“Now, then, Imp, how are you? Been keeping lookout?” he chuckled.
Imp was his tabby cat, who spent all day on the windowsill watching the sea and purring. And she was the only other living creature who knew what Sultana was really doing on Lindisfarne. As far as everyone on the remote island was concerned, he was just plain old Rodney, ace darts player and not particularly brilliant local fisherman. But Sultana didn’t even like fish. They don’t call us beefeaters for nothing, he was fond of saying to himself. In truth, he was one of the “Burgh Keepers”, a secret band of semi-retired Yeoman Warders stationed up and down the coast of Britain – an undercover early-warning system, working for the Defender of the Realm.
Checking over his shoulder like he always did to make sure no one was spying on him, Sultana stepped into the kitchen’s small pantry and twisted a fake tin of baked beans around. A hidden door slid open to reveal a small, windowless room beyond. Sultana stepped through and hung up his binoculars on a peg next to a faded “Spotters’ Guide to Monsters” poster. It showed the silhouettes of all kinds of horrible creatures that had attacked Britain in the past – sea monsters, giants, dragons and more – and how to identify them. As a Burgh Keeper, it was Sultana’s job to watch the skies and seas for anything unusual and report back to the Lord Chamberlain at the Keep.
At the centre of the cramped, musty space was a strange little brass instrument on a wooden stand, like a cross between a compass and an old-fashioned light fitting. It was called a sortilegic meter and it monitored ley lines: the invisible tracks of magical energy that crisscrossed Britain like veins under the skin of a body. Every Burgh Keeper in every secret watch house across Britain had a meter. If any supernatural monster crossed one of the ley lines or even passed nearby, it would set off the closest meter’s alarm like a tripwire.
That was the theory anyway. In reality, in all the years Sultana had done his duty as the Lindisfarne Burgh Keeper, his sortilegic meter had never made so much as a peep. In his days as a beefeater back at the Tower of London, he’d seen his fair share of action, including fighting alongside the late King Henry, Alfie’s dad, against an army of seventeenth-century zombies under the streets of London. Everyone said he’d enjoy his retirement as a Burgh Keeper, but truth be told it was all too quiet for Sultana. Every Christmas, he would travel down to the Tower of London and have a drink with all the other Burgh Keepers from across the country and listen jealously as they swapped their latest war stories. Kenny “Kettle” Davies stationed up in Loch Ness was always busy, what with the famous local monster regularly setting off his alarm. And Phil “Talc” Powder out on the Suffolk coast had once seen Black Shuck, the legendary ghost dog which haunted that part of the country. Talc loved to boast about it and even called it “the famous Battle of Blythburgh”, but Sultana hadn’t seen it in any of the official histories yet. Still, the fact was his mates had all had cause to pick up their pikes in retirement, while all Sultana had done was patrol the windswept island, watch his silent meter and drink tea.
Imp snaked around Sultana’s legs, purring. She wanted feeding.
“Come on then, you.”
Riiiiiiiiing!
Sultana spun around, trying to place the sound. Had he set his alarm clock by accident? What on earth could it be? The sortilegic meter! He scrambled into the secret room and stood, gawping, barely believing his eyes. Sure enough, the meter’s hammer was smacking back and forth between the shrill little brass bells. Fear mixed with excitement trickled down his spine like ice water. Sultana took a deep breath and grabbed his halberd, a kind of axe on a pole that was leaned up against the wall. He ran his finger across it, checking it could still do some damage, but remembered he hadn’t sharpened it in a long while.
Riiiiiiiiing!
No time. Sultana shrugged at Imp.
“Sorry, petal, dinner will have to wait!”
And with that, Sultana sprinted out of the cottage, into the storm.
Back at the Keep, Alfie was just about to head back to the palace and bed when the alarm went off. A light was flashing on the north-east coast of the ops table map.
“Holy Island, Lindisfarne burgh,” Yeoman Box relayed. “Fifty-five degrees, forty seconds north; one degree, forty-eight seconds west,” she added, pushing a miniature Defender counter up the east coast of Britain on the massive map.
“Duty calls, Majesty,” LC replied, looking at Alfie. “I think you’d better suit up.”
