“My family did not exactly choose our curse. But it has had its uses over the centuries.” Freya took the Raven Banner from Alfie’s hand and inspected it for damage. “Stopping people stealing from us, for example.”
“You knew I was going to try and take it, didn’t you?” said Alfie. “You might have warned me about your lake monster.”
“Selma? Oh, she’s not so bad if you know how to keep her in line. Besides, I wanted to see how you handled it. Better than some, I must say. Although I give your horse most of the credit.”
“I’m sorry I tried to steal your flag,” said Alfie. “But we have a bit of a Viking problem back home, as you know.”
“Indeed you do,” she said. “Nobody wants a band of draugar on the loose. That is why we try to keep ours underground. They flock to the banner, and it lulls them into an endless sleep. Without it they would wake eventually. Then where would we be?”
Alfie was annoyed. If she had known all along what he was up to, then why put him through so much only to snatch away his prize at the last second? He prepared to put his armour back on.
“You could have told me all this at dinner. If you’d bothered to talk to me. Now if you don’t mind, I need to get home. I’ve wasted too much time on this wild goose chase.”
Freya stepped over and put her hand on his arm. She smiled sweetly – the first sincere smile she’d given him since he arrived. Alfie reminded himself that no matter how drop-dead gorgeous she was, he was still supposed to be very cross with her.
“I’m sorry, Alfie. Really. I would have told you sooner, but my Lord Chamberlain advised caution. She said we could not be sure of your true intentions until we had tested you. She’s rather strict like that.”
“Yeah, well, I can relate,” said Alfie.
Freya handed Alfie the banner.
“What?” said Alfie. “But I thought you said…?”
“I said our draugar would wake eventually. Now take it before I change my mind. But I want it back as soon as it’s over, or else there’ll be trouble.”
She wasn’t smiling now.
“I believe you. Thanks.”
“One thing. The banner has never left its native land. How it will behave somewhere else I cannot say… Well, then – race you back?”
Without warning, Freya transformed back into Holgatroll. Alfie backed away from the fresh stink and whipped his Defender armour back on.
“I need to get home before sunrise or I turn to stone,” grunted Holgatroll.
“Seriously?” asked the Defender.
“Yeah. That boulder you tried to chuck at me? Great Uncle Magnus.”
Selma stretched her neck out of the water and let out a mournful cry that echoed across the fjord.
“She is saying goodbye,” said Holgatroll. “By the way, why did you not try your command powers on her?”
“She’s Norwegian, isn’t she?” said Alfie, confused.
“No,” laughed Holgatroll. “She only summers here. In winter she goes home to Scotland. You have a different name for her there, I think. What is it? Oh yeah – Nessie.”
And, with that, the royal troll bounded up the cliff face in a single leap.
“I wish I could tell when you’re joking,” yelled Alfie as he recalled Wyvern and took chase, pursuing the speeding troll through the countryside back towards Oslo.
The next morning on the flight home Alfie waited till the stewardess had left the cabin, then leaned over to the Lord Chamberlain.
“Queen Freya – you knew she had … another side to her, didn’t you?” Alfie was still getting over the surprise. It was huge news. It meant there were others out there like him. It meant he wasn’t alone.
“I confess I did, Majesty,” replied LC. “Many of the world’s royal families are known to have heroic, or not-so-heroic, alter-egos. Great Britain has enjoyed good relations with some, not-so-good with others. You will come to know more about all that in time. For now we need to concentrate on issues at home.”
“But then why didn’t we just ask her for the Raven Banner in the first place?”
“We could not risk her saying no. In any case, all’s well that end’s well, sir.”
Across the aisle, Brian opened the luggage compartment and placed a long wrapped parcel inside. The Raven Banner was on its way to England.
LC smiled at Alfie, proud. “Very well played, Majesty. Now we can really take the fight to those Vikings.”
Half an hour later, as Alfie enjoyed a well-earned nap, Brian walked to the toilet at the back of the plane. Inside he took out his mobile phone. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror for a moment, the expression on his face impassive, then dialled a number.
