“Shut your cakehole, traitor!” the Jailer barked, kicking the door again and grabbing Hayley’s wrist. He led her away from the cells towards another staircase. “You shouldn’t be down here.”
“Fine, all right, I’m going,” Hayley snapped back.
Relieved, she headed for the new staircase. But despite her wish to get back before someone wondered where she was, Hayley couldn’t help being curious. “Who was that talking to me?”
“Colonel Blood. Stole the Crown Jewels in 1671. The real ones,” said the Jailer. “Tried to melt them down, make a potion of them and turn himself into a super-villain. Almost worked too. Except for what it did to his body.”
Hayley decided she’d rather not know what he meant by that. She scanned the rest of the prison doors. “Are they all full?”
“Not every cell, but near enough. Only the worst of the worst wind up as my guests. We used to behead traitors in the good old days, but now if the Defender can catch them, they get banged up here at His Majesty’s pleasure. Let’s see…”
The Jailer ran his hand over a row of doors, eliciting a series of muffled yells, grunts and monstrous howls from the other sides that made Hayley’s skin crawl.
“We got Spring-Heeled Jack in here – terrorized London ever since the nineteenth century. Triple-locked his cell, just in case. Bloomin’ demons, you can’t trust ’em… And next door to him you’ll find the dastardly Robyn Hood.”
“Robin Hood? I thought he was one of the good guys?”
“Fell for that old steal-from-the-rich-give-to-the-poor story, did you? What kind of hero wears a hood? I mean, I ask you. Anyway, this is Robyn with a ‘Y’. She’s a descendant of the original, but no less a villain.”
The Jailer moved on to the next door. He reminded Hayley of a market trader, proudly displaying his wares, although she thought he seemed to like his gruesome job a little too much.
“This here contains our latest resident. The Beast of Bodmin. Cor, King Henry had quite a time catching this one, God rest him.”
“The Beast of Bodmin? That’s just, like, a big cat, isn’t it?”
“CAT?! I’d love to see you call him that to his faces!” laughed the Jailer.
“Face,” Hayley corrected him.
“You heard right the first time. Want to have a look-see?” the Jailer asked, snapping open an iron viewing window.
Hayley shook her head and he closed it again. From some of the inhuman grunts and wails the inmates were making, Hayley dreaded to think what would happen if any of them ever broke out.
“Now then, how exactly did you say you’d got down here?” the Jailer asked, staring at her.
Hayley was just about to start spinning a story about losing her way when the shrill bell of the general alarm rang from the Map Room above. It had to be another Viking raid.
“Sorry, it’s been fun, see ya!” Hayley said, dashing up the new set of steps.
“Up there, left then right, then left again. But you knew that anyway, didn’t you?” the Jailer called after her cheerfully, but his smile was thin and knowing. “We’ll talk again.”
Hayley ran up the steps as fast as she could, pleased to be out of the hellish place.
Inside the Bank of England’s dimly lit marble front hall, Gordon Frimley sat watching the tennis highlights on a small TV. His black top hat was perched on his desk, but he was still wearing the long, colourful tailcoat that gave the old bank’s security guards their nickname: the Pink Coats. Gordon had always thought the colour suited him – that’s what his wife said anyway, and he secretly liked to catch a glimpse of his own reflection whenever he was on duty.
Gordon winced as the British player Kate Robertson put another return wide of the line. Outside the bank, thunder crashed and boomed, but Gordon was totally engrossed in the match. He groaned as Robertson swatted yet another shot into the net. She was struggling against her statuesque Swedish opponent. They don’t half make ’em strong up there, Gordon thought.
BANG!
Gordon jumped as something heavy thumped against the bank’s main doors, the sound echoing around the marble chamber. Probably some drunk looking to get out of this filthy weather. Grumbling about missing the match, Gordon got up and crossed the entrance hall, past the large mosaic of two lions standing guard over a map of England, and put his ear to the cold bronze doors.
“We’re closed!” he yelled.
