CHAPTER SIX
Lights in the Dark

1

Before . . .

With a start that jerked him nearly upright, Daniel awoke. In less than a second, the details of his dream flew from his memory and he was left with just a vague impression of fear and of falling. He lay in the large bed a moment under the heavy covers. The mattress was hard but not uncomfortable, and the pillows soft and deep.

He rolled onto his back and looked up at the stone ceiling. It was carved in what was becoming his favorite style—with leaves and vines, branches and twigs, insects and small animals. In an underground world, the only thing available is a lot of stone, and in hundreds of years, with little else except for that around them, they’ve become very good at using it, he thought.

His gaze floated around the unfamiliar room and picked out odd features. His eyes became lost for long seconds as they wandered around the spiral pattern of the hanging carpets, before moving on to a stone alcove lined with sitting cushions, a brass stand holding a funny sort of clay lamp, a stone-topped metal table with a bronze basin and clay pitcher on it, and finally the wide fireplace with a long, hanging wrought-iron frame that held his drying school clothes. He felt slightly dizzy. He’d never slept in a room this big or nice before, so he made himself smile. He figured he was allowed to smile just to mark the occasion. He was wearing a white linen sleeping gown, which he had found folded on the table. It was loose and comfortable and warm. Too warm. His face was slick and clammy; he had been sweating in his sleep, either because of the thick bedding or the disturbing dream, or both. He pushed the sheets aside and stood up. A thin sheen of sweat made his skin cold as he padded over to the dressing table. He poured some water from the pitcher into the wide bowl and splashed a handful across his face. The freshness was bracing, and after drying himself with a thick linen cloth, he felt like he was wearing a new layer of skin.

Now feeling rather cold, he shuffled over to the fireplace and stretched out his hands expectantly, but after a moment or two he found that they were not warming as they ought. The fire was large and crackling, but squinting into it, he saw that it was not really burning. The flames that danced energetically around the logs and up the chimney were not healthy orange and red flames, but were pale and yellow, almost green in places, and appeared very thin. No smoke was given off, and he almost had to climb into the fireplace just to warm his palms. Enchanted fire, he thought with a frown.

He moved back to the table. Next to the bowl, where he had found the bedgown, some new clothes had been placed while he was asleep—his mind went back to his own house and the presents he never received. He shook out the first item and held up a dark-blue shirt, the type that the servants Cnafa and Cnapa wore.

He smiled. New clothes. He quickly shook out the other items, wondering how to put them on.

The thick shirt made Daniel think of a sewn-up bathrobe and was probably meant to be worn on top. It was made of a heavy, finely woven cloth—wool, maybe. It was rough on the outside, but lined with very smooth linen on the inside. It had large sleeves and was embroidered with blue on a darker blue floral design.

Beneath the shirt were some pale-blue leggings, a thin shirt, some leather slippers with laces, and a broad belt.

He pulled the thin undershirt over his head and then started hitching up the leggings—which he found had no opening in the feet, meaning that he needed no socks. He was able to fasten them with a thin drawstring that cinched just below his belly.

He shrugged on the thick blue overshirt, which reached halfway down his thighs, and fastened the leather belt around his waist.

Then he sat down on the edge of his bed to try to put on his shoes, which were more a kind of slipper. The soles were thin but tough.

There was a single, long leather lace that crisscrossed the top of the shoe, and once he tied them tightly around his feet they became, with the stockings, rather comfortable and snug.

He smoothed his new clothes down and straightened himself out as well as he could, not having a mirror. He walked around the room a couple times, wriggling his arms around, enjoying movement in this strange outfit—its crisp cleanness and smell. He liked how the clothes felt—tough, yet comfortable. He started running and then jumped up and down several times, laughing. He hoped he’d be allowed to keep them.

He wondered if Freya was awake and what her clothes were like. He pulled open the heavy door and stepped out into the hallway. Going towards her room, he ran into her halfway down the hallway, sitting in an alcove and staring out of one of the tall, thin windows. She was in her school clothes, which were dry but very wrinkled and dirty. She had one arm wrapped around her legs and one close to her chest. She was fingering the little pendant on her silver birthday necklace.

As Daniel approached she turned her head away from the window and looked him up and down.

“What are you wearing?” she asked, frowning.

“They laid these out for me. Didn’t you get any?”

Freya’s eyebrows pinched together as she studied Daniel. “Don’t you want to go home?”

“Of course. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“And you’re going to go back dressed like that?”

“Why not?” He smoothed down the front of his shirt with his palm. “They’re very warm, comfortable . . .”

Looking at Freya’s expression, Daniel felt as if he were a bad essay that she was marking. “What?”