Oranges and Lemons say the bells of St Clement’s. The tune of the famous nursery rhyme pealed out from the bells of the neat little white church every day at noon. St Clement Danes, which now stood on a traffic island between the Strand and Aldwych in London, got its name from the Vikings who originally built it after Alfred the Great had expelled them from the centre of the capital. Regular visitors always knew it had a crypt at the west end, which was used nowadays for prayer meetings. But none knew about the secret crypt deep beneath the eastern end.
Professor Lock had discovered its entrance years before while exploring the long-forgotten world of subterranean London – just the latest of countless ancient secrets revealed to him by his shadowy accomplice. This was the place that he had chosen as his final hideout for Guthrum and his men. Its central position in the city, with discreet access to the River Thames, was perfect for executing their stealth raids on the country. But above all, the historical irony amused him: after more than a thousand years, he had brought Vikings back to the heart of London.
“What people forget about this little ditty,” said Lock, leading Guthrum and his axe-wielding men out of the crypt and past a handful of startled tourists in the church, “is that as nice as it sounds – ‘oranges and lemons’, la-di-dah – it has quite a sting in the tail. ‘Here comes a chopper to chop off your head, chip chop chip chop – the last man’s dead.’”
Lock stood aside as the Vikings marched outside. Within seconds he heard screams mingled with the boom of thunder rolling in and the crackle of lightning hitting the bell tower, silencing its tolls.
The police had erected barriers along every road to Trafalgar Square. All traffic in central London, including the river, was banned as the nation waited to see if the Vikings would turn up to collect their ransom. “Danegeld” had become a household term over the last couple of days, and the debate about whether a Viking pay-off was a good idea was still raging. In the latest poll, most people had agreed with the prime minister’s argument – if it was a choice between paying the ransom or risking further violence at the hands of the Vikings, then Britain should cough up. There was no guarantee it would work, but these were desperate times.
Heavy rain washed over the Strand as Guthrum and his men passed by Charing Cross train station, watched by the astonished crowds packed behind the barriers. People couldn’t decide whether to hold their noses against the deathly stench or cover their ears from the loud blasts of the Viking lord’s war horn.
“Leave us alone! Get out of here!” a brave soul shouted as the Vikings passed by.
Guthrum’s head snapped around and stared at the crowd, daring them to hold his gaze. “ÞEGIT, ÞRÆLAR!”* he screamed.
The crowd fell silent, huddling beneath umbrellas and hoods. Guthrum roared with laughter and gave the biggest blast on his horn yet to announce his war band’s arrival at Trafalgar Square.
“Look at them, marching around as if they own the place,” Prime Minister Thorn muttered as she gazed down from her position overlooking the square, watching the undead Vikings parade, swinging their great axes and thumping their shields. Problem is, she thought, with the amount of gold we’re about to give them, they kind of do.
Lightning forked across the bruised purple sky. Three large armoured vans from the Bank of England st
ood ready at the base of Nelson’s column, each filled to the brim with bars of precious gold. Squads of nervous riot police with shields and truncheons stood to attention on the steps like a waiting army. But there would be no battle today; this was all about peace. A senior police chief stepped forward and fumbled with the plastic visor of his riot helmet as he tried to raise it.
“On behalf of the population of Great Britain and Northern Ireland I hereby offer this tribute in gold,” he said.
Guthrum towered over him, his fierce eyes glowing and the smell of rotting fish cascading off him in thick waves. Bravely, the police chief went on, his voice shaking as much as his legs.
“In return, you and your men as well as any other undead creatures in your service, shall agree to leave this great nation in peace and—”
“GULL!” Guthrum yelled, shoving the police chief aside and ripping the back door of the armoured van clean off its hinges with a screech of metal.
Like wasps attacking a pot of jam, the Vikings swarmed over the gold.
“GULL! GULL! GULL!”
They grabbed armfuls of gold bars and danced around with them, tossing them back and forth as if they were playing catch with tennis balls. With an effortless leap, Guthrum sprang up on to the roof of the second van and peeled off the roof like he was opening a tin of sardines.