He was just about to get back to the tennis when the heavy doors exploded off their hinges and flew inwards, knocking Gordon out and sending him skidding across the floor on his backside. He came round just in time to see a dozen shaggy-furred boots stomp past his face towards the stairs. The smell of dead fish and seaweed filled the air. Gordon did the smart thing: he closed his eyes and played dead.
“SEM SKJÓTAST, ÞIÐ ROTTUR!”* Guthrum yelled at his men, impatient.
The steps of the wrought-iron spiral staircase that led down to the bank vaults were too narrow for huge Viking feet, and his men were stumbling into each other like rush-hour commuters on the Tube. With a grunt, the massive Viking picked up the warrior nearest to him and heaved him over the bannisters. The Viking dropped the remaining five floors and landed on his back with a groan. Guthrum leapt over the rail and plummeted after him, bouncing off the crash-mat Viking and back on to his feet at the bottom. The rest of his men followed his shortcut, and moments later they were standing at the vault door.
Guthrum ran his fat, death-blackened fingers over the enormous circle of thick steel and frowned. Issuing a guttural command to his warriors, he stepped back and closed his eyes. One of the Vikings began to sing. A low, mysterious ballad in their ancient tongue:
“Tegit beinina á honum!
Óttazk øxina!
Guthrum gnæfir yfir allir!”*
The others joined in until the bank vault rang with the Viking voices. Guthrum’s body started to shake. Strange convulsions like those that had overtaken his men when they went berserker in Cambridge and turned into devil dogs. Except that Guthrum was not transforming into an animal.
He was growing.
The muscles on his arms and legs expanded at a startling rate, every part of his body swelling as if inflated from inside, until his head was touching the ceiling. He gripped the handle on the vault door and began to pull. Plaster fell from the wall either side of the door and ugly cracks appeared all around them. With a roar louder than an express train, he tore the massive door off its hinges, and dropped it on to the smashed floor. As the dust began to clear, the giant Guthrum squeezed himself through the opening into the vault, followed by his men.
Shelves stretched before them in all directions as far as the eye could see. Every one of them was stacked high with gold bars. Four hundred thousand of them – the entire gold reserve of the United Kingdom. Guthrum’s mouth dropped open in wonder.
“Valholl!”* he gasped, invoking the name of the Vikings’ mythical paradise.
The next Viking into the vault took one look and fainted. The rest fell on the vast treasure hoard, hollering with glee as they hugged and stroked the gold bars as if they were puppies.
Alfie plunged through the storm astride Wyvern and circled over the Bank of England. An armed police team had thrown up a cordon around the grand old building and a man in a dishevelled pink tailcoat and crumpled top hat was yelling at the commanding officer, waving his arms about and gesticulating towards the building.
“How does it look, Majesty?”
It was LC’s voice in his ear. He was monitoring the Defender’s approach via his helmet-cam from back in the Keep. Next to him, Hayley was sneaking suspicious glances at Brian, who was busy briefing the Yeoman Warders.
“Looks like our Viking friend might have kicked it up a gear,” replied Alfie, scanning the ground to give them all a better view.
“Keep your distance until we know what we’re dealing with,” advised Brian.
The front of the Bank of England erupted in a shower of pulverized stone, and the ga
rgantuan figure of the berserker Guthrum stepped out into the rain.
“WHOA!” Alfie blurted, taking in Guthrum’s new, giant form. “Somebody’s been hitting the gym.”
Alfie was instantly taken back to his final “Succession” vision: the bloody end of the Battle of Edington as seen through the eyes of his ancestor Alfred the Great; the giant Viking lord smashing his way out of a wood and confronting him on the battlefield. It was scary enough when it was just a bad dream, but here he was in the rotting flesh. Alfie was starting to miss the devil dogs. Talking of which, Guthrum’s undead Viking mates followed him out of the wrecked bank, pulling a string of trollies piled high with gold bars.
“Armed police! Drop what you are carrying and lie on the ground!” shouted the police commander in a shaky voice through a loudhailer.
“VÉR ÓTTUMZT EKKI DAUÐLEGRA MANNA!”* Guthrum roared back and pounded his chest as the armed police unit readied their weapons.
The meaning was clear: Bring it on.