Alfie slipped the Shroud Tunic over his head and the Defender armour enveloped his body in a second. He couldn’t help smiling. This was his first combat mission since the battle at the coronation, and his stomach was knotted with excitement. He barely had to murmur the word “Spurs” and Wyvern sprang out, bearing him out of the Keep and into the night, streaking up in a powerful climb, as fast as a fighter jet. Wisps of cloud streaked past Alfie’s head like someone had set the world in super fast forward. They’d be at their destination in minutes.
LC’s voice crackled in his ear. “Sir, we’re getting reports of a violent storm ahead.”
Alfie scanned the sky. It was a perfect, star-filled summer night. But as the Defender neared his destination he saw that the island was swathed in dark clouds. There was something about the way they swirled and churned that Alfie didn’t like. And they weren’t just black like normal storm clouds; they were flushed with putrid greens and purples like a nasty bruise.
“Yeah, it’s a big one, all right,” Alfie replied. “I’ll go around and see if I can approach it from another direction— Whoa, WYVERN!”
The Defender’s magical horse snorted with derision and plunged straight through the towering thunderheads. Lightning bolts arrowed down as if racing them earthwards, and hailstones battered Alfie’s armour like bullets. Before he knew it, they had landed with a squelch in the middle of a ruined, rain-wrapped abbey. Wyvern let out a satisfied whinny and disappeared back into Alfie’s spurs.
“The Defender has landed,” Alfie said weakly, mentally noting that he needed to have a quiet word with his horse about just who was in charge.
The ferocious storm raged on as he patrolled the crumbling walls, broken columns and empty arcades of the abbey. With the claps of thunder overhead and the lightning flashing off the tall walls, it was a spooky place in a Halloween, trick-or-treat, sort of way, but there didn’t seem to be much to be seriously alarmed about here.
“Looks clear,” Alfie reported back to the Keep. “Could the storm have set off the alarm?”
Some instinct made Alfie duck, spin around and unsheathe his sword, which glowed with near-phosphorescent light. He just about registered the blade of an axe as it whistled past and buried itself in the ground next to him. Alfie readied his sword to strike back, but the tubby, bearded man in front of him fell to his knees, arms wide.
“Majesty, I’m SO sorry!” Sultana said, shocked, pulling strands of his soaked hair out of his eyes.
“It’s all right,” Alfie said, catching his breath. He pulled the man to his feet and handed him back his rusty halberd. “I don’t think that old thing would have done much damage anyway. You’re the Burgh Keeper?”
“Yes, sir. Yeoman Raisin, at your service. They call me Sultana,” he said, bowing.
“At ease, Yeoman. Seen anything unusual tonight?”
“No. Not yet. But I’d bet my beard there’s something out here,” Sultana growled, scanning the dark abbey with keen eyes.
He took a whetstone from his pocket and began to sharpen his halberd with glee. Alfie walked a few feet away and contacted the Keep.
“Nothing going on up here. Just a freak storm and a homicidal Burgh Keeper. I think it might be a false alarm.”
“Very well, Majesty.” LC sounded relieved. “I have your sister on the line if you wouldn’t mind talking to her?”
“Sure,” Alfie sighed.
This was another one of Hayley’s many improvements to the armour’s communications: patching through calls when he was out on duty. Of course, Pri
ncess Eleanor would have no idea he was standing in a suit of magical armour in the middle of a ruined abbey. He tried to keep his voice neutral.
“Hey, Ellie. What’s up?”
“You haven’t replied to my email!” Ellie barked. “And neither has Richard. You do know what RSVP at the bottom of an invite means, don’t you?”
Her birthday party at Windsor Castle was coming up, and she was desperate for her brothers to be there.
“Yeah, El, I’m sorry. I’ve been a little busy.”
“You know who used to say that all the time? Dad.”
Bloooooooooo!
The low blast, like an eerie foghorn, shook the ruins around them. Alfie spun around, alarmed. Sultana was standing bolt upright, holding his newly sharpened halberd, at the ready. At first Alfie thought it must have been thunder, but then it came again.
Bloooooooooo!
“What was that?” Ellie said in Alfie’s ear. “I thought you hated drum and bass? Do yourself a favour and turn the bottom end down—”
“Sorry, Ellie, got to go!” Alfie said, breaking the connection.
