Who's Afraid of Beowulf? by Tom Holt

Author:Tom Holt
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Fantasy, Humour, Science Fiction
ISBN: 9780441885916
Publisher: Ace
Published: 1988-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘Have some more rabbit,’ said Ohtar kindly. Although Danny had done nothing but eat all night, he felt it would be rude to refuse. Obviously the strange men prided themselves on their hospitality.

‘Are you sure you’ll have enough for yourselves?’ he asked desperately, as Ohtar produced two more burnt drumsticks, still mottled with little flecks of singed fur. The man they called Angantyr made a curious snorting noise.

‘Don’t you mind him,’ said Ohtar. ‘Plenty more where that came from.’

‘Well, in that case ...’ Danny sank his teeth into the carbonised flesh and tried not to remember that he had been very fond of his pet rabbit, Dimbleby, when he was a boy. ‘This is very good,’ he said, forcing his weary jaws to chew.

‘Really?’ Ohtar beamed. He had been field-cook to King Hrolf for most of his service, and this was the first time anyone had paid him a compliment. ‘You wait there,’ he said and, gathering up his sling and a handful of pebbles, walked away.

‘You’ve made his day,’ said Angantyr, sitting down beside Danny and absentmindedly picking up the second drumstick. ‘Personally,’ he said with his mouth full, ‘I hate rabbit, but it’s a sight better than seagull. You ever had seagull?’

‘No,’ Danny said.

‘Very wise,’ said Angantyr, and he spat out a number of small bones. ‘Not that you can’t make something of it with a white sauce and some fennel. Don’t get me wrong,’ he added, ‘I’m not obsessive about food, like some I could mention. Five square meals a day is all I ask, and a jug or so of something wet to see it on its way. But I draw the line at seaweed,’ he asserted firmly. ‘Except in a mousse, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Danny agreed.

Having looked to make sure that there was no more rabbit lying about, Angantyr lay back against the wall of the ruined bothy and pulled his helmet down over his eyes. ‘Ah, well,’ he said, ‘this is better than work. What do you do with yourself, by the way? I know you’re a sorcerer of sorts, but that could mean anything, couldn’t it?’

‘I’m a producer,’ Danny said.

‘Good for you,’ Angantyr said. ‘Me, I’m strictly a consumer.’ The early-morning sun was shining weakly through a window in the cloud, and the hero was in a good mood. ‘That was always the trouble with this country,’ he went on. ‘Too few producers and too many consumers. I admire you people, honestly I do. Out behind the plough in all weathers, or driving the sheep home through the snow. Rotten job, always said so.’

‘No, no,’ Danny said, ‘I’m not a farmer, I’m a producer. A television producer.’

Angantyr sat up, a caterpillar-like eyebrow raised. ‘What’s that, then?’

‘You know ...’ Danny said weakly. ‘I work out the schedules, supervise the crews, that sort of thing.’

‘You mean a forecastle-man?’ Angantyr suspected that his leg was being pulled. ‘Get out, you’re not, are you?’

‘Not that sort of crew,’ Danny said, wishing he had never mentioned it. ‘Camera crews.

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