“Don’t you miss your family?”

Daniel looked at the floor. His joy was slipping away, as if draining out of his feet.

“I mean,” pursued Freya, “we don’t even know how long it will take us to get back.”

Daniel shrugged.

“Or even if we can get back,” exclaimed Freya, becoming agitated.

“So what if we never go back?” Daniel murmured. “What’s so good about normal life anyway?” he said angrily. “This is a real adventure! It’s better than ordinary life any day.”

“Better? Have you looked out there?” Freya said, jerking her head towards the window.

Daniel raised himself up on his toes. Outside the window, past his own reflection, he could see the streets and houses of Niðergeard, illuminated in the torchlight. Beyond the tree-carved wall lay the dirty campfires of the yfelgópes, stretching off into the distance like a flickering ocean of stars.

“There must be thousands of them out there,” Freya said quietly. “I’ve been watching for a long time. I can’t see any of those . . . things, but if each one of those dots of light has even just three or four around it . . .” Her voice trailed off. “What if they all decide to attack us?”

Daniel sniffed. “Then we’ll kill them. Just like we did in the tunnels.”

“We?” Freya echoed.

Daniel sucked at his top lip. “Anyway, we’re safe here, with the walls and guards and everything,” he said defiantly.

“We don’t know that,” Freya said. “We only think we’re safe.

How do we know what those knights want to do with us? If they wanted us to be safe, why didn’t they take us home? Why didn’t we wait in the church until the doorway opened again? Who is this Modwyn? When do we meet Ealdstan? What’s going on?”

Daniel said nothing.

Freya turned back to the window. “Look at those people wandering around below. Look at those buildings,” she continued, her voice rising. “How could something like this exist and nobody know about it? How could we not hear about it in school or on TV?”

“Well,” said Daniel after the shortest of pauses, “grown-ups don’t know everything. They always pretend that they do, but haven’t you ever gotten the feeling that . . . I don’t know . . . that they don’t really believe a lot of the explanations they have—that they’re saying them as much to themselves as they are to us, to make them feel better? This place explains so much! Didn’t you ever think that there must be another world underneath the real one?”

“No. Daniel, this is insane! This shouldn’t be happening at all. Ancient knights and enchantments? That doesn’t happen anymore, if it ever did happen! No one believes in it.”

“It’s happening now, whether you want it to or—”

“So you’re saying you believe in all of this?”

“What are you talking about? I can’t choose what I believe, like you apparently can. Especially when it’s actually happening to me.”

Freya frowned grimly and shook her head. “It’s like a bad dream.”

“Yeah, but you can’t stop a dream. You have to go along with it until you wake up.”

“What if you don’t wake up?”

“Then you try to change it.”

Freya turned to look back out the window. “I just want to go back home where I know I’m safe,” she said. “I feel as though—it’s like in The Wizard of Oz, you know? I feel like I’ve been ripped up by a tornado and I’m just spinning and spinning and still haven’t really come down yet.”

Daniel picked at the hem of his shirt. “Anyway,” he said after a time, “let’s go find Swiðgar and Ecgbryt, and then maybe this mysterious wizard Ealdstan. I can get a brain, you can get some courage, and then we can click our ruby slippers together and go home.”

Freya gave a broken laugh and sniffed. “Okay,” she said, sliding out of the alcove. They started to walk off down the corridor.

“So what did you get? Was it a dress or something?”

“Yes. A dark-red one.”

“Go put it on. I’ll wait.”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“Go on, I bet you’d look nice.”

“Be quiet.”

2

As Freya and Daniel started down the twisting staircase, a loud and lively clamor drifted up from below them.

“I hope they have food,” said Freya. “I’m starving.”

“I think they do. Do you smell that? Smells smoky. But nice.”

They reached the ground floor and looked around. The noise, a pleasant rise and fall of happy voices, was coming from a wide doorway under the opposite staircase. They walked through it and found stone tables and benches ranked down a long hall. The benches closest to the door were empty, but there was a cluster of people at the other end making a respectable racket. Ecgbryt was one of these and was the first to notice them. Standing, he raised a horn-shaped object above his head and hallooed them in a bellowing voice. “Wes ðu hale, young Daniel and fair Freya!” he called out.

Cnafa approached Daniel and Freya and motioned them to follow. He led them to the table at the end of the hall. On one side of the table sat Swiðgar and Ecgbryt, and on the other, two broad, grizzled men, with the pale, dry faces shared by all who lived in Niðergeard.

The table was empty save for a large clay jug and oddly shaped cups in front of each person. Ecgbryt and one of the gentlemen had clay pipes in their mouths and were smoking a rich tobacco.

