The vision faded and Professor Lock placed the velvet cover back over the mirror. Richard stared at him, his mind racing.
“Now perhaps you are starting to believe me,” said Lock with a smile. “I have so much more to share with you, Your Highness.”
After that, Richard started to visit Professor Lock in secret every night for private tutorials. The teacher laid it all out for him – the true history of the kingdom, how the monsters of myth weren’t myths at all, but very real; how kings and queens had wielded immense superpowers ever since Alfred the Great, the first Defender of the Realm; how they had used them to protect the nation from all manner of supernatural terrors and to wage war overseas. Then he told him how things had gone wrong. How weaker Defenders had lost their nerve, decided to draw back, to reserve their powers for only the most extreme crises; how the Defender of the Realm had become a hidden hero, concealing his or her identity as if it were something to be ashamed of, and how the country and its people had become lazy and ungrateful as a result.
Despite what he had witnessed through the professor’s seeing mirror, Richard still struggled to believe any of it. Lock was talking about magic and monsters as if they were everyday things all around them. Richard’s dad was supposed to be some kind of superhero. It was ridiculous. And yet the professor spoke with such belief and passion that it was hard to dismiss. Richard decided that the only way he could be sure was to see it for himself. So he hatched a plan.
It was the week before Christmas, and the royal family was staying at Balmoral Castle in the Highlands of Scotland. It had been snowing for days, and the roads had become impassable. But they had more than enough supplies to see them through, and everyone had enjoyed a quiet day indoors playing board games by the fire. One night, Richard sneaked into the porter’s lodge and took the keys for his father’s Range Rover. Being careful not to spin off the slippery road, he drove it to the lake in the woods where they sometimes had their summer barbecues. The lake was thick with ice and eerily still. Richard turned off the engine and took out his phone. He dialled the direct line for the king’s study, where he knew his father would be working.
“Yes?”
“Dad, it’s me. I did something stupid,” Richard kept his voice fast and breathless just like he’d practised. “I took the car, but I came off the road. I’m on the lake. I think the ice is cracking. Dad, help—” and he hung up.
He turned the engine back on and drove out on to the ice. Two seconds later the car jerked to the side as the ice cracked. Freezing water gushed in around Richard’s feet. In moments it was over his knees. The water was already up to the windows outside. The car was sinking fast. Richard thought about unbuckling his seat belt, kicking out the back window and swimming to shore. Even now he was confident he could get out of this, if he acted fast. But no, he had to follow through with the plan. He had to know whether Professor Lock had been telling him the truth. The water was up to his neck now. Richard fumbled for the door but in his panic he couldn’t find the handle. The water was past his mouth and still rising. There was no way out. How could he have been so stupid? It was the last mistake he’d ever make—
THUD.
Something heavy landed on top of the car. Richard just had time to close his eyes and fake being unconscious before the roof was ripped aside and he was hauled out. Wind rushed past his face and he had the sensation that he was moving fast, but he stayed limp and kept his eyes shut. The next thing he knew there was a crunch of gravel and he felt himself being laid gently on the ground. A gloved hand touched his face and he heard a low, muffled voice say, “Foolish child…” Then he heard the doorbell being rung twice. Only now did Richard open his eyes. What he saw rising away from him and disappearing over the castle roof told him that every word Professor Lock had said was true. It was a translucent horse flying into the air, and astride it sat the Defender – his father.
“HVAR ER ENGILSMAÐR INN LITILL?”*
Guthrum’s guttural voice echoed around the church’s cold catacombs, scattering the image of his father from Richard’s mind. It was a relief; he didn’t like thinking about him. Guilt flickered somewhere within his chest, but weakly, like a guttering candle near the end of its wick, the memory of a feeling from long ago, when he was still completely human.
In the streets above him, cars rumbled by and people made their way home from a night out, unaware of the evil lurking just beneath their feet. Richard had got used to hideouts like this in the past few months, as Lock kept moving to avoid detection. From the dungeons of ruined castles to the damp cellars of abandoned country houses, Lock had skulked like a fugitive plotting his next move, sending secret messages to Richard at Harrow about where to meet him next. But he had promised that this old church crypt was to be their last hiding place. Soon they would no longer need to live in the shadows like animals – or so the professor said.
