Back in the Keep, Hayley put down the radio. She could hear the coldness in Alfie’s voice and it burned her up. It was like someone had taken a pair of scissors and snipped the bond of friendship between them clean in half. He just didn’t trust her any more. Join the club, Your Stupid Majesty, no one here does either, Hayley thought, gazing around at the busy Map Room. Having learned about the underhanded way in which Hayley discovered Brian’s secret phone conversations, most of the beefeaters wouldn’t make eye contact with her. Even Herne seemed to have changed his mind about hanging out with her, as he gave her a wide berth, growling.
“What am I doing here?” Hayley said out loud.
If London really was still in danger, then she needed to get to her gran. Not stay hiding out somewhere no one wanted her anyway. If Alfie was putting his family first, then why shouldn’t she do the same?
“I’m out of here. Good luck with the war and everything,” Hayley said to LC and headed out of the Map Room.
LC blinked like he’d just been slapped. “Miss Hicks? You cannot abandon your post! You are the Keeper of the King’s Arrows!”
“Oh purlease, old man. I’m Hayley Hicks, from Watford,” she said defiantly, taking one last look around.
None of the beefeaters, not even Brenda, said a word as she stalked off to the sally port tunnel.
“Wait! Miss Hicks!” LC pleaded and hurried after her.
But Hayley disappeared into the tunnel, slamming the door behind her. The old man stood facing it for a moment, stiff as a post, aware that every beefeater in the room was staring at him. LC whirled around to face them.
“Get back to work!” he shouted, his voice booming off the walls.
At Wimbledon the crowd was on its feet.
“Advantage, Miss Robertson,” said the umpire.
Ellie was ecstatic. She had watched the British girl battle back from one set and five games down to level the match. Now, deep into the deciding set, she just needed one more point and she would be serving for the match.
“Wait, please,” said the umpire.
Confused, the players looked up at the royal box. Ellie realized that there was some sort of commotion going on behind her. She turned round to see Alfie edging his way along the row in her direction. A murmur went up around the court as people realized who had just interrupted the match. Alfie caught Ellie’s eye and waved, but then he stepped on a poor lady’s foot and stopped to apologize. Sniggers rippled through the crowd. The players did their best to ignore the fuss and keep their concentration. Ellie put her hand to her face and looked at her shoes.
“Sorry,” said Alfie, reaching the seat next to her.
“Sit still and shut up,” hissed Ellie.
On court, play resumed. The Russian served hard down the centre line. Robertson reached it easily, but hit the return well wide of the line.
“Deuce,” said the umpire.
“That was your fault,” whispered Ellie.
“Sorry, but I need to talk to you. Can we get out of here?”
People were frowning at them.
“Seriously, Alfie,” whispered Ellie, “if you want to get beaten up by your little sister on live TV, then keep talking.”
Alfie bit his tongue and settled into his seat. The things he needed to tell her – about the Defender, about the Black Dragon, about their brother – were not things he could tell her here, surrounded by all these people. But he had to tell her soon. Because Alfie had a terrible feeling that time was running out.
Lord Mortimer slapped a chubby hand against the horn of his classic Bentley and swerved into the bus lane as he negotiated the heavy traffic round Parliament Square. “Out of the way, you oiks! Some of us actually work here, you know!”
There was a time when Lord Mortimer (“Call me Morty, old bean.”) had been as sporty as his son Sebastian and, like him, had made a clean sweep of the captaincy of the big three sports teams at Harrow: rugby, football and cricket. But he had evidently spent most of his career in the House of Lords shoving as much food as he could into his wet, red mouth. He was a revolting man, selfish and scheming, thought Professor Lock, who was sitting in the passenger seat gazing up at the clock face of Big Ben. Which makes him the perfect collaborator for the final part of my plan.
“Did you know that the correct name for the Houses of Parliament is actually the Palace of Westminster? It’s still owned by the Crown,” said Lock.