They slid onto the bench with the knights. “Did you sleep well?” Swiðgar asked.

Daniel and Freya nodded wordlessly. From a door in the corner two servants entered carrying several platters. They silently approached the table and laid the strange dishes before the new arrivals. One held a dried meat sausage as big as Daniel’s arm; the next contained a pile of thin, crispy bread; the last was a plate of orange and lime slices. Shallow clay bowls were placed in front of them, along with two very sharp knives.

Freya broke off a piece of bread. “How long were we asleep?” she asked, popping it in her mouth as Daniel picked up his knife and started to saw into the meat.

“Oh, not very long,” answered Ecgbryt as he drew on his pipe.

“Only five or six years.”

Daniel’s eyebrows shot up.

Freya nearly choked on the bread she was chewing. “What?” she gasped.

“As I said, not long, not long at all—” A smile broke Ecgbryt’s solemn face and he broke into laughter. The other men at the table did as well. Daniel grinned sheepishly and Freya muttered something under a frown.

“The boy’s eyes nearly fell into his plate,” hooted one of the other men.

“No,” said Ecgbryt, bringing his laughter under control with an effort. “Hours only. Hours, not years. Forgive me, but—but this is excellent ale.” He held his silver-rimmed horn aloft and clanked it against his neighbor’s cup. They both drank.

“Glad to see you awake,” said Swiðgar to Daniel and Freya. “You will not have met these men. I will let them introduce themselves.”

“Greetings,” said the man across from Ecgbryt, wiping his mouth. He had a squarish build and a large mane of dark, shaggy hair that stuck out at every angle. His face was blunt and puckered here and there with scars. To Freya it looked as if he’d been chewed up by some giant beast and spat out. For all she knew, she reflected, he had been. “My name is Godmund,” he said, slapping his chest with a fist. The fishscale armour that encased him clanked and rattled. “It means ‘good-hand,’ and was given to me by Ealdstan himself. I am Niðergeard’s Shield Thane—its protector.”

“My name,” said the man next to him, a bald and thin man with a pinched face, long moustache, and wiry arms, “is Frithfroth. I oversee the order of this magnificent keep. I am the Torr Thane. If ever you have need of anything on this side of the Tall Tower’s door, but mention it in my presence and it will be brought to you with all possible speed. I give especial welcome.”

“Hi. I’m Freya Reynolds.”

The heads at the table turned to Daniel, who smiled and announced grandly, “My name is Daniel Tully. I am a student of the Isis C of E Secondary School in the town of Oxford. My mother gave me my name, though I don’t know what it means.

I greet you!” He raised up the horn in front of him in a salute to the delight of the table. He put the cup to his lips and lifted the bottom up, up, and up until it was upside down over his face.

Nothing came out, to the laughter of everyone in the hall. Even Freya muffled a small snort behind her hand.

Swiðgar reached across and took Daniel’s cup from him. He poured a small amount of pale liquid from one pitcher and some water from another. He handed it back to Daniel, who completed his toast to a cheer.

Those around the table gazed gleefully at Daniel and Freya as they ate. Suddenly, Godmund’s pipe jumped from his lips. “I have it!” he cried. “It is an onion!”

“And not before time,” Frithfroth said, smirking. “Take your turn.”

“Very well,” said Godmund, laying his pipe carefully on the table and interlocking his fingers. Clearing his throat, he spoke slowly and deliberately:

“A deadly destroyer, divinely descended,
awakes only when warring,
stirring when silent objects are struck.
He is highly borne to battle by foe to fight against foe.
Though incredibly fierce,
and madly wild, a woman will wrangle him.
Though satisfying they who serve and tend him,
the more you feed him, the hungrier you make him.
He who builds this battler up
is doubly delighted, but death follows he
who carelessly lets this warrior loose.”

“Samson,” Ecgbryt answered immediately. Godmund shook his head.

“Anger,” answered Swiðgar. Godmund smiled and shook his fuzzy head once again.

The hall was silent as the puzzler looked smugly around the table. Each in their own manner either scratched his head, silently repeated lines of the riddle, or stared into nothing. Daniel and Freya looked on with interest as they continued placing meat and bread into their mouths.

Godmund smiled and tapped out a layer of ash from his pipe. Picking up a splint of wood about the thickness of a match, he held it to the candle in front of him and then brought it up to his cold pipe bowl. He puffed a few times and then held it away. His face appeared thoughtful, gazing at the flame as it traveled up the splint towards his fingers.

Ecgbryt, his eyes flickering idly across the table, saw him gently blowing on the flame rather playfully. He thought a moment and then his eyes grew wide. “Fire!” he exclaimed. “The answer is fire!”

