by Tom Holt
‘Couldn’t we all go in the bus instead?’ pleaded Starkad. ‘It’s so nice and comfy.’
Patiently, Brynjolf explained that the bus wouldn’t go over water.
‘Why?’ asked Starkad.
Brynjolf thought for a moment. ‘Because it hasn’t got any oars, Starkad,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ said Starkad Storvirksson. ‘Pity, that.’ He disappeared into the hold of the ship and emerged with several huge coils of rope. ‘They’re all sticky,’ he said.
‘That’s the preservative they’ve put on them,’ said Hildy. ‘Lucky they didn’t take them back to the labs.’
Starkad passed ropes underneath the keel and called to the heroes, who took their axes and set about demolishing the mound and the trellis of oak-trunks. In a remarkably short time, the work was finished, and the heroes took their places at the ropes.
‘Better get a move on,’ said the King, looking at the sky. ‘It’ll be dawn soon, and I want to catch the tide.’
With a shout, the heroes pulled on the ropes and the ship rose up out of the ground. Starkad tied a line round the figurehead and, exerting all his extraordinary strength, dragged the ship off the cradle of ropes on to the grass. The other champions joined him, and, with a superhuman effort and a great deal of bad language, hauled Naglfar down the long slope to the beach. As the keel slid into the water, Starkad gave a great shout.
‘Is that his battle-cry?’ Hildy asked.
‘No,’ said Arvarodd, ‘the keel went over his foot.’
The first streaks of light glimmered in the East, and the heroes saluted the coming dawn with drawn swords. The wizard stepped forward and, sounding like a hierophantic lawn-mower engine, blessed the longship for its final voyage. Bothvar Bjarki hauled on the yards, and the sail rose to the masthead and filled as the west wind grew stronger. On the sail was King Hrolf’s own device, a great dragon curled round a five-pointed star.
‘I told the sailmakers Earthstar,’ he explained, ‘but they had to know best. That or they couldn’t read my writing.’
‘So this is goodbye,’ said Hildy.
‘About my manuscript,’ said Arvarodd. ‘The middle section needs cutting.’
‘I’m sure it doesn’t,’ said Hildy. There were tears in her eyes, but her voice was steady.
‘I’m appointing you my literary executor,’ Arvarodd went on. ‘I know you’ll do a good job. And I want you to keep those things I gave you - you know, the jaw-bone and the pebbles and things. I won’t need them again, and . . .’
He turned away and went down to join the other heroes.
‘Right, Vel-Hilda,’ said the King, ‘it’s time we were going. Kotkel wants you to keep the seer-stone, and we both think you should hang on to these.’
He handed her a bundle wrapped in a sable cloak. She took it.
‘That’s the Luck of Caithness,’ he said. ‘After all, you never know. There may be new sorcerers one day. And we’re letting Zxerp and Prexz stay behind; they’ve earned their freedom, and they’ve promised to be good.’
‘We’re going to go and live at the hydro-electric plant on Loch Shin,’ said a faint light at Hildy’s feet.
‘But the condition of their freedom is that, if ever you need them, they’ll be ready and waiting. Won’t you?’ said the King menacingly. ‘Because if you don’t, Kotkel has put a spell on you, and you’ll end up in the National Grid so fast you won’t know what’s hit you.’ The lights flickered nervously. ‘Oh, and by the way,’ added the King, ‘thanks for the Goblin’s Teeth set.’
‘You’re welcome,’ snarled Zxerp. ‘We were bored with it anyway.’
‘Also in the bundle,’ said the King, ‘is the sorcerer-king’s sword, Ifing. It’s lighter in the blade than Tyrving, and easier to handle. That’s also just in case, and he won’t be needing it. He’s a reformed character, I think. And this, Vel-Hilda Frederik’s-daughter, is for you, in return for that lovely glass thing and all your help.’
From round his neck he took a pendant on a fine gold chain. ‘The kings of Caithness never had a crown,’ he said. ‘This passed from my grandfather to my father to me. Once it hung round the neck of Lord Odin himself. To wear it is to accept responsibility.’ He hung the chain around Hildy’s neck. ‘I appoint you steward of the kingdom of Caithness and Sutherland, this office to be yours and your children’s until the true king comes again to reclaim his own. Which,’ he added, ‘I hope will never happen. Look after it for me, Vel-Hilda.’
Hildy bowed her head and knelt before him. ‘Until then,’ she said.
‘And now I must go, or they’ll all start complaining,’ said the King, and there were tears in his eyes, too. ‘Think of us all, but not too often.’
He put his arms around her and hugged her. Before she could get her breath back, he was gone.
‘There he goes,’ muttered Zxerp, ‘taking the game with him.’
‘Cheer up,’ said Prexz, softly. ‘It could be worse.’
‘How?’ asked Zxerp.
‘I could have forgotten to swipe their chess-set,’ chuckled Prexz.
Hildy ran down to the beach. Already the ship was far out to sea, the oars slicing through the black-and-red water. As a dream slips away in the first few moments of waking, it was slipping away towards the edge of the world, going to a place that had never been on any map. Yet as she stood and waved her scarf, she thought she could still hear the groaning of the timbers, the creaking of the oars in their rowlocks, the gurgle of the slipstream as the sharp prow cut the waves, the voices of the oarsmen as they strained at their work.
‘I don’t suppose anybody thought to pack any food.’ Could it be Angantyr’s voice, blown back by some freak of the wind? Or was it just the murmuring of the sea?
‘You said you were going to pack the food.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘You did.’
‘I bloody didn’t.’
And perhaps it was the cry of the gulls as they rose to greet the new day, or perhaps it was the voice of the King, just audible over the rim of the sky, telling the sorcerer-king about Rule 48. Hildy stood and listened, and the sun rose over the sea in glory. Then she turned, shook her head, and walked away.
About six months later, Hildy sat in her office at the Faculty of Scandinavian Studies at Stony Brook University. It was good to be home again on Long Island, thousands of miles away from her adventure, and she had her new appointment as professor to look forward to and the proofs of Arvarodd’s Saga to correct. Around her neck was an exquisite gold and amber pendant; a reproduction, she assured all her colleagues, but she knew they had their suspicions. Still, she would continue to wear it a little longer.
She leafed through the day’s mail. Three circulars with details of conferences, two letters from universities in Norway asking her to go over and give lectures, yet another flattering offer from Harvard, and a postcard with a stamp she had never seen before. She stared at it.
It had been readdressed from St Andrews and was written in Old Norse. She turned it over; there was a picture of a tall castle. Her heart started beating violently. She screwed up her eyes to read the spidery handwriting.
‘Food awful, company worse,’ it read. ‘My window marked with X (see photo). Arvarodd sends his regards. Hope this reaches you OK. See you in about sixty years, all the best, Hrolf R.’
She lifted her head and looked out of the window. ‘Until then,’ she said.