Finally! I am very sorry this took so long, school and writer's block kicked my arse.

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AnimePopCircle: Not a problem. Thanks for reading!

Chapter Four: York

The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible. – Oscar Wilde.

Wirt sat on a bench on the platform at Sheffield railway station, rubbing his eyes. The shadows around him were growing long – night would soon fall. If all went well, he'd be in York by midnight, which meant he'd have to find somewhere to spend the night if he was going to be in any state to question any strange Vikings in the morning. He told himself that he'd cross that hurdle when it came, but he had to admit, he was scared.

Quite suddenly, he heard a strange ringing noise from his pocket. He quickly realised that it was his phone. He reached into his pocket and cautiously answered.

"...Wirt here," he gulped.

"Major Richardson. What the heck's going on, Wirt?"

"The guy from R.E.R.E.?" quizzed Wirt.

"You've been out of London for nearly a day, mate, and yet your mother doesn't seem to realise anything's wrong," said Richardson, "Last I saw you, you were running out the door shouting after your brother..."

"Wait, mom hasn't noticed I'm gone?" asked Wirt.

"It's odd, Wirt, she still thinks it's yesterday. Like she's under some kind of..."

"Spell?" suggested Wirt.

"I was going to say 'mental feedback loop', but that works too."

Wirt nodded.

"Look, I-I can't tell you, okay," he sighed, "I'll be back in London in a week, alright, just stay out of this."

"Are you dealing with the Broker?" demanded Richardson, "Because if you are, we can help you. I just need you to work with me. I can track your location and we'll..."

Wirt realised with horror that R.E.R.E. would be able to track his phone. He felt the wind pick up and looked up the platform. A goods train was rumbling towards the station, diesel engine roaring through the night.

"I'm sorry," said Wirt, "But you can't help me."

He hurled his phone onto the railway line. With a sickening crunch, the train crushed the device and rolled onwards without a second thought.

Wirt watched the train fade into the darkness, his face grim.

"...well, that's five hundred bucks I'm never gonna see again."

York was an old city – perhaps even ancient. Wirt walked along the cobbled streets in the early morning sun, gazing towards the massive shape of York Minster. Around him, a variety of old buildings selling unusual wares snaked around narrow, unplanned lanes. It was like nothing he'd ever seen.

Before long, he found himself outside a tall, misshapen building on a road known as 'the Shambles' – a plaque on the door proclaimed it to be the Society of Thor's Hammer.

"Well, this looks like the place," muttered Wirt.

He swallowed and knocked on the door. He barely had time to withdraw his knuckle before it flew open, nearly sending him flying. A tall, wide, bearded man in a green three-piece suit, a frothy mug of what seemed to be mead in hand, burst onto the front step, extending his free hand.

"Welcome, my boy!" he proclaimed, a thick Yorkshire brogue in his words, "Welcome to the Society of Thor's Hammer!"

"Uh...hi," nodded Wirt, somewhat freaked out, "I'm here because..."

"Because the Odinfather brought you here!" exclaimed the man, "Come inside, and we shall converse as we merrily consume mugs of honey mead!"

"...I'm seventeen, sir," said Wirt as the big man pulled him inside.

"'Tis alright, my boy!" boomed the man, "We have a non-alcoholic variant of mead for you – or as you Saxons might call it, Pepsi!"

He pulled Wirt into a small room that consisted of two old armchairs, a coffee table, a roaring fire and a large bookshelf. The man fell into one of the chairs, motioning for Wirt to take the other one.

"It's a real pleasure to have a visitor, my boy!" said the man, "I am the one called Shane, director, head priest and member number one of the Yorkshire Society of Thor's Hammer!"

"Where are all the other members?" asked Wirt.

"...I'm working on that," admitted Shane, "So, what brings you to our fair city of Jorvik?"

"I'm looking for something," replied Wirt, "It's...ah...it's an ancient artefact, and somebody told me you have a way to find it..."

"I might well do," nodded Shane, "What is it?"

"It's the...ah...the Eagle of the Ninth Legion," said Wirt.

Shane raised his eyebrows and leaned in, taking in his guest. His eyes widened.

"Uh, Shane, that's kind of uncomfortable..."

"By Odin's Beard," whispered Shane, "You're...you're the Wirt!"

"...how do you know my name?" asked Wirt.

"Your name is carved into the hilt of the Eagle," replied Shane, "It is your destiny to wield it, and take up the fight against the Great Demon."

