The Spear of Destiny Read online

  THE SPEAR OF DESTINY

  Marcus Sedgwick

  PUFFIN

  Contents

  About Marcus Sedgwick

  Books by Marcus Sedgwick

  THE SPEAR OF DESTINY

  About Marcus Sedgwick

  Marcus Sedgwick was born and raised in east Kent in the south-east of England. He now divides his time between a small village near Cambridge and the French Alps.

  Alongside a sixteen-year career in publishing he established himself as a widely admired writer of YA fiction: he is the winner of many prizes, most notably the Branford Boase Award for a debut novel (Floodland) and the Booktrust Teenage Prize (My Swordhand is Singing). His books have been shortlisted for over thirty other awards, including the Carnegie Medal (four times), the Edgar Allan Poe Award (twice) and the Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize (four times).

  He has written over twenty books – his latest title in the UK is for younger readers: Monster Mountains, book two of the Elf Girl and Raven Boy series.

  Marcus was Writer in Residence at Bath Spa University for three years, and has taught creative writing at Arvon and Ty Newydd. He is currently working on film and other graphic novels with his brother, Julian, as well as a graphic novel with Thomas Taylor. He has judged numerous books awards, including the Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize and the Costa Book Awards, and regularly writes reviews for the Guardian.

  He has illustrated some of his books, and has provided wood-engravings for a couple of private press books.

  His website is www.marcussedgwick.com and you can follow him on Twitter: @marcussedgwick

  Books by Marcus Sedgwick

  Novels:

  Midwinterblood

  White Crow

  Revolver

  The Kiss of Death

  Blood Red, Snow White

  My Swordhand is Singing

  The Foreshadowing

  The Dark Flight Down

  The Book of Dead Days

  The Dark Horse

  Witch Hill

  Floodland

  The Raven Mysteries:

  Flood and Fang

  Ghosts and Gadgets

  Lunatics and Luck

  Vampires and Volts

  Magic and Mayhem

  Diamonds and Doom

  The Elf Girl and Raven Boy series:

  Fright Forest

  Monster Mountains

  Scream Sea

  1

  ‘You’re being very mysterious, Doctor.’

  The Doctor raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Let me rephrase that,’ said Jo, stabbing his shoulder with her forefinger. ‘More mysterious than usual.’

  The Doctor grappled with the gear-lever of Bessie, the bright-yellow vintage roadster he was so fond of driving. He frowned. The gearbox answered with the sound of cogs trying to eat each other, but soon lost the fight as the Doctor moved up into third. He smiled, looking ahead along the bustling street of Piccadilly. It was a warm day and the hood of the car was down. A few people stared and pointed at them as they trundled past.

  Jo sank a bit further back into her seat as the Doctor waved at a couple of passers-by.

  ‘You know what I love about London?’ he said, turning to her briefly.

  She sighed. ‘I’m sure I can’t guess.’

  ‘It’s the only city in the universe where you can drive around in a car that’s seventy years old and get away with it.’

  ‘Who says you’re getting away with it?’ muttered Jo.

  The Doctor waved again, and Jo shut her eyes. ‘We couldn’t have taken the Tube, I suppose?’

  ‘Now come on, my dear. Where’s your sense of style?’

  Jo stared, open-mouthed, at the Doctor.

  The Doctor was dressed in a green velour smoking jacket over a purple frilly shirt, the collar of which was large enough to sail a small yacht. It was eye-watering fashion, even for 1973, but, in all honesty, it was quite restrained. For the Doctor.

  Jo shut her mouth. At least he wasn’t wearing the Inverness cape for once. But she hated it when he didn’t tell her what was going on. ‘Doctor!’ she wailed. ‘Will you please tell me what we’re doing?’

  The Doctor turned up Dover Street, scuffled briefly once more with Bessie’s gearbox and then brought the car to a halt at the top of Hay Hill.

  ‘We’re going to a museum.’

  ‘You told me that much. A private collection. To look at something?’

  ‘No,’ said the Doctor, grinning. ‘To steal something.’