“Hear that, Sebastian?” asked Lord Mortimer, looking in the rear-view mirror at his lug-headed son, who was sitting on the back seat alongside Prince Richard. “You should listen, you might learn something for once.”
“Shut up, dad,” sneered Sebastian. Then he leant over to Richard and added, “We’ll take the place back for the king, won’t we, Rich? The new king. Ha, I can’t wait to see your brother’s stupid face when he finds out what we’ve got in store for him!”
Richard pulled the cap he was wearing down tighter and ignored him. He'd had no time for the dimwitted bully Mortimer when they were at school; he didn’t see why he should treat him any differently now just because they were technically on the same side. Anyway, he needed to mentally prepare himself for what was to come.
“Now, you’re sure this outlandish plan of yours is going to work, Lock?” Lord Mortimer asked for the thousandth time that morning, smoothing back his thin, oily patch of dyed black hair.
“Just get us inside and I’ll do the rest,” said Professor Lock.
“And don’t forget our little deal,” Lord Mortimer said with a wink. “I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine. If there really is a new order on the way like you chaps promise, my family is first in the queue when you’re handing out the spoils.”
“Don’t you worry,” replied Lock, shuddering at the thought of scratching any part of the slob’s hideous body. “You’ll get what’s due to you. And you’ll make your ancestors proud.”
Lord Mortimer frowned. It sounded like Lock was making a dig about his ancestor, Sir Roger Mortimer, who famously betrayed King Edward the Second. And he was right. The professor knew the whole story: how Mortimer had seized control of the country with the help of the king’s own wife, Queen Isabella of France, who also happened to be a werewolf. It was a grim period of British history known as the Age of Treason. Today a new dark age was beginning and soon nothing would be able to stop it.
The car pulled up outside Old Palace Yard, and once Lord Mortimer had levered himself out of the front seat, he escorted his guests to the members’ entrance. A quick pat-down by the police found no concealed weapons or explosives. Lock was faking a limp and using a long metal walking stick, but the police barely glanced at it.
For a man who was about to watch the “mother of all parliaments” crumble, Lord Mortimer was very keen to show it off as they wandered through. Westminster Hall, the House of Lords Library, the Royal Gallery – Mortimer would have given them the whole guided tour if they’d let him. Richard hung at the back with his cap pulled low to conceal his face from prying eyes. He found nothing about the place impressive. Every inch of the “great” building may have seemed to be painted in rich golds and blues and encased in red leather and fussy, ornamental architecture, but if you looked closer, the carpets were threadbare, every other stone was crumbling and mouldy damp patches stained the walls. Lock was right: this once-noble place, just like the country, had fallen into a state of decay. It was time for a new beginning and something truly glorious.
As Mortimer droned on, Lock nodded at Richard, who slipped away unseen into a side room to prepare himself. Alone now with Lord Mortimer, Lock continued his tour, leaning on his walking stick.
“The Central Lobby!” Mortimer announced as they entered a grand octagonal hall with a black-and-white tiled floor and an enormous, two-tiered chandelier glowing above them.
Marble statues of great politicians faced into the lobby, watching them silently.
“The epicentre of the British Empire, or what’s left of it,” Lord Mortimer
continued. “From here you can see the throne in the House of Lords at one end and the Speaker’s Chair in the House of Commons at the other. Kings at one end, plebs at the other.”
“I know which I prefer,” Lock said, pushing Mortimer out of the way.
“Steady on!” said the surprised lord, wobbling off balance and bumping into one of the statues.
Lock barged past the surprised doorman into the House of Commons, marched across the floor of the chamber and leapt up on to a heavy oak table. Outraged MPs stood up from their benches and shouted for security. The Sergeant-at-Arms sprinted in, drawing his sword. The sergeant was the only person allowed to carry a weapon in here and he looked like he knew how to use it, but Lock was ready for him. With a deft flick of his wrist his walking stick smacked the sword from the sergeant’s hand, and he followed it up with a crack over his head. Everyone in the chamber gasped as the sergeant collapsed.