"You mean the Beast, right?" gulped Wirt.

"No," replied Shane, "Must worse than that. They say he was banished, but he will shortly return, and you will take your place in the fight against him."

He looked into the fire.

"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more..." he recited.

"...or clog up the walls with our English dead," finished Wirt, "Shakespeare, Henry V."

"Smart lad," nodded Shane.

He looked back to Wirt.

"There's a whole bunch of societies like us, you know," he said, "Scattered across the world – the Holy Mackerels, the Swollen Eyeball – all waiting for you and your ilk. Dark times are approaching, lad, and we've got to be ready for them."

There was a long silence. Then Shane grinned and sat back.

"So," he said, "The Eagle! I don't know where it is, but I can put you on the trail. Y'see, the Eagle was held for a while by a fellow name Caruthers Rochford. He had it hidden before the Jacobites burnt down his town and hung him from a tree, but scuttlebutt says there might be a clue in the old cathedral. So if I were you, I'd head up to the remains of Alton and have a look around."

"Where's that?" asked Wirt.

"Northumberland," replied Shane, "Just along Hadrian's Wall. Get out to Bardon Mill and head about seven miles west, you can't miss it."

"How am I supposed to 'get out' there?" demanded Wirt.

Shane reached into his pockets and pulled out two fifty pound notes.

"Fifty pounds for the survival of civilisation," he shrugged, "I can afford it."

"So I've gotta travel again," sighed Wirt, "What am I, a hobbit?"

"Well, you sound like one," noted Shane.

Wirt rolled his eyes and got to his feet.

"Well, thanks for your help, I guess," he said.

"Not a problem, my boy!" replied Shane, "May the mighty hand of Thor guide you wherever you travel!"

"You really worship Odin?" asked Wirt as they walked over to the door.

"Course I do," nodded Shane, "Somebody has to!"

He opened the front door for him and looked out onto the street. He furrowed his brow.

"Is trenchcoat out there yours?" he asked, "Because I saw them when you came in."

Wirt gazed out onto the street. A person in a thick brown trenchcoat and hat – he could not tell if it was a man or a woman – watched him from the other side.

Wirt thought back. He remembered the feeling of being watched at Cannon Street Station, and the rustling of bushes near Great Malvern.

"I'm being followed," he realised, "Hey you! Stop following me!"

Trenchcoat immediately made a run for it, heading due east. Quickly, Wirt sprinted after them but immediately ran into a mass of people going the other way. By the time he emerged, the figure was gone.

"Damn it," cursed Wirt, "Who was that?"

He felt a sheet of paper blow against his leg. Raising an eyebrow, he leant over and picked it up. It was a short note addressed to him.

Wirt,

If you want the truth, go to the railway museum. You'll know it when you see it.

The National Railway Museum was one of the largest of its kind in the world, which did not at all help Wirt in 'seeing it'. He wandered the Great Hall – a massive roundhouse painted in blues and greys, centred on a large turntable, with sunlight streaming through large windows.

After half an hour of searching fruitlessly for a clue, Wirt stopped by a locomotive – a large red one which resembled an upturned bathtub – and gathered his thoughts.

"What did they mean 'I'd know it when I see it?'" he asked himself, "Why is everything so cryptic around here?"

He sighed.

"I'm wasting time," he declared, "I should be finding Greg and instead I'm standing here looking at trains! How is this thing helping me?!"

He motioned testily to the engine next to the red one. This one was sleek, blue and streamlined, the letters "LNER' marked on the tender. At the front of the engine, just under the funnel, there was a nameplate.

Mallard.

"Look, they can't even think of good names for these," sniffed Wirt, "So they name 'em after..."

His eyes widened.

"...after birds."

He looked up at the nameplate, realisation striking him.

"This thing's called Mallard," he said, "And a mallard is a kind of a duck, which is a bird...and it's painted blue. That means...it's a blue bird. Which must mean..."

He felt a gaze on the back of his head. He turned around – Trenchcoat was there, their hat obscuring their face.

"I know who you are," said Wirt.

"It's been a while, huh Wirt?" replied Trenchcoat, her voice distinctly feminine.

"I guess it has, bluebird," nodded Wirt, a slight grin tugging at his features.

Trenchcoat took off her hat, revealing a red haired young woman, hair tied in a bun. She returned the smile.

"Took you long enough, dunce," said Beatrice.

AN: Let's face it, everybody saw this coming.