  2

  ‘I never had you down as an art thief,’ said Jo.

  They stood looking at the noble frontage of the museum: just one of many magnificent Georgian three- and four-storeyed houses in Mayfair.

  ‘Not art,’ said the Doctor. ‘Antiquities.’

  ‘There’s something in here that interests you?’

  ‘Right,’ said the Doctor. His eyes scoured the building as if he were trying to see through it.

  ‘Something dangerous?’

  ‘Right again.’

  ‘And UNIT sent you here,’ said Jo triumphantly.

  The Doctor rounded on her. ‘My dear girl,’ he said. ‘UNIT do not send me anywhere.’

  Jo decided to tease the Doctor a little. ‘But you do work for them, don’t you,’ she said, her eyes twinkling. ‘Just like I do.’

  The Doctor glared at her. ‘I have offered my services to them during my … time here as a scientific adviser, and in a purely unaffiliated manner. I am not employed by them, and if at any time I choose to leave I will do so. Now come on. Let’s get inside and have a look at this thing.’

  ‘What thing?’ called Jo, but the Doctor was already striding ahead and up the steps.

  Maybe now wasn’t the time. He did seem to be very preoccupied, and, really, she knew better than to tease him about working for UNIT, the United Nations Intelligence Taskforce. She also knew better than to remind him that he had only agreed to work for them since he had been exiled to Earth by the High Council of the Time Lords, having been found guilty of violations of time. And, although the High Council had now allowed the Doctor freedom to travel in time and space once again, she certainly knew better than to mention his exile.

  Jo hurried up the steps, out of the bright day and into the cool dark of the museum.

  The Doctor had disappeared inside. Fumbling for some money, she bought a ticket from a small desk in the foyer and pushed through heavy glass doors into the exhibition itself.

  Various rooms stretched away in front of her. People wandered around in the dreamy, irritating way they do in museums. A security guard lifted his head and looked at her. She walked on.

  The ticket seller had pushed a leaflet into her hand, and only now did she stop to read the front.

  The Hoard of the King

  Early Scandinavian treasures recently uncovered in Sweden

  Presented by the Moxon Collection

  Jo found the Doctor on the second floor of the museum. He was staring through the glass of a cabinet in the centre of the room. Inside the cabinet was an unbelievably beautiful helmet with a face mask attached. It appeared to be silver and gold, and was polished so fiercely it shone like a small sun under the bright lights.

  ‘Is that what we’ve come to steal?’ whispered Jo as she stepped up beside him.

  The Doctor shook his head almost imperceptibly. He nodded through the glass of the cabinet in which the helmet sat to another, taller, case in the corner of the room. Inside that case was a spear.

  Its shaft was simple enough – of wood that had done well to last the best part of two thousand years – but the head of the spear was another thing of wonder and beauty. Made of a long tapering piece of gold, it too glowed brightly in the
beam of a small spotlight.

  ‘Do you see it?’ asked the Doctor.

  ‘Can we take a closer look?’ whispered Jo.

  The room was emptying of people. A guard sat in one corner, almost asleep in her chair.

  The Doctor nodded. ‘Yes. But don’t linger.’

  They took a circuit of the room and tried not to dawdle as they passed the spear. Now they were closer, they could see small markings cut into the flat parts of the golden tip.

  ‘Runes,’ said the Doctor. ‘In Elder Futhark from the look of them.’ He turned to Jo. ‘The runic alphabet of the Norsemen.’

  Jo bent to peer through the glass at the gold. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘There are no doubt more markings on the other side, but those we can see from here say Gungnir.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It’s a name.’

  ‘Of the man who owned it?’

  ‘No. Of the spear itself.’

  ‘The spear has a name?’

  The Doctor nodded.

  Jo suddenly straightened. ‘Is it a good idea to be seen at the scene of the crime?’ she whispered, glancing over her shoulder.

  ‘It’s not a crime scene,’ said the Doctor. ‘Yet.’

  He winked, allowing himself one more close look at the spearhead, then took Jo by the arm. ‘Time to go, I think,’ he said, and they headed for the stairs, hurrying down to the ground floor. ‘Did you enjoy the exhibition?’