Exhausted after their skirmish on Lindisfarne, the undead warriors slumped to the floor in the stone passageways and fell into a deep, noisy sleep. Only Guthrum didn’t seem to need to recuperate. Ducking his huge frame under a stone arch, the Viking lord tossed several packets of National Trust shortbread at Lock’s feet.
“AUÐ HEITAÐU OSS!”*
With surprising coolness, considering the angry Viking monster looming over him, Lock opened a packet and took a bite. “Mmm, not bad,” he said.
Richard watched Guthrum warily as he stamped around them, grumbling and glaring. “What’s wrong with him?”
“It appears our friend isn’t that impressed with the spoils from his raid,” said Lock. “I did try to tell him that Lindisfarne wouldn’t be quite how he remembered it a thousand years ago. Not a lot of monks’ gold there these days. But Vikings just won’t be told.”
“Var hvitr riddari á strond,”* Guthrum ranted.
“The white knight?” Lock smiled, and then answered in Guthrum’s tongue, explaining to him that it was someone called the Defender, but that he wasn’t important.
Guthrum spat on the floor. “Hestr hans jós miklu hermonunnum mínum!”
“What was that?” asked Richard.
“Something about the Defender’s horse kicking one of his men in the backside,” Lock laughed. “Stupid Norseman probably deserved it.”
“Careful,” said Richard. “He might hear.”
“Don’t worry. Vikings don’t understand English – they’re pretty thick.”
CRUNCH! Guthrum smacked his axe into the floor between them, sending sparks flying past Lock’s startled face. The Viking roared a final insult in Old Norse and stormed off to rejoin his men.
“Maybe they understand more than you think,” Richard smirked.
The stench of the Viking undead sleeping around them was overpowering that night. It worked its way into Richard’s hair and clothes like smoke from a bonfire. Unable to sleep, he paced up and down. He would have to get out of here by dawn and head back to school before anyone wondered where he was. But the idea of having to go back to faking his day-to-day life again filled him with frustration.
“I still don’t get why we’re messing around with these stinking corpses,” he protested to Lock. “Why can’t we just deal with the Defender ourselves? I’m ready!”
“Hafðu við þol,” Lock replied.
Richard shrugged, more annoyed than ever.
“It means ‘have patience’, Your Highness. Your time will come.”
Richard’s eyes flashed red, briefly giving Lock a glimpse of the dragon sleeping inside him. “You’d better be right.”
* * *
* “WHERE IS THE PUNY ENGLISHMAN?”
* “YOU PROMISED US RICHES!”
* “There was a white knight on the beach,”
Alfie landed in the Training Arena, ruffled Wyvern’s mane and recalled her into his spurs. He removed his armour and tossed the Shroud Tunic to Brian, who was waiting by the regalia cabinet.
“What, don’t I get a ‘well done’?” asked Alfie.
“Just
a tick and I’ll fetch your medal, sir,” said Brian.
“Really?”
“No, not really,” Brian guffawed. “Those Vikings didn’t scarper because of you, chief. They left because there wasn’t anything decent for them to nick.”
“Unbelievable. Some people are never happy.”
With a frown at Brian, Alfie abandoned the Arena in favour of the Map Room, where he found the Lord Chamberlain poring over the ops table, while Hayley was glued to her laptop. The Yeoman Warders were busy studying screen grabs from the Defender’s video feed of the Lindisfarne encounter.
“Not bad, huh?” said Alfie once he realized no one was going to look up. “You know, me, fighting loads of Vikings, driving them into the sea – ‘argh, no, it’s the Defender, ruuuun!’”
“Yeah, yeah, very impressive,” Hayley muttered without looking up.
Herne trotted over and jumped up at Alfie, excited. He scratched the dog’s ears. “At least someone appreciates my awesome Viking-butt-kicking skills.”
“Actually I think he’s just hungry,” said Hayley.
“This is no joking matter,” said LC. “Those were not ordinary Vikings. They were draugar.”
“Come again?” said Alfie.
“It means ‘again-walkers’. The undead,” tutted LC as if it was incredible that Alfie didn’t somehow know this already. “There hasn’t been an attack like this on British soil for centuries.”