He knew he’d pay for cutting her off next time they spoke, but he had a feeling the Defender’s work was not done after all.
Alfie and Sultana crept forward, keeping low behind a ruined wall. On the path ahead a trail of enormous, slimy footprints led up the beach towards a low, modern building with picnic tables arranged outside it. Over the wind, they could just hear the sound of crashes and bangs from inside, as tables and chairs were overturned and windows smashed. A whiff of decay hung in the air, like old eggs, dead fish and off milk all whisked together in a bowl.
“I’d know that niff anywhere. It’s the undead,” Sultana whispered. “Back in the old days, I fought at the Battle of the London Plague Pits with your father.”
Alfie nodded, even though that was yet another event in the Defender’s past he’d never heard of.
“That’s the gift shop. National Trust,” Sultana said, pointing at the building. “They do lovely shortbread,” he added, as if it might help.
“I really don’t think the undead are going to come here looking for shortbread,” Alfie said.
The gift shop door flew off its hinges as five bloated, dead-skinned Vikings emerged, carrying armfuls of new wool blankets, “I Love Lindisfarne” mugs and what looked like packets and packets of shortbread.
“Then again, I might be wrong,” Alfie said, astonished.
The undead Vikings were huge and stinking, but there weren’t that many of them. If they surprised them, Alfie reckoned they might run. But even if they didn’t, what kind of Defender would he be if he let them get away with a smash and grab on his turf?
“Hey, you up for a scrap?” Alfie whispered to Sultana.
The Burgh Keeper stuck his chin out, proud. “Let me at ’em, Your Majesty.”
“Spurs!” Alfie said and Wyvern emerged beneath him as Sultana looked on, excited.
Alfie drew his sword and kicked the spectral horse into a gallop, aiming for the centre of the small group of Vikings, scattering them like skittles. Up close their stench was overpowering, and they were screaming in surprise and anger in a language Alfie had never heard before.
An axe sliced through the air, but Alfie knocked it aside with his shield and brought the lion-head pommel of his sword down on the top of another Viking’s helmet with a clang that rang across the beach.
“The gift shop is closed!” Alfie shouted. “Get out of here! Leave!”
Another mammoth undead Viking, half his face rotted away to reveal the yellowing skull beneath, made a leap for Alfie, but Wyvern saw it coming and kicked him with her powerful hind legs, sending him tumbling backwards. With a yell, Sultana sprang to his side. Wielding his long halberd with skill, he clobbered a Viking on the head and tripped over another with the handle. He had a huge grin on his face. “Wait until I tell old Talc about THIS!”
Alfie had no idea what Sultana was shouting about, but he was more concerned with fending off the axe blows that were raining down on him from all angles. He hoped he hadn’t underestimated these undead brutes – they showed no sign of retreating. And then there was the small matter of how to defeat them.
“How do you kill something that’s already dead?” Alfie yelled.
Sultana swung his halberd over his head and sliced it through the air. “Cut anything into small enough pieces and it doesn’t keep moving for long, sir!”
Bloooooooooo!
The mysterious horn blast echoed across the beach again. Hearing it, the Vikings stopped attacking, turned and ran towards the sea.
“Where are they going?” asked Sultana, disappointed.
They watched the Vikings splash into the sea up to their chests.
BLOOOOOOO!
This time Alfie didn’t so much hear the deep horn blast as feel it shake his entire body. Even Wyvern staggered back under the audio assault. Alfie watched astonished as a rotting longship the colour of algae emerged from the sea mist and carved through the surf towards the retreating Vikings, its tattered, wet sails flapping in the wind. At its oars sat two more pairs of undead Vikings. At its serpent-head prow stood Guthrum, blowing into his walrus-tusk war horn, summoning back his raiding party. The Viking lord fixed Alfie with his milky white eyes and grinned, revealing his jagged black-and-yellow scattershot teeth.
On the beach, Wyvern reared up, and Alfie raised his sword above his head in reply. Whatever, dead bloke. And don’t come back. Together, Alfie and the Burgh Keeper watched the Viking ship turn and disappear beneath the waves, taking the raging storm with it. The rain petered out, the wind dropped and all was suddenly still.