  ‘What exhibition? I saw one helmet and one spear.’

  Jo smiled brightly at a security guard on the door, who was staring openly at the Doctor’s clothes. ‘Fascinating!’ she declared loudly, and then they emerged from the darkness into the sunshine, blinking their way back into the modern world.

  3

  ‘We believe that the spear is not all it seems,’ explained the Doctor as they headed back to UNIT headquarters. ‘There have been a few temporal anomalies in the area.’

  ‘What kind of anomalies?’ asked Jo.

  The Doctor turned Bessie into the drive that led to UNIT, and she chugged happily over the gravel as if eager to be done for the day. It was getting late, the sun starting to dip behind the tall trees that lined their way.

  ‘Small things. Like several watches all losing time at once; a rash of people getting a feeling of déjà vu; a clock striking thirteen. Small things, so small that they might have gone unnoticed, were it not for the fact the museum is opposite the bridge club of a friend of ours. He told me; I spoke to the Time Lords; and here we are …’

  ‘And who’s this friend of ours?’

  The Doctor smiled. ‘The Brigadier. Ah! There’s the old greyhound now. Shall we make our report?’

  Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart was just walking out of the front doors as they pulled up, tugging his cap on to his head as crisply as ever. He saw Bessie and strode towards them. ‘Doctor! Miss Grant!’

  ‘You were quite right, Brigadier. The spear has every indication of being a PTN.’

  ‘A what?’ asked Jo, but neither the Doctor nor the Brigadier were listening.

  ‘You’ve informed the High Council?’ asked Lethbridge-Stewart.

  ‘I already have their authority to remove the object for analysis. Immediately.’

  ‘But why not just ask them for it?’ said Jo. ‘The museum, I mean.’

  ‘We tried,’ said the Brigadier. ‘They refused. This chap, Moxon, the owner of the collection. Total recluse. Billionaire. Not used to taking orders.’

  ‘But can’t you make him?’

  ‘Private collection. We have no power to order him to do anything.’

  ‘But surely if you explain what it’s all about …?’ Jo asked. She stopped. ‘What is it all about, anyway? What’s a PTN?’

  ‘Physical Temporal Nexus,’ said the Doctor. ‘Very dangerous things indeed. Their origin is unknown, but they are certainly alien and certainly ancient. There are believed to be only a few in existence, and the High Council is – how shall we put it? – more than keen to keep them out of circulation.’

  ‘I see,’ said Jo, ‘I think. We’d better get on with it then.’

  ‘Well put,’ said the Doctor.

  They headed into the UNIT building. ‘What’s the plan?’ asked Jo. ‘Do you have a nice black burglar suit in your wardrobe, Doctor? One with frills?’

  The Doctor paused briefly, started to raise a wagging finger towards Jo, then thought better of it. ‘The museum stands between a bank and an embassy building,’ he said. ‘Both of which will be well protected. However, with all due respect to my friends here, this is 1973.’ He smiled at the Brigadier and then walked on. ‘The room in the museum is without CCTV, laser sensors or other motion detectors. It would be child’s play to walk in and out, with a minimum of broken glass, but there are simpler ways of entering and exiting a building without being noticed …’

  They’d stopped by a certain familiar police box. The Doctor patted the side of the TARDIS. ‘… if you have one of these.’

  Jo laughed.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the Brigadier.

  ‘I just realised,’ she said. ‘Banks. Safety-deposit vaults. Museums. Art galleries. You could get very rich in a week with this.’

  ‘Some of us have nobler aspirations,’ said the Doctor sternly.

  ‘Oh, me too, me too,’ said Jo, grinning. ‘Really noble. The noblest. It was just an idea. So, we materialise in the room on the second floor of the museum, smash the case, grab the spear and dematerialise again, yes?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said the Doctor. ‘If I may make one small adjustment to your otherwise excellent plan, Jo? I took the trouble of getting the UNIT boffins to prepare this.’