“Sheep!” announced Hayley, turning her laptop round for everyone to see.
“I beg your pardon?” said LC, squinting at the news story Hayley had found online.
Hayley continued: “I simply cross-referenced the Viking historical timeline with the locations of all recent burgh alarms, plus every local newspaper report in the last three months.”
“But that would take days,” said LC, confused.
“Nah, it’s just a basic search algorithm,” began Hayley before clocking the blank stares of LC and the beefeaters. “Never mind. But look at this – there was an unexplained sheep attack in Suffolk and a graveyard was vandalized – St Mary’s, Hadleigh, rumoured to be the resting place of … how do you say that name?”
“Guthrum, the Viking warlord,” said LC darkly. “A thousand years ago, he led an army south from Scandinavia, and drove King Alfred the Great into exile.”
An uneasy hush descended over the Keep, as if a long-forgotten nightmare had suddenly been remembered.
“But … that could be a coincidence, couldn’t it?” said Alfie.
LC was looking at the photos of the graveyard, the great hole in the ground where Guthrum’s longship had been unearthed.
“I fear there is nothing accidental about this, Majesty,” he said. “Guthrum and his raiding party were exhumed for a reason. By someone who knew how, and who wasn’t afraid to do it.”
“It’s that traitor, Professor Lock,” snarled Brian, joining them in the Map Room. “He likes digging up stuff he shouldn’t.”
Alfie looked to the Lord Chamberlain, hoping he would say it wasn’t true, but the old man was staring into space, deep in contemplation. Could Lock really be striking back so soon? he wondered. Alfie had already defeated the Black Dragon once, at the coronation, and even then only just. The truth was he didn’t know if he could do it again, especially not if Lock had an army of mad Vikings backing him up.
“Why can’t it just be a one-off?” pleaded Alfie. “Bunch of Vikings got bored being dead, made some trouble, got a smackdown Defender-style? Why does everything have to be part of some big conspiracy?”
“Put an alert out to all Yeoman Burgh Keepers,” LC ordered the beefeaters. “Double all patrols and report back any supernatural readings, no matter how small. We shall soon see if this was an isolated event, or … something else.”
As the beefeaters flew into action, Alfie slumped on the sofa, next to Hayley.
“Something smells fishy,” she said.
“Yeah, LC seems to think so,” replied Alfie.
“No, I mean something really does smell of fish,” she said, sniffing his shoulder. “I think it’s you, Alfie.”
Alfie sniffed his T-shirt. Sure enough it reeked of undead Viking. “Eww. How does it get through the armour?”
Alfie said goodnight, made his way to the secret underground carriage and sped back to his bedroom at the palace. He threw his clothes in the bin, took a twenty-minute hot shower and went to bed. The next morning, after a restless night and another steaming-hot shower, Alfie decided he needed a change of scene. He wanted to see a friendly face and talk to someone who knew nothing about superhero battles and Viking zombies and evil dragons. He would go to see Richard.
Mist clung to the clock tower like a warm duvet as Alfie made his way up the familiar steps of Harrow’s Old School Building. A first-former wearing a straw boater hat yelled an “Excuse me!” as he ran past, late for class. Alfie was surprised how good it felt to be back here. A few months ago he would have given anything to escape school – he had even called it “the Prison”. But although being the Defender was exciting and fun – apart from when some horrible monster was trying to kill him – he sometimes missed how much simpler life had been when he was at school.
The downside of going back to his old school was having to see the headmaster to talk about his GCSE exams. Because according to the Lord Chamberlain it wasn’t enough to be king AND the Defender at the same time. No, Alfie was also expected to know that E=MC2 and that the Latin word for “spoon” was … OK, he had no idea what that was. So Alfie pretended to listen as the headmaster waffled on about study schedules and private tutoring – he couldn’t help finding it funny how much nicer Mr Lang was to him now that he was, well, king. But it was worth putting up with for the chance to find his brother. Whatever grudge Richard was still bearing, he felt sure he could make it up to him.
After half an hour (that felt much longer), Alfie escaped the headmaster’s study. Right, time to find Richard— A large, sweaty hand landed on his arm.