Godmund blew out the flame and nodded as the table applauded the guesser.

It was now Ecgbryt’s turn. “At last,” he said, stroking his long moustache. “And I have a most excellent riddle for you all—a rare and wise riddle it is as well, for King Ælfred the Great himself did teach me this riddle from his own lips.” He cleared his throat.

“A river twice wet me
After woodframe had stretched me,
Once sharp knife had scraped me,
And a young man first cut me.

“Then the sun, it did dry me,
Now my hair had all left me,
And some cinders then rubbed me,
Before fingers had folded me.

“A feather has dyed me,
A reed also stained me,
Now two boards press on me,
And gold bands gird ’round me.

“What am I?”

Ecgbryt sat back, finished and very pleased with himself for a full three seconds until Swiðgar said, “I have it.”

“Hold, knight,” said Frithfroth. “You’ve answered your share—rather, you’ve answered your share and three others’. Let the rest of us try.”

With a twinkling eye, Ecgbryt poured himself a horn.

“Kippered herring,” Frithfroth answered, somewhat hastily.

“No, but a near guess.”

The table dropped into thoughtful silence a moment more.

“A fishing bark,” answered Godmund, “with oars and, hmm, feathers . . .”

“No.”

There was a further silence until: “Kippers,” Frithfroth insisted.

“Kippers or cod!”

Ecgbryt laughed and shook his head.

“If there are no more guesses beyond ‘kippers,’ ” Swiðgar drawled, “then perhaps I might be allowed . . . ?” The table assented.

“A book,” he said simply.

Ecgbryt reluctantly clapped his hands as the rest of the table nodded to themselves.

Swiðgar began his riddle:

“There is a strong, savagely bold house-guest
Who is the lord of my heart’s dwelling-place.
Hunger does not hurt my ferocious friend—
He thirsts, ages, but is not diminished.
Treat him honourably, and with respect,
And you will receive good fortune when you
Travel with him all the days of your life.
And at the end of the highway you are
Ensured a warm welcome into his vast family;
But misery rewards the servant who
Mistreats this most holy of visitors.
With him ahead of me, I will not fear
When this friend, kinsman, guest, travels onward
While I am forced to stay by the roadside,
Ever willing to part, as once we must,
Never again being able to meet.
Friends, if you please, speak the name or title
Of either this royal household-dweller,
Or my own name, both whom I have described.”

There was a groan from Frithfroth as he placed his head in his hands. “By the devil’s nose hairs, you’re a hard riddler.”

“It sounds like fire again,” Godmund grumbled.

“There are,” allowed Swiðgar with an agreeable nod, “similarities between the two, yes.”

The table was stumped. Ecgbryt scratched his head, Godmund kicked the table, and Frithfroth muttered oaths not heard in the British Isles for centuries. Eventually, Swiðgar was convinced to give them the answer. “The soul. The body is the host, the soul the guest.”

Frithfroth and Godmund insisted on a second reciting of the riddle and then sat in silence, rather morosely.

“‘Forced to stay by the roadside,’” muttered Godmund, and blinked his grey eyes slowly. A heaviness fell upon the hall.

Daniel and Freya, being adequately fed by their dry meal, sat in silence, amused and bewildered by the game.

“I have one,” Daniel piped into the melancholy. “What’s brown and sticky?”

Nobody at the table guessed; they just shook their heads.

“A stick,” Daniel said.

Everyone burst into laughter, as much in relief as in actual humor. Daniel himself laughed as hard as anyone.

“Here’s another,” he said. “Which room has no door, no windows, no floor, and no roof? No guesses? A mushroom! Now, what is—?”

“Enough, Daniel, enough. Give another a turn, or at least a chance to breathe,” Godmund said, his pallid face sweaty and bright with laughing.

“One more, one more—what’s red and sticky?”

“Beeswax.”

“Strawberries.”

“Earwax.”

“Honey.”

“Nope, all wrong. Give up?” Everyone nodded enthusiastically. “It’s that bloody stick again!”

This brought the loudest roar yet, and even tears to some eyes.

Which was why no one noticed that Modwyn had entered. Stifffaced, she waited patiently for the laughter to die down. Everyone sobered when they caught sight of her, and the bellows gave way to chuckles that died silently.

“Ealdstan will see you,” she announced.

3

The grandly dressed Modwyn led Daniel and Freya, followed by Swiðgar and Ecgbryt, up staircase after staircase. They followed her with an increasing sense of cautious curiosity as they crept farther and farther up into the dark centre of the tower.

Daniel, walking behind Modwyn, broke the silence of their ascent. “Is Ealdstan really seventeen hundred years old?”