  He stepped inside the TARDIS and reappeared a moment later with a spear that looked just like the one they were going to steal – with one small difference.

  ‘It has no runes on it,’ said Jo.

  ‘Quite so,’ said the Doctor. ‘We made this from photographs in the exhibition catalogue, but the runes were unclear – hence the need for our visit today. As soon as we complete the work on the spearhead, we can be off. Later tonight, I hope.’

  ‘And we replace the spear with this copy!’ said Jo. ‘That’s brilliant. They won’t even know they’ve been robbed!’

  The Doctor smiled. ‘Well, as long as we don’t break any glass, they won’t.’

  4

  ‘Well, here we are!’ announced the Doctor. ‘Second-floor exhibition room of the Moxon Collection. Voilà!’

  He threw the TARDIS door open theatrically, smiling broadly at Jo, who frowned and gave a little prod of her finger to the air, pointing outside.

  The Doctor turned. ‘Blast!’ he said loudly, then more quietly, ‘Couldn’t you land where you’re supposed to, old girl? Just once?’

  Jo peered out and surveyed the view. ‘We appear to be on a roof. The roof of the museum actually. Not bad.’

  ‘Well, really,’ said the Doctor.

  Outside was the night skyline of London. They could see the lights of Piccadilly Circus and, a little further on, Nelson’s Column striking up into the darkness.

  ‘Fair enough!’ declared the Doctor. ‘It is still only 1973, after all. We can slip inside from up here just as easily.’ He fished in his pocket and pulled out the sonic screwdriver. ‘There must be some kind of skylight for access to the roof,’ he added.

  Jo tugged his sleeve. ‘There. Look.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said the Doctor. ‘Jo, would you mind bringing our decoy?’

  A short way away on the roof of the building was a small door leading into the roof space. The Doctor held the sonic screwdriver against the lock for no more than a second, and the lock clicked open.

  They made their way down a cramped, darkened stairwell. At the bottom was another, larger door. Once more, the screwdriver did its work, and they were into the museum itself.

  ‘One floor down,’ said the Doctor quietly. ‘Keep your ears open. Just in case.’

  Jo nodded, clutc
hed the fake spear a little more tightly, and they started down the stairs, which were wide and thick with plush carpet.

  Near the bottom of the staircase, the Doctor paused, then pointed to the door to the room they’d visited that afternoon. He stood still on the bottom step, tense, listening hard. Then he relaxed and smiled. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I think the coast is clear.’

  He stepped down on to the landing and the wail of an alarm broke upon them, deafening and shrill.

  Footsteps rang out across the marble tiles of the ground floor and then, much closer, a voice shouted at them. ‘Stay exactly where you are or I’ll fire!’

  They spun round to see a guard levelling a pistol at them – not one of the dozy security guards from their afternoon visit but one dressed in almost military uniform, adopting a stance as if he meant to shoot at any second.

  ‘What do you mean, you’ll fire?’ roared the Doctor. ‘Don’t be preposterous! This is a museum, not a rifle range!’

  He turned to Jo. ‘Come on. I think we should leave.’

  ‘Do not move!’ bawled the guard. There was the sound of more guards running up the stairs, and the Doctor grabbed Jo’s hand.

  ‘I’ll shoot!’ shouted the guard.

  ‘He won’t,’ said the Doctor with great certainty, taking a step back up the stairs.

  The wall behind their heads exploded in a mess of plaster that seemed to reach them before they were aware of the gunshot itself.

  ‘Run!’ cried the Doctor, and they sped back up the stairs, heading for the roof. More gunshots sounded and the wall above their heads erupted as they ran, crouching, for the door to the small stairwell.

  The pistol fire was suddenly overwhelmed by the harsh metal sputter of a sub-machine gun. ‘Preposterous!’ cried the Doctor as they took the metal stairs to the roof two at a time. There were more shouts and the sound of boots ringing on the stairs clattered after them.

  Shots pinged off the ceiling as they ducked out of the tiny door and back into the cold night air.

  ‘Into the TARDIS, Jo!’ shouted the Doctor. ‘Quick!’