“Hi, Alfie!”
Alfie recoiled on seeing the hand’s owner smiling at him. It was Sebastian Mortimer, the overgrown thug who had made Alfie’s life hell from his first day at Harrow School: the meathead he had finally put in his place by hurling him across the lunch table using some of his Defender skills. Surely Mortimer didn’t want to reboot his bullying campaign against Alfie?
“Mortimer! Er … hi,” gasped Alfie.
“What are you doing here?” asked Mortimer, still grinning like a happy idiot.
“Exam chat with Lang. Well, nice to see you, Seb…” Alfie hurried off, but Mortimer kept pace with him like an over-friendly, giant puppy.
“The thing is, Alfie, mate, I wanted to say sorry for, you know, giving you such a hard time before.”
Alfie was astonished. “You? Wanted to say sorry? To me?”
Either Mortimer had had some sort of brain transplant, thought Alfie, or else he was one of those shallow people who couldn’t help sucking up to him now that he was king.
“Seriously, Alfie. I have seen the error of my ways. Look at this!”
Mortimer shoved his lapel towards Alfie. On it was a shiny silver badge in the shape of the school crest with the words HOUSE CAPTAIN printed on it. Alfie felt like he should say something encouraging to mark his former enemy’s miraculous transformation.
“OK, then. Um, keep up the good work!” said Alfie, quickening his pace towards his brother’s boarding house.
As he glanced back, he saw Mortimer actually giving him a cheery thumbs up. Wow, thought Alfie, maybe people really can change.
Alfie knew that seeing Richard might be awkward, but he was still excited as he took the steps to his brother’s room two at a time. They would make up and then it would be just like the old days, sharing palace gossip, having a laugh together, brothers reunited. Alfie knocked on the bedroom door and tried to open it.
“Rich? It’s me—”
It was locked. That’s weird, thought Alfie. His brother nev
er locked his door. He rarely even closed it. Alfie knocked again.
“Are you in there? It’s Alfie.”
Alfie pressed his ear to the door. He couldn’t hear anything, but he had the weirdest feeling that someone was on the other side. Checking that no one was passing by in the corridor, Alfie took the Ring of Command out of his pocket and slipped it on to his finger. Brian had given it to him at the palace that morning “just in case” and told him not to tell the Lord Chamberlain. He was surprised that Brian was breaking the rules by letting him keep a piece of the regalia on him outside of Defender missions. But Alfie figured that seeing as he had it, he might as well use it. He pointed the sapphire-and-ruby-encrusted ring at the metal of the door’s lock and closed his eyes. I hope this is made from British steel, thought Alfie, as he focused his mind, channelling his thoughts through the ring, “commanding” the bolts to slip back into the door. With a gentle click, the door swung open.
Alfie stepped into the small, neat bedroom. Unusually neat, it occurred to him. Where were the piles of muddy rugby boots? The scattered books? His brother might be an overachiever, but no fourteen-year-old boy was this tidy. The bed didn’t even look slept in. Maybe he’d had an away match against another school. The only thing out of place was the window, which was wide open, creaking in the soft breeze. Alfie stepped over to it and gazed outside. He could see a class under way in the art department across the lawn. Of course, that was it. It wasn’t quite break time yet; Richard must still be in lessons, thought Alfie.
He wasn’t.
Richard had been inside his room when Alfie had arrived. He had heard his brother calling out for him. Part of him had wanted to open the door and talk to his brother: to act like everything was normal and pretend that he wasn’t living a double life, plotting Alfie’s downfall. But playing the good, loyal brother had become harder and harder over the last few weeks. Every smile he had willed himself to fake and every laugh he had forced himself to share tasted bitter in his mouth. So he had avoided seeing Alfie as much as he could, had stopped answering his calls and texts. What was the point in pretending, when Alfie’s fate was already sealed? Richard would sweep him aside the same way he had their father. But not yet. Lock had been very clear about that – their plan required Alfie to stay in place for a little while longer, just until they were ready to strike. So when he had heard the knock at the door and Alfie’s voice outside, Richard had climbed out of the window, transformed into the Black Dragon and flown up on to the boarding house roof.
Dark Age Page 5