“This parliament is at an end!” Lock yelled at the top of his voice. “Your pathetic democracy is over!”
“Rubbish!” shouted an old MP with a shaggy white moustache sitting on the front bench. “Clear off!”
“I don’t think so,” Lock muttered.
With a sudden roar, the Black Dragon crashed through the doors and flew down the length of the chamber. Politicians ducked under the creature’s scaly tail and ran screaming for the exits, colliding with police coming the other way. The Dragon sprayed a searing jet of flames over the top of the fleeing politicians’ heads, forcing the police to fall back, then landed and kicked the door closed, trapping the members inside.
“Order, order!” Lock smiled as he surveyed the chamber.
A stunned, fearful silence descended over the House of Commons as all eyes turned back to Lock. The Black Dragon perched on the Speaker’s Chair behind him like a giant, glaring gargoyle.
“Now that I have your attention, I hereby disband this parliament. There will be a new order, administered by me. Pure, incorruptible and enforced with my Viking army.”
“This is an outrage!” the old MP bellowed.
Lock could only admire his bravery.
“And if you think the great British public are scared by your little band of dead savages, you’ve got another thing coming!”
The Black Dragon shot a thin jet of flame at the old MP, and he sat down immediately, smoke wafting from his singed moustache.
“The time for debating is over. But the honourable gentlemen is right, of course,” Lock conceded. “It would indeed take a force greater than I have currently at my disposal. Which is why I have this.”
Lock twisted the end of his walking stick and pulled out a long extension tipped with a sharp spike at the bottom. He then unscrewed the top, retrieved a folded triangle of material – the Raven Banner – and attached it to the top of the pole. Unfurling it fully, he waved it in the air for all to see.
“The Vikings may have retreated from our country long ago, but they left their mark. In our language, in the founding of our great cities … and in our bloodlines.”
Lock threw the flag across the chamber like a javelin. The Black Dragon took off, caught it and hovered over the petrified MPs.
“Ancient Northman blood runs deep in countless British veins,” continued the professor. “It has lain dormant for centuries, just waiting for the day when it would be called upon again. Legend says that whoever controls the banner of Odin controls all those who carry his blood.”
The Dragon dropped to the floor and speared the Raven Banner deep into the stone with a deafening CRRRRACK! The MPs cowered on their benches.
“But it is not enough to merely know the legend. A proper historian does his research.” Lock pulled his small, ancient book of Old Norse sorcery from his pocket. “They say knowledge is power. In this case, that is the literal truth. Without the right words, the banner is nothing but an old flag. With them, however … well, you’ll see. There are going to be some changes around here.”
Lock stepped forward and gripped the banner with one hand, holding open the book with the other and reciting in a booming voice:
“Hart er í komandi old,
Bræðr munu berjazk
ok at bonum verðazk,
skeggold, skalmold,
vindold, vargold.
Mun engi maðr
oðrum þyrma.”*
As he spoke, the air around the professor crackled and sparked with static electricity. The men and women on the benches trembled in fear as a swirling red cloud began to form over Lock’s head. As he reached the end of his incantation, the cloud seemed to be sucked into the top of the banner with a crash of thunder. Lock stepped back, eyes wide with wonder, as the banner glowed red and an explosion of energy blew out from it through the whole chamber, shaking its foundations and throwing people off their feet.
Cracks appeared where the banner was planted, glowing crimson red, spreading out in all directions, zigzagging like angry, swollen veins. As they passed beneath the benches, one in every thirty MPs began to shake with convulsions. Those affected groaned in agony. Eyes bulged, limbs stiffened, heads shook violently from side to side. The old MP with the singed moustache staggered to his feet, but he no longer looked as he had moments before. His face was harder, reddened, his eyes keen and full of madness. His wizened body grew as bulging muscles burst through his suit, crisscrossed with blue tattoos that materialized on his skin. Thick, knotted hair sprouted from his face like a horrible time-lapse movie, until a shaggy beard hung from his chin. In every corner of the chamber, people cowered from the grunting, drooling Viking berserkers that had appeared in their midst. They were the fresh-born, living, breathing cousins to Guthrum and his undead draugar. Lock looked on with satisfaction as the Raven Banner broadcast its dark magic.