“GUUUUUUUULL!” he screamed to the square, holding up a gold bar, triumphant.
From her viewpoint, the prime minister watched, impassive. It was far from the dignified handover she was hoping for, but what could you expect with such primitive creatures? At least they seemed happy, as they began to drag the gold-laden vans away. It had never occurred to her that the Vikings wouldn’t know how to drive. Around Thorn, her advisors and ministers were all shaking hands and patting each other on the back, relieved it was over. The Viking threat to Britain was at an end. With any luck, they might even take these thunderstorms with them.
“LOOK!” an advisor shouted.
Everyone rushed back to the window to see the Defender fly out of the dark sky on his shimmering horse and land in the square, blocking the Vikings’ escape. The crowds below let out a roar of delight. But the prime minister was furious.
“What’s HE doing here?” she screamed. “He’ll mess everything up!”
Alfie held tight on to Wyvern’s reins as her front hooves pounded the pavement, keeping the Vikings at bay. “You really don’t look very well, Guthrum,” he said.
Guthrum dropped the van he was dragging along with a heavy clang and strode forward, shoving his men out of the way to get to the Defender. But before he reached axe-swinging distance, Wyvern kicked her front legs and whinnied defiantly. The great Viking lord retreated and circled Alfie, bellowing his annoyance.
“Seriously, you’re really pale – big bags under your eyes,” Alfie went on. “And is that part of your skull showing through your cheek? Eww. What you need is a really good night’s sleep.”
The Defender lifted the flagpole and unfurled the Raven Banner. Guthrum and his Vikings gasped in awe and stepped back, shielding their eyes like the banner was the hot summer sun.
“Yeah, that’s right, recognize this? It’s time for a nap. A long one. Years. Or eternity even. Any second now…”
Alfie was drying up. Whatever the Raven Banner was supposed to do, it wasn’t working very fast. The Vikings were peeking out from behind their shields, losing whatever fear they had.
“Does this banner have an on button?” Alfie hissed under his breath. “Help me out, LC.”
LC’s voice crackled in Alfie’s earpiece. “Perhaps you could try waving it about, Majesty?”
Alfie did just that, waving the ragged Raven Banner above his head but instead of falling asleep, Guthrum was chuckling.
“He’s laughing, guys. Why’s he laughing? Something’s not right here,” said Alfie.
Guthrum and his very much awake Vikings were surrounding Alfie, brandishing their axes, while behind him armed police were levelling their guns at his back. Hey, I’m on your side! Alfie wanted to shout as Wyvern spun around, unsure which direction to face first.
“I’m out of here,” Alfie said and kicked his spurs.
Wyvern shot up into the stormy sky. The crestfallen crowd gasped in dismay as they watched the Defender fly off. The jeering Vikings picked up their gold and moved off, the police making way for them.
“Well, that was embarrassing,” said Alfie, rain spattering against his visor as Wyvern charted a course between the towering thunderheads that had gathered over London. “I thought the banner was supposed to command all those of Viking blood? I didn’t see much commanding going on!”
“Majesty, I can’t explain it either,” LC said. Alfie could hear the disappointment in the old man’s voice. “But Queen Freya did warn you that it might behave differently outside Norway—”
BOOM! Something collided with Alfie and sent him and Wyvern spinning out of control. For a moment Alfie thought a plane had hit them. But as he strained to catch his breath and pull out of the spin, he scanned the storm clouds and caught sight of a large, dark shadow, wheeling round for another attack.
“I’m not alone up here!” gasped Alfie.
But if there was a reply from the Keep, it was drowned out by the ear-piercing shriek of the Black Dragon as it streaked towards him once more, scraping its claws across his armour, sending sparks flying. Wyvern screamed in fear as the Dragon’s thick, scaly tail wrapped itself around her, squeezing like a python. Alfie’s arms were pinned to his side; he couldn’t move. All he could see was a chaotic collage of scales, yellow fangs the size of milk bottles and the Dragon’s fiery eyes—
Lightning flashed all around them, blinding Alfie for a moment. But, suddenly, much to his surprise, he found they were free of the Dragon’s tight grasp. His enemy had disappeared as fast as it arrived.