“We showed those dead-uns a thing or two, didn’t we, sir!” Sultana said as he sat down heavily on the sand to catch his breath, a huge smile plastered across his face.
Alfie smiled and tossed something into Sultana’s lap. A packet of shortbread.
“Don’t eat them all at once.”
Richard was puzzled the first time he received a summons to the professor’s study. Lock wasn’t one of his teachers, after all. Richard had Mr Ramsden for history, while Lock was Alfie’s teacher – there was a policy of keeping the brothers in separate classes, partly, Richard suspected, to stop Alfie being embarrassed at always getting lower grades. So it was with some trepidation and not a little curiosity that he sat down opposite the young professor in his dark, ramshackle room. He waited while Lock skimmed through Richard’s latest essay, “The Dissolution of the Monasteries by Henry the Eighth”. Finally Lock tossed the papers on to his desk and leant back, examining Richard with his piercing blue eyes.
“Very good. Clear. Concise. You clearly know your stuff.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Of course it’s utter fiction.”
“What is, sir?”
“Henry the Eighth had nothing against the monks. But when you’re trying to hunt down a pack of hibernating werewolves, monasteries are the first place you look. They like the singing apparently – lulls them to sleep.”
Richard laughed, then stopped as he saw Lock wasn’t joining in. He was staring at Richard with an intense expression.
“The history of the United Kingdom as most people know it is a lie,” Lock continued, pushing back from his desk and crossing to an over-stuffed bookshelf. “Churchill’s histories of Britain, rubbish.” Lock pulled several volumes out and threw them into a bin. He grabbed another book. “AJP Taylor, nonsense! And don’t even get me started on this Simon Schama fellow.” Another history book flew across the study and hit the wall. “If you want to know the real story of our country’s past then I could fill you in, but you must swear not to tell a soul, least of all your brother.”
“Alfie? Why not?” asked Richard, still half suspecting this was some kind of joke.
“I don’t want to sound unkind, Richard, but your brother has certain … shall we say, limitations. In you, on the other hand, I see something more. You could have a great future, if you
chose to. Shall I show you?”
Richard knew the professor was flattering him on purpose, but he couldn’t help feeling pleased and curious. He nodded. Lock opened a cupboard and lifted out a large object covered with a black velvet cloth. He placed it on his desk and removed the cloth to reveal a very old, oval mirror with an ornate silver frame, perched on a heavy wooden stand. The mirror’s glass was dark and covered with long scratches.
“A mirror? So what?” Richard was getting annoyed. He hated practical jokes, if that’s what this was.
“Patience. It takes a few moments…”
Lock took a tall black candle from a bookcase and set it down next to the old mirror. He waved his hand over the candle and it seemed to light by itself. The study lights blinked off, again without Lock touching them. Richard wanted to ask how he’d done it, but his words were catching in his throat. If this really was a trick, then it was a good one. The air inside the room suddenly tasted thick and musty, like a newly opened tomb.
“Come and see what could be,” Lock whispered, beckoning him.
Richard rose unsteadily on his feet and crossed to the desk.
“I call it my ‘seeing mirror’. The ancient alchemists would often use them.”
Feeling like any second the professor was going to laugh and tease him for being so gullible, Richard nevertheless leaned down and peered into the speckled glass of the mirror. At first, he couldn’t see anything, just his reflection picked out in the candlelight and behind him Lock smiling like he knew a great secret. But the more Richard gazed, the more the reflection of the study seemed to fall away like a stage set being struck; the book-stuffed walls winched up and out to reveal a vast blackness before they were replaced with new walls. The grand interior of Westminster Abbey. A robed figure was kneeling as a priest placed a crown on his head. It was a coronation.
“How did you— Is that my father’s coronation?”
Lock didn’t need to answer. Because as Richard watched the strange vision in the mirror, the figure wearing the crown stood up, gazing out over his subjects, who chanted, “God save the king! God save the king! God save the king!” In the dark of the study, Richard gasped. It was not a magical recording of his father’s coronation. It was his. He was the one being crowned king. An event that had not happened. At least, not yet.
Dark Age Page 4