Alfie was so intent on the bizarre scene unfolding below him that he almost didn’t see the police helicopter descending towards him. Wyvern banked out of its path at the last second, close enough that Alfie made eye contact with the startled pilot. The Vikings advanced into the road junction outside the bank, snarling and growling at the police snipers.
“THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING!”
Alfie scoped out the area – large buildings boxed them in on all sides. Cars were still passing by the end of the road, oblivious to the danger.
“Looks like the police want to pick a fight. This could get messy,” Alfie said into his helmet mic, but his words were drowned out by the sound of gunfire.
One of the police marksmen had let loose a nervous shot at the nearest Viking. The undead brute shook with the impact of the bullet, but didn’t fall. Instead he looked down at his chest irritably and hurled a gold bar at the policeman who’d shot him, barely missing his head. Guthrum slapped the Viking who’d thrown the gold and gestured for him to fetch it back.
The Defender landed between the Vikings and the police, Wyvern withdrawing into his spurs in the blink of an eye. He unsheathed his sword with a flash, and some of the police, unsure what to do, trained their weapons on him too. The police commander wiped his brow and spoke into the loudhailer again. “You there, in the white armour! Get out of the way! We’re handling this.”
“Trust me, you could do with the help!” the Defender shouted back.
Guthrum flexed his tree-trunk-sized arms and pointed his axe down at the white knight. “Beinin þín í brauðit mitt skal ék mala!”* he shouted.
Whatever that meant, Alfie had a feeling it wasn’t nice.
Guthrum charged at the Defender, who met his swinging axe with his sword in a shower of sparks. The force behind the giant’s strike rocked Alfie back on his heels. This berserker magic was almost a match for his Defender powers. Another blow from the axe sent Alfie somersaulting backwards into the road.
Laughing with satisfaction, Guthrum kicked the first police car on to its side, clearing a path for his men.
“OPEN FIRE!” yelled the police commander.
Bullets thumped into the undead Vikings, but Guthrum’s men hardly flinched as they barrelled through the police line, pulling their convoy of stolen gold as they went.
By the time the Defender had picked himself up, the raiding party had turned the corner, heading for the river. Alfie scooted past the dazed policemen and summoned Wyvern from his spurs. The sight that greeted them as they swooped round on to the main road was one of pandemonium. Pedestrians ran screaming in all directions as the Viking raiders stampeded down the middle of the road with their loot. Drivers abandoned their vehicles in panic as the giant Guthrum thundered through, stamping an empty car flat under one mighty foot. A sleek, classic Jaguar E-type sat stranded in Guthrum’s path. Alfie could see the old man at the wheel struggling to undo his seat belt, eyes wide with fear at the sight of the approaching monster. Urging Wyvern on, Alfie gained height and extended his ring finger towards the car, focusing his mind. The old man in the Jaguar covered his eyes as Guthrum’s shadow fell over him. But at the last second, the car lurched backwards, spinning in the air and landed softly out of harm’s way. The driver looked up to see the white knight superhero standing next to the car. The Defender patted the bonnet.
“Always buy British!” he said, and resumed chasing the Viking bank robbers.
Guthrum curled his lip at the sight of the Defender still pursuing them and bellowed at his men to quicken their pace. On the river, a tourist ferry veered off course, sounding its horn as the Vikings’ longship rose from the waters in its path. Sludge dripped from its pitted black timbers as it steered itself to the shore to await its crew. Bounding on to the wharf, Guthrum ordered his men onboard. The giant tipped the contents of the trollies one by one into the boat until his men were all knee deep in gold bars. On the road nearby, the Defender was boarding a double-decker bus and checking it was empty.
“Majesty? What are you doing? They’re getting away with the gold!” shouted LC in his ear.
“Yes, thanks, LC. I’ve got an idea.”
Happy that there were no passengers left cowering upstairs, Alfie drew his sword and thrust it into the side of the bus just above the windows. He sliced along the length of it, the metal screeching in protest. Watching from the Keep, the others were confused.
“What the dickens is he doing?!” bleated LC.
“Maybe he prefers open-topped buses,” shrugged Hayley.