“Majesty? Majesty?” LC’s voice was frantic in his ear.
“The Black Dragon!” panted Alfie. “It was here! It’s back. Lock is back!”
“It was flying?” interjected Brian.
“Yes. Its wing’s regrown. It had me. I don’t understand. Why did it let me go?”
Alfie’s stomach lurched as he realized what was missing from his hand. “The banner!” he managed to splutter. “It took the Raven Banner!”
“WHAT?” shrieked LC.
“Wyvern, track it!” commanded Alfie.
He could tell his horse was reluctant to follow the Dragon, but he had to retrieve the banner.
“NOW, WYVERN!”
Wyvern whinnied fiercely and galloped east into an enormous canyon of yellow-stained dark clouds, following the Black Dragon’s trail. Soon Alfie could see it up ahead, flitting in and out of sight, clutching the Raven Banner in its talons as it plunged through the broiling storm that raged over London.
Alfie urged Wyvern on, but the Black Dragon was fast, and it had a head start. Losing the race, Alfie felt frustrated and angry. The Vikings had humiliated him in front of the entire country, and now the Black Dragon had ambushed him and stolen the one thing that might stop them. How dare they run riot in his kingdom? It was time to put an end to this. Alfie pulled Wyvern to a halt and raised his hand. The Ring of Command glowed. He didn’t know if his idea would work, but it was worth a try. The way he looked at it, these were the Defender’s clouds, made of good old British rain. Maybe they would respond to his commands too? Alfie swished his hand and the nearest storm clouds seemed to react, moving from side to side. He gestured again, this time focusing on the distant cloudbank where he could still just make out the figure of the Dragon flying. The clouds swirled at his command – it was difficult to control, but Alfie could feel them, as if they were a silk cloth draped across his hand. He turned his fingers and the dense blanket of clouds spun around the Dragon, trapping him inside their funnel. Alfie closed his fist and lightning exploded through the clouds. Stunned, the Dragon dropped like a stone.
“Yes!” Alfie shouted in triumph. He kicked hi
s heels, and Wyvern dived after their target.
A ragged, dragon-sized hole had been punctured in the great lead dome of St Paul’s Cathedral. Alfie flew through and landed, Wyvern disappearing back into his spurs. He was standing on a high, narrow walkway bordered by an iron railing that circled the circumference of the dome. It was eerily quiet and gloomy, as if the storm outside had sucked up all the daylight. Far below, Alfie could see debris from the roof scattered across the black-and-white tiles of the nave, but fortunately it looked like the church was empty of visitors. No doubt most people were still out on the streets watching the danegeld handover. There was no sign of the Black Dragon.
A whisper in his ear. “Alfie?”
The Defender spun around and drew his sword, but there was no one there. Distant thunder rumbled, echoing dimly inside the vast cathedral.
“Alfie!”
The voice again, like someone was standing right next to him, but again there was no one there.
A plaque on the wall told him that this was called the “Whispering Gallery”, said to be built in such a way that the softest of voices could carry all the way round the dome.
“Bit old for games aren’t you, Professor Lock?” Alfie said in hushed voice, figuring it too would reach his enemy’s ears.
Alfie drew his sword and crept around the walkway.
“Did you raise Guthrum and his men, professor? What do you want with the banner?”
But as Alfie rounded the far side of the gallery, what he saw next made him stop dead. A naked figure was crouched in the corner, his skin grey and glistening with sweat.
“You’re better at hide and seek than you used to be, Alfie.”
The figure turned his face into the light. Gaunt, with wild eyes, but still unmistakable. It was his brother. It was Richard.
Alfie’s mind whirred. What was Richard doing here? How did he know who he was? He patted his armour, making sure the visor was still over his face.
“Don’t worry, big brother, your little secret’s safe with me,” Richard giggled, but there was no joy in it.
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