Viking Raiders

By Chris Blake

Join Tom on an incredible treasure hunt through time and battle history’s mightiest warriors. The third book in a new time-travelling series – perfect for fans of Beast Quest.

When ten-year-old Tom accidentally smashes a statue in a museum he releases Isis, a young Egyptian mummy who has been imprisoned for thousands of years. To break an ancient curse, the duo must travel back in time to find six hidden amulets – battling Gladiators, Knights, Greeks, Vikings, Pirates and Egyptian Warriors!

On their third journey, Tom and Isis set sail in the freezing cold on a Viking longboat. Will they succeed in their treasure hunt before the terrifying Vikings begin their next raid?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins UK
• Release date: Jul 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9780007514038

Chris Blake

Chris Blake grew up in the United Kingdom, and was lucky enough to experience the tale end of the fading glory of one of the old rural oral traditions, the social life of the west country pubs of North Devon. “My formative years were spent in Woolacombe, North Devon, one of the great surf beaches of the world, framed by spectacular scenery and seascapes, including the notorious Morte Stone, the tidal rock in the rip that the wreckers used in olden days to trap ships and sweep their crews onto Rockham Beach, where the women of the village waited on the tideline to pitchfork the sailors back into the undertow. Folk memories of that time still exist in some of the local place names: Beaconsfield where they hobbled the donkey to set the false light, Slaughtersfield at the back of the cliffs where the women used to wait, and Mortehoe of course, death ahoy in the old French. Our farmhouse itself was steeped in history, its beams and rafters were oak from ships’ timbers. Outside repairs often breached old middens to reveal clay pipes and broken brandy bottles from the days of smugglers. There was a story in the village that the steading was haunted, and no one would cross the fields to visit after dark. The tale went all the way back to the Armada, and a Catalan galleon that cleared the tip of Scotland to run south down the Irish Sea, and blow into the Bristol Channel to fetch up on the Morte Stone on the incoming tide. A Spanish lady was swept overboard and washed in at a small cove known as Bennet’s Mouth, where she scrambled up the contours of the valley drawn to the candles in the farmhouse windows. No one was home, everybody was either on Morte Point or the beach chasing wreck, but the door was open and she entered in to climb the winding stairs of the turret. She crawled into the first bedroom at the top, and climbed onto the bed. When they returned in the early hours the occupants found her there, dead from hypothermia and exhaustion. To this day certain visitors can sense her, more often than not the very young or the very old, those closest to the threshold of life and death. It’s a darkening of the deepest shadows in the furthest corner, and a sense of bitter chill. Or sometimes the guest wakes up imagining a cold clammy body sharing the bed, damp with salt and sea spray, and raddled with the smell of wrack. The villagers called her ‘The White Lady.’ They say they stripped her of her gown and jewels but left her shift. As I got older my parents made me sleep in there in the high tourist season so that they could rent out my room, but I never saw her. There was a wonderful tradition of storytelling in the local pubs. Another legend in the village was about one of the knights who slew Thomas a Beckett. Mortehoe was his manor and after the killing he was exiled there by the king. The story goes that he was never allowed back to court and lived out the rest of his days in the parish of Lee. When he died, he was laid to rest in the churchyard of the old Norman church. During the war the locals drinking in the pub, awash with cider, whisky and dreams of plunder, decided to dig him up to share out his treasure. But the grave was empty except for a lead lining in the shape of the coffin. There were no jewels, no grave goods, not even the remnants of a sword, and no bones. It had been centuries. Apparently, the ringleader claimed the lead, and used it as a trough to feed his pigs. Which probably would have poisoned them, and eventually him. I went onto to read Medieval and Anglo-Saxon Literature at the University of East Anglia. I’d be lying if I claimed my choice to be inspired by the legends from home, but it makes a good story. In any case I fell in love with the Dark Ages, that time of history where civilisation was fading into shadow, the imperial order breaking down and technology going backwards. The Anglo-Saxons themselves could only envisage the architecture of the Romans as ‘the work of giants.’ There’s this pervasive sense of loss and mystery, underwritten by the unyielding courage needed to face both the unknown past and the fickle future. A chance encounter with a friend from Melbourne led me and my family on an adventure to Australia. Our travels inspired me to write ‘Ratpackers’, a children’s story about a bunch of rodents crossing the Nullarbor. Eventually I found a home in Tasmania, another place of extraordinary landscapes but also tainted by a dark history. While working as a teacher in the old Bridgewater High School, its first incarnation before the kids burnt it down, a class debate about ethics morphed into the idea for a story about genetic engineering. We talked about civilisation and what makes a safe society, and we got onto Law, and we agreed that the most important law in the Judeo-Christian tradition is not to kill each other. Then someone pointed out that although legally we didn’t agree with murder, we seemed to manage it on a regular basis. Then someone else in the class proposed that with all the recent research into the Human Genome we could edit our genes to eradicate the urge to kill, in much the same way as we could programme safety into a robot? (Asimov has written on this with his proposed ‘Laws of Robotics’). However, then I thought, why would conservatives ever agree to a compulsory edit of their children’s genes? They would see it as an interference into natural evolution (a divine right). But if in the future this ever happened, how would the progressives, those who’ve risked becoming engineered, ever be able to defend themselves? Then one of the girls said they’d find a way, but it would require intelligence not testosterone, and that’s how ‘Erin’s Sword’ was born.”