Alfie was surprised how quickly his sword had finished the task. He sheathed it and pushed up against the roof with all his strength. The roof of the bus popped off and slid to the ground with a loud clang. The Defender stepped off the bus and looked to the river. Guthrum was shrinking back to his normal size. The Viking lord cracked a smug smile at Alfie and stepped on to the mound of gold that filled his boat. Alfie cast his eyes along the riverbank. At the water’s edge he could see a line of sleeping swans, their heads tucked under their wings, apparently not at all interested in the supernatural events unfolding close by.
“LC,” said Alfie, “does my command power work on animals too?”
“Animals, Majesty?”
“Yes, yes. Birds, you know. Swans?”
“But of course, sir! The monarch owns all the swans on the Thames. Ever since the royal charter of 1482 under Edward the Fourth—”
“Give me the history lesson later!” Alfie said and raised his hand at the sleeping birds, which flapped their great wings as they woke up.
Meanwhile the Vikings were struggling to gain speed as they rowed their heavily laden boat out on to the river. Guthrum was just giving one of his men some constructive feedback about his laziness (by pounding him with his fist), when something big and white whacked him on the side of his head. Swans flocked around the boat, dive-bombing the Vikings and pecking at their bloated faces. Startled, the men abandoned their oars and took to swatting in vain at their feathered attackers.
The Defender, happy that the swans were obeying his silent command, turned his attention to the severed roof of the bus lying on the road. He pointed his hand and commanded it to skim over the water until it was hovering alongside the beleaguered longship. He took a running jump off the wharf and summoned Wyvern, who flew him out to within reach of the boat’s stern.
Guthrum, perhaps sensing what the Defender was about to do, tried to get to him. But between his panicking men, the tumbling piles of gold bars and the psychotic swans, there was no way through. The Defender speared his sword hard into the longship’s hull and tipped it with all his might to the side. Gold bars poured overboard, landing on the upturned bus roof that still hovered alongside. The Vikings that hadn’t clung to the boat in time tumbled out too, skidding on the tide of gold and splashing into the river. The more that fell out, the easier it was for Alfie to lift and within seconds there was hardly a gold bar left in the longship. Seeing their bounty desert them, the remaining
Vikings forgot the swans and desperately tried to grab any gold they could. But the Defender had them at his mercy now. He rocked the boat back the other way, throwing the entire crew into the water.
Spotlights danced across the bobbing heads of the foiled robbers as police boats surrounded them. Through a mouthful of water Guthrum spat a curse at the Defender, and dived beneath the waves, along with his men and boat.
As the storm retreated and the air grew still, Alfie directed the roof of rescued gold back to shore and deposited it on the ground in front of the bemused police commander. Officers aimed their guns at the Defender, who hovered above them on Wyvern.
“Get off the … the flying horse!” croaked the commander, sounding like he’d had easier days at work.
“All right, relax,” the Defender called down. “Just returning some lost property. You’re welcome, by the way.”
And with that, he shot into the sky. He may not have vanquished the Vikings for good, thought Alfie, but surely after his slick moves recovering the gold, people would give the Defender some credit for once.
* * *
* “HURRY UP, YOU RATS!”
* Stretch his bones! Fear his axe! Guthrum towers over all men!
* “Valhalla!”
* “WE FEAR NO MORTAL MAN!”
* “I will grind your bones into my bread!”
“This so-called ‘Defender’ is a problem. A big problem. As much a threat to this country as the Vikings!”
Prime Minister Thorn glared at the assembled press corps from over her lectern outside Number Ten, Downing Street, as if daring them to contradict her.
“You’ve all seen the footage. Whoever this interfering ‘superhero’ is, he is potentially sabotaging the fine work of our police and security services, as well as putting the public at even graver risk.”
Hands shot up from the fevered throng of journalists as they shouted questions like a class of unruly kids. Didn’t the Defender stop the Vikings? Wasn’t it the Defender who saved the Bank of England’s gold reserve from being stolen? Why is the Defender the only one standing up to the Vikings? What about the army? Is your government failing to keep Britain safe?
Dark Age Page 11