“As near as can be counted,” the niðercwen replied. “Time was measured differently when he was young. Days of birth were not recorded as they are now.”

“Is he a wizard?”

“Yes,” she began thoughtfully, “he could be considered one. The word wizard simply means ‘wise one.’ And Ealdstan is unquestionably the wisest of men.”

“Is he like the wizards in the books and fairy tales? Like Merlin or someone?”

“He may be,” Modwyn allowed. “It is possible that you have read about him already but do not know it. He has been called by many names throughout his life—cast his shadow upon the ages.” She thought for a few moments, then said, “What evidence there is in history, and what truth there is in myth, of the wise old men in your books and fairy tales has undoubtedly been Ealdstan. He has counseled kings, bishops, and emperors—but it is long since anyone sought his advice.”

“How long?”

“Over two hundred years.”

“Does he still go up to the real world?”

“No.”

“What does he do?”

“He studies now. There are his books, his own writings, the writings of others, the myths and wise tales of days long ago.”

“It sounds lonely,” Daniel said.

Stair after stair fell behind them. The carvings on the walls became less and less elaborate the higher they went until what was a beautiful embossed frieze depicting ocean life devolved, gradually, into a primitive running spiral. The bannister turned from an ornately wrought metal lattice of eels and seaweed into a simple twisted band. “That is the price he pays,” she said, and it took Daniel a few seconds to realise that she was still following the conversation.

“The price he pays for what?” Daniel asked.

“The price he pays for his wisdom. Wisdom, which is experience and reflection over time.”

“So the older he gets, the wiser he gets?”

“As do we all—almost all. There are some people and creatures who are proud, and who have exchanged wisdom for vanity.”

Daniel considered this. “But how wise is he, anyway?”

“How can I tell, unless I am as wise as he? Only wisdom can recognise itself.”

“Well, you’re old, so you must be wise too—unless you’re proud.”

Modwyn’s lips thinned in a small, brief smile. “The only thing I have learned in my long years is that I have not learned enough. I have always been wise enough to know that I am not as wise as I would like to be.”

Daniel frowned and Modwyn continued.

“But as for Ealdstan—he is the most intelligent of all earthly beings. He has meditated lifetimes on single ideas. He has pursued trains of thought for hundreds of years and his interests are unlimited. He has sowed patience and reaped knowledge, has sifted it and nourished himself on the grain. I do not think that any created being knows as much about the workings of the world as he—it would be impossible for anyone to conceive of learning it. There is more than he could pass on in a lifetime.”

They turned off the staircase and into a cold hallway, past dark, crudely carved rooms, which contained books and loose papers crammed into bookcases. Up ahead they saw a fluttering light. They approached it and filed into what turned out to be a narrow room that contained many barred windows that opened out into Niðergeard.

It was from behind, as he gazed out one of these windows, that Daniel and Freya first saw the bent form of Ealdstan. He was wearing a robe made of bright red and yellow, patterned with bands that wove in and out of each other in alternating rows of red and purple. He did not turn immediately as they entered, but slowly pulled his gaze away from the window and let it drift around the room.

Ealdstan’s age showed in his manner, if nowhere else. His ancient face, although weathered, was not decrepit. A yellowing beard stretched down past his waist, but it was bushy and full. His head was high domed, but not bald; lustrous hair fell down behind his shoulders. His arm, seen when his sleeve was drawn, was not withered; it was smooth and well muscled, with quick, dexterous hands and fingers at the end of them.

But his eyes were pale grey, watery, and very, very weary. At first, Daniel thought Ealdstan was blind, his pupils were so drab and unresponsive—lying listless in their hooded sockets. It took a long time for his face to show any acknowledgment of their presence, and when he raised his voice to welcome his visitors, it was the two smaller figures he greeted first.

“I don’t believe,” he breathed in a thin voice, “that I’ve had the pleasure.”

There was an expectant pause.

“I—I am Daniel Tully, sir.”

“I’m Freya—Freya Reynolds.”

“Really . . . ,” Ealdstan trailed, his voice not much above a whisper. “Are you really . . . ?”

“Are you Ealdstan?” asked Freya.

“Yes, I am . . . or as much of Ealdstan as is left . . .”

“We have heard that you are very wise.”

“Am I? I suppose . . . speaking . . . comparatively, of course . . .”

All of Ealdstan’s sentences trailed off, making conversation awkward. It was hard to tell if he was at the end of a breath or a reply. “Shall we sit?”