Book preview

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Five thousand years ago

Princess Isis and her pet cat, Cleo, stood outside the towering carved gates to the Afterlife. It had been rotten luck to fall off a pyramid and die at only ten years of age, but Isis wasn’t worried – the Afterlife was meant to be great. People were dying to go there, after all! Her mummy’s wrappings were so uncomfortable she couldn’t wait a second longer to get in, get her body back and wear normal clothes again.

Oi, Aaanuuubis, Anubidooby! Isis shouted impatiently. When you’re ready, you old dog!

Cleo started to claw Isis’s shoulder. Then she yowled, jumping from Isis’s arms and cowering behind her legs.

Calm down, fluffpot, Isis said, bending to stroke her pet. He can’t exactly woof me to death! The princess laughed, but froze when she stood up. Now she understood what Cleo had been trying to tell her.

Looming up in front of her was the enormous jackal-headed god of the Underworld himself, Anubis. He was so tall that Isis’s neck hurt to look up at him. He glared down his long snout at her with angry red eyes. There was nothing pet-like about him. Isis gulped.

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"‘WHEN YOU’RE READY, YOU OLD DOG?’ Anubis growled. ‘ANUBIDOOBY?’"

Isis gave the god of the Underworld a winning smile and held out five shining amulets. She had been buried with them so she could give them to Anubis to gain entry to the Afterlife. There was a sixth amulet too – a gorgeous green one. But Isis had hidden it under her arm. Green was her favourite colour, and surely Anubis didn’t need all six.

Except the god didn’t seem to agree. His fur bristled in rage. FIVE? Where is the sixth? he demanded.

Isis shook her head. I was only given five, she said innocently.

To her horror, Anubis grabbed the green amulet from its hiding place. You little LIAR! he bellowed.

Thunder started to rumble. The ground shook. Anubis snatched all six amulets and tossed them into the air. With a loud crack and a flash of lightning, they vanished.

You hid them from me! he boomed. Now I have hidden them from you – in the most dangerous places throughout time.

Isis’s bandaged shoulders drooped in despair. So I c-c-can’t come into the Afterlife then?

Not until you have found each and every one. But first, you will have to get out of this… Anubis clicked his fingers. A life-sized pottery statue of the goddess Isis, whom Isis was named after, appeared before him.

Isis felt herself being sucked into the statue, along with Cleo. What are you doing to me? she yelled.

You can only escape if somebody breaks the statue, Anubis said. So you’ll have plenty of time to think about whether trying to trick the trickster god himself was a good idea!

The walls of the statue closed around Isis, trapping her and Cleo inside. The sound of Anubis’s evil laughter would be the last sound they would hear for a long, long time…

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I want to go to the cinema too! Isis said to Tom over the breakfast table. Please take me with you!

Her pet cat, Cleopatra, who was sunbathing on the kitchen windowsill, mewed in agreement.

Tom stared at the mummified princess in disbelief. She was sitting on the edge of the table, right next to Dad, and had helped herself to a slice of his toast. Loose strands from her bandages drifted down into his porridge. Luckily, Isis was invisible to everyone except Tom. But even if Dad had been able to see or hear her, he was in a world of his own, reading Archaeologist Weekly.

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No, he simply shovelled the porridge, now flavoured with five-thousand-year-old bits of Egyptian mummy, into his mouth.

Mmm, Dad said. Crunchy.

Tom suddenly lost his appetite. He jumped up from his chair and dropped his half-eaten cereal bowl in the sink with a clatter. Returning to the table, he took Isis by her crumbly arm and pulled her into the hall.

Hey! I’ve not finished breakfast yet! Isis grumbled.

You don’t need to eat breakfast – you’re dead! Tom said, letting go of Isis’s bandaged arm. And you can’t come to the cinema with me because I know what you’re like – you’ll mess about and distract me.

Ever since he’d accidentally smashed a statue in his dad’s museum, setting the Ancient Egyptian princess free, Tom had been stuck with Isis and her pet cat. And he’d continue being stuck with her until they found the six amulets that Anubus,