this?’ she asked.
‘Just before the battle of Melvich,’ said Arvarodd. ‘I was greatly influenced at the time by . . .’
Hildy thought fast.The manuscript was twelve hundred years old; carbon dating would verify that. No one would be able to doubt its authenticity. And if she was quick she would just be in time
for the next edition of the Journal of Scandinavian Studies.
‘What you need,’ she said, ‘is a good agent.’
‘Checkmate,’ said the sorcerer-king.
‘Sod it,’ said Prexz.
‘That’s nine games to us,’ said King Hrolf, ‘and none to you. Mugs away.’
‘You’re cheating,’ said Zxerp angrily.
‘Prove it,’ said the sorcerer-king.
‘What I still don’t understand’, said Starkad Storvirksson, ‘is how it manages to move without oars.’
Hildy scratched her head. ‘Well,’ she said desperately, ‘it’s magic.’
‘Oh,’ said Starkad. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’
‘Starkad,’ said Brynjolf, ‘why don’t you go and get Vel-Hilda some more seagull?’
‘Actually,’ Hildy started to say, but Brynjolf kicked her under the table. Starkad got up and went to the great copper cauldron that was simmering quietly on the hearth.
‘I’m very fond of Starkad,’ said Brynjolf, ‘but there are times . . .’
At the other end of the table, Danny was telling the sleeping Angantyr all about his President Kennedy theory. Hildy sighed.
‘I wish you all didn’t have to go,’ she said. ‘There’s so much you haven’t seen, so much you could do. We need you in the twentieth century.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Arvarodd. ‘There aren’t any more wolves to kill or sorcerers to be overthrown, and I think we’d just cause a lot of confusion.’
‘Let’s face it,’ said Brynjolf, ‘if it hadn’t been for you, Vel-Hilda, I don’t know what would have happened.’
Hildy blushed. ‘I didn’t do much,’ she said.
‘No one ever does,’ said Arvarodd, smiling. ‘What are the deeds of heroes, except a few frightened people doing the best they can in the circumstances? Sigurd had no trouble at all killing the dragon; it was a very old dragon, and its eyesight was starting to go. If he’d waited another couple of weeks it would have died of old age.’