At the other end of the room were a long stone table and many short stone stumps that were used as stools. Ealdstan placed himself at the head of the table on the far side of the room. Daniel and Freya sat at the opposite end and the others found places in between. The table was covered with bits of paper of many different types, shapes, and sizes. Some were thick and brown and were written on in faded ink in blocky, raggedy-edged letters filling sheet after sheet, each word looking indecipherably similar to the last. Other pages were newer, thinner, almost translucent, with rough fibers here and there showing through the paper. They were mostly scrawled on with an elaborate, spidery script. There were some oddly bound books, both large and small, of the type that Freya had seen only in museums, which gave glimpses of illuminated letters and detailed pictures.

“So . . . ,” Ealdstan breathed, apparently to himself. “Swiðgar and Ecgbryt have come back, have they? And why is that?

Swiðgar . . . ,” he repeated, as if trying to remember who went with the name. “Ecgbryt . . .”

He was silent long enough for Swiðgar to jump in. “It was because of the lifiendes, Ealdstan dryhtwisa.”

“The mortal children? Yes? And why did you not chase them off or put them to the sword?”

Daniel blinked. Freya gasped and opened her mouth soundlessly for a few seconds before she managed to stutter, “You—you couldn’t have just—”

“We can and do . . . ,” Ealdstan interrupted. “Do you children think that you are the first to happen upon one of the chambers of the sleeping knights?”

“And you killed them for finding you?” Freya turned from Ealdstan to Swiðgar.

“Hmm. I have never killed an innocent,” Swiðgar said. “The enchantment is strong. It stops all from entering. Nearly all.”

“Swa swa, Swiðgar,” Ecgbryt said, his face suddenly bright. “Do you remember that curate who stumbled upon us? When you grabbed his sleeve he leapt so far back that his cassock—”

“Shush, broðor, this is not the time,” said Swiðgar peevishly.

“We are fighting a hidden war,” Ealdstan said. “The position of our troops is of the foremost importance. Even a guileless fool can let slip vital information that would allow the enemy to strike a severe blow. We battle for the souls of millions, and the lives of a few are light in the balance . . .”

There was a short silence following Ealdstan’s words, which was broken by Swiðgar. “Ealdstan,” he said, “we have observed the situation outside the wall.”

The old man turned tired eyes on the knight.

“How long has the siege lasted?”

Ealdstan did not answer, only just gazed at him.

“Some months,” Modwyn eventually replied.

“What has been done?” asked Ecgbryt roughly.

Modwyn looked to Ealdstan, who still gave no reply. “Very little,” she responded. “We still have many supplies and are able to travel rather freely—the yfelgóp have not discovered all routes in and out of the geard.”

“But something must be done,” insisted Ecgbryt. “What are their numbers?”

“We cannot tell,” Modwyn spoke slowly. “Or even estimate. All we can do is count the campfires.”

“How many are they?” Ecgbryt pursued, stern in his questioning.

“Of hundreds, nearly nine.”

“How many to a fire? Can you assay that?”

“We do not know, perhaps as many as eight.”

“You have made no sallies?”

“None. There are times when a handful of them will climb the walls, but they never get past the parapets, and we never capture them alive.”

“Who leads them?” asked Swiðgar.

“Once we used the tunnels to listen to them,” Modwyn continued slowly. “There are two leaders, a master and a general, though they would mention only the general by name. He is called Kelm Kafhand.”

“Do you know anything of the master?” asked Swiðgar.

“Only that he is powerful, cruel, and commands much fear to rule the yfelgóp.”

“It is Gád,” Ealdstan said and sneered, startling the others. “Gád Grístgrenner, the gástbona,” he spat, as if each word were a mouthful of bile. “It is him. He was . . . the worst of all the old enemies.”

“Yet I’ve not heard of him,” said Swiðgar.

“Nor I,” said Ecgbryt.

“He is cunning. It has been many years since he has trod the earth, but now his power grows and he has become bold.”

“I do not wonder—with so little to challenge him,” Ecgbryt remarked darkly.

“What would you have us do?” Ealdstan replied. “Run out of the gates and smite down the enemy? Our numbers are few, Ecgbryt Hard-Axe.”

“There are over one hundred sleeping knights underneath this very tower—the finest warriors that have ever existed! What have numbers ever meant to Ealdstan the Ancient?”

“Do not goad me. Of might and wisdom,” Ealdstan hissed,

“we have ever exercised the rarer and more precious of those virtues in Niðergeard.”

“Might is no virtue,” Ecgbryt knocked back, “but determination is!”

“Remember your place,” Ealdstan rasped, his face contracting, spittle flying from his lips. “Remember it, or I shall name you Hardhead to go with your virtues! Hardhead the Hack-Hand!”