“It seems we have a few Norse descendants with us, even here,” he chuckled. “Together we shall bring this kingdom its Ragnarök – death and rebirth. And from the chaos we will begin a new reign.”
* * *
* “In the harsh age that follows
Brothers will fight
And kill each other,
An axe age, a sword age,
A wind age, a wolf age.
No man will have
Mercy on another.”
Big Ben pulsed like an evil heart as the Raven Banner’s magical energy wrapped around it in a shimmering red haze. At the tower’s base, red cracks ripped open the pavement, radiating out along ancient ley lines like a spider’s web. Soon they would spread the berserker spell across the whole of Britain, waking the blood of every Viking ancestor.
On Westminster Bridge, Declan Appleby, a mild-mannered bus driver from Catford, transformed into a Viking berserker and deliberately crashed his open-topped bus into the back of a taxi. The bald-headed taxi driver got out of his car, up for a good old-fashioned London road-rage argument. That was until he saw Declan’s bulging muscles, foaming mouth and burning red eyes.
In her Lambeth primary school, Sarah Axelsen was teaching fractions to Year Four when she suddenly went full berserker as the spell hit, let out a roar, kicked her desk over and jumped through a window. Her class sat in stunned silence, until two of their classmates also transformed, bellowing Old Norse oaths as they ripped their maths textbooks to shreds with their sharp, yellow teeth.
Everywhere the red cracks in the earth appeared, someone turned into one of the Viking monsters. Berserker chefs abandoned their kitchens, but not before noisily feasting on the raw meat they were preparing. Metamorphosed plumbers smashed toilets and sinks, screaming in rage. Transformed traffic wardens tipped over the cars they were giving tickets to moments earlier. London was fast finding itself in the grip of berserker mayhem.
At Ten, Downing Street, Prime Minister Thorn, still recovering from her encounter with the Defender and Qilin, found herself hauled from her office by two security agents.
“Ma’am, there is an emergency. We have to get you to the safe room.”
As they ran her along the corridor and
down the stairs, Thorn caught a glimpse of the chaos outside. A bus was on fire and what looked like a crazed giant in a ripped policeman’s uniform was tearing up paving slabs with his bare hands.
“What’s happening?” she shrieked as they reached the basement.
“We’ll brief you inside COBRA, ma’am,” said the agent as they pushed confused staffers aside and stampeded through.
COBRA stood for “Cabinet Office Briefing Room A”, which didn’t sound very exciting, but it was the specially equipped room from which the prime minister could deal with any crisis, even a war. Thorn knew that if they were going there, then this was serious. Behind them a crack ripped through the floor, carrying its glowing red magical payload. They reached a heavy metal door. One of the agents keyed in a code and opened it. Ignoring the screams and yells coming from the rest of the building, the agents pushed the prime minister inside, followed her in and secured the door.
The COBRA room contained a long desk and a bank of screens that were already being monitored by those senior military figures lucky to be have been close enough to Downing Street when the disaster began. Here, in the secure bunker, they were completely safe. The senior agent wiped the sweat from his brow and spoke into his radio.
“The prime minister is secure. Repeat, the prime minister is…”
A low growl filled the room. Everyone looked around for the source of the noise. The prime minister was hunched over the desk, her body shaking with violent jerks. As the assembled staff watched in horror, her shoulders burst through her suit, her hair turned blonde, growing thick and long, and her face became purple with Norse tattoos. She roared and punched the desk in half with a mighty, gnarled fist, as the agents scrambled too late for their guns.
At Wimbledon, Kate Robertson was about to serve for the title. A few people in the crowd had suddenly become engrossed in something on their phones and a couple had even left, but most were still enthralled by the game. A chorus of “Come on, Kate!” echoed around the arena.
Dark Age Page 17