“When Ælfred fought off the Danes at Æthelney, he would—”

“Your precious Ælfred is dead!” Ealdstan spat. “I buried him myself! So you will have to continue along as best you can with who he has left behind!”

Ecgbryt smoldered under this reprimand. Ealdstan was now incensed. He bent forward in his chair, breathing quickly, eyes flashing in their deep sockets. He calmed, gradually, and leaned back again, pinching out a long sigh.

“Compared to the battle that is to come,” Ealdstan grumbled, his voice suddenly as sharp as the sound of stone scraping against stone, “this is not even a scuffle. Armies greater and more frightsome than we can comprehend are gathering in the dark corners of this rock—armies that may crush us into powder. That is the conflict we must cast our minds to—not this insignificant tussle. The grand cataclysm is approaching.”

“Very well,” said Swiðgar. “Then what must we do to prepare?”

Ealdstan cleared his throat and suddenly his voice was weak again and faltering. “I have been reading . . . studying the manuscripts.” His hands started to move and he shifted some of the papers around the table uncertainly. “It is hard to know where . . . current events fall . . . the prophecies seem . . . shuffled now . . . accuracy is not—accuracy has been . . . lost.”

“To hell with the prophecies,” said Swiðgar. “You know of the coming conflict—the cataclysm. What is to be done?”

“This age,” moaned Ealdstan. “This age is so cold . . . hearts are bitter and guts are bilious. There are no more heroes. There are none to help us from this era—none with strength in their soul to do what needs be done.

“What is to be done?” Ealdstan repeated, turning his grey eyes to Swiðgar. “Only this: pray that we have done enough in the past to be ready for the future. There is nothing further to prepare. The people of this time have forsaken us.”

“Are you certain that it is not you who have forsaken them?”

Swiðgar replied.

Ealdstan’s lips clenched together tightly as he ground his teeth.

Daniel’s and Freya’s pale faces looked around the room. Ecgbryt glowered at the centre of the table, fuming. Swiðgar sat with his chin stuck out and his fists clenched in front of him. Modwyn’s eyes met theirs, and for the first time, they saw living emotion in them—emotions of sorrow and dismay.

It was Ecgbryt who spoke next. “Niðergeard under siege is not a scuffle. When was the beacon extinguished? I’ve seen men fight without an arm, but never without a head. In the war we wage, all battles are vital, and action must be taken. If the yfelgóp opposition is truly inconsequential, then let us rid ourselves of them and press our advantage. I propose we make a foray to test their strength and numbers. Information may be gleaned that could shed more light on events.”

“If! May! Could!” Ealdstan spat testily. “You have no conception of Gád’s powers! He’d swat you away like a child fanning a fly.” He leaned forward and made brusque sweeping motions with his hand, then settled back peevishly. “Very well. Make your attack. In the event that something is found of which I have no current knowledge, please . . . feel free to share.”

“We have your permission, then?”

“Permission? Why should you want that when you will not accept my counsel? Permission? To do what? Risk death and capture, simply to smell the enemy’s sweat? Yes, by all means. Go. Leave me in peace. Don’t leave the doors unbarred too long.”

Ealdstan stood, and the others rose with him.

“Thank you, wys fæder,” said Swiðgar, bowing his head.

“Be gone.”

The others muttered similar thanks as they started to file out of the room. Daniel and Freya hung back, the last to leave, standing in the doorway a little bewildered.

“Wait a second!” Freya blurted nervously, calling after the others. “Wait! We didn’t come here for this, Mr. Ealdstan,” she said, turning to him, “sir, Daniel and I—we came here because we want to go home, but we couldn’t because the tunnel was sealed up and we didn’t really have a choice. We don’t belong here. We belong at home, with our parents. Can you please show us the way out of here?”

Ealdstan listened to her with his head bowed over a dusty parchment so old it was cracking. As Freya finished, he raised his head and blinked at her. “Out? You cannot leave this place . . . Weren’t you listening? It’s far too dangerous. You’d be killed or worse.”

“Modwyn just said that they hadn’t found all the exits yet, so there’re tunnels—passages that those yfelgóp things haven’t discovered yet. We came along the river. We slipped in, I know that we can slip out again. Maybe we could—”

“There is no safe passage. No escape.” He bent his head back down to the table and finished by muttering, “If there is no escape for us, why should there be any for you?”

“But we’re not a part of this—this world. None of this matters to us—we’re not important. They might not bother even chasing us.”

“No.”

“But—”

“LEAVE!”

Freya was shocked—the blood drained from her face, leaving her cold, frozen to the spot. She felt Daniel tugging at her arm and whispering her name, but she pulled her arm out of his hands—this was too important to back down from. “We want to leave!” she yelled at the top of her lungs. “But you won’t let us! You have knights! You have magic! You have secret tunnels! Let us go!”

Ealdstan’s face twisted into an ugly mask of spite. “Stupid little brown-skinned girl,” he sneered through a clenched jaw. In several unexpectedly quick strides, he approached Freya. His ancient hand gripped her arm and with surprising strength he flung her out of the doorway and into the hall. She staggered a little and then ungracefully fell on her rear.

“Hey!” Daniel shouted. “Don’t do that! Don’t do that!”

Ealdstan ignored him and grabbed the edge of the large metal door and slammed it shut with a fluid motion. And because Daniel was still standing in the doorway, he took some of the force on his shoulder and one of the door’s rivets punched into his arm. He closed his eyes as excruciating pain flooded his body. He grabbed his arm and swore with all the worst words he knew. He didn’t think he’d ever been hit that hard. He kicked and pounded the door, which was so heavy and strong that it hardly made a noise.

“Oi, you!” Daniel shouted between pounds. “Ealdstan! Get out of here, you coward! Why not take me on, instead of pushing around a girl? Oi! Ealdstan! Ealdstan! ”

Daniel pounded and kicked for another moment, until his hands and feet ached. Then he turned and saw that Modwyn and the knights were standing around Freya. Ecgbryt must have helped her up—his hand was still on her shoulder. Freya was looking at him with wide, watery eyes.

“Come, lifiendes,” Swiðgar said. “We have matters to discuss.”

He then turned and they all started down the hall.

Grimacing, Daniel came alongside Freya. “Don’t worry, Freya,” he said. “We’ll find a way to get home—soon.”

4

They all started down the stairs in silence. Modwyn led them to a room on the fifth level that was nothing more than a completely square chamber with carved ledges in the wall that were used for seating. There was a low metal table in the middle of the room. Modwyn pulled a rope and a small bell tinkled in the distance.

“How long has Ealdstan been thus?” Swiðgar asked.

The door opened and Cnafa stepped into the room. “Bring a map of the Niðerland and send Godmund here,” she instructed, and then turned to Swiðgar. “Ealdstan has been in such spirits for some time, even before the siege,” she replied in a hushed voice. “Listless and melancholic. We do not see him for months on end, and when we do, he passes by without acknowledgment or sign, leaving us to wonder if we have, in truth, seen him at all.”

“I am sorry that my temper overcame me, brother,” Ecgbryt apologised. “You should not have let me hound the man.”

“No, it was well that you did. I doubt many have challenged him of late. And I agree—why not simply wake a band of knights to come and break the siege?” Swiðgar asked gruffly. “Drive the nasty filth back into the deep tunnels. The solution is so simple that it’s maddening.”

“I would challenge him, were it my place,” stated Modwyn.

“It would not have been right,” agreed Swiðgar. “Ecgbryt and I can be excused our rudeness—”

The door reopened and Godmund entered with a long scroll, which he placed on the table. He unfurled it to show a map of the underground realm, a large oblong with little branches that represented tunnels leading off the sides. Niðergeard was marked in the middle, a small knot of structures and streets. They started talking about where the yfelgóp army was thickest, where they had come from, and many other details. Daniel watched with fascination as the small military strike was planned and tactics discussed.

“We have no idea where their main force is,” Godmund said.

“We suspect it may be here”—he placed a hand on a section of the map—“but who is to say that they do not move it, or that they are split equally in different areas?”

“What are their main routes into the plain?” Swiðgar asked.

“There is no way to know that either. Seeing that you encountered them, it is possible that they have infiltrated most of the upper tunnels—there would be little enough to prevent the beasts from overrunning them. But do they circulate randomly? Are most of them here? Are they gathered somewhere else? How can we know?”

“None of that matters right now,” came an unexpected voice from among them. All eyes turned to Freya, who was standing near the table, looking down on the map.

“We won’t learn everything in just one raid,” Freya continued, her voice quavering slightly. “The important thing is to test their numbers, their strength, and their reaction after that—that will tell us a lot. Then we can judge the appropriate measures to take, once we have evaluated our resources. Then we can go home, you can find a way to break the siege, and so on.”

Ecgbryt smiled grimly and placed a huge hand on Freya’s shoulder. “The girl has a good head for these matters,” he said.

“I just want to go home,” Freya said, trying to avoid Daniel’s gawking stare.

Swiðgar frowned. “Then it’s decided,” he said. “We will raid them, leaving through the main gates here.” He brought his hand down on an area of the map. “Enough talking. That is what we will do next.”

5

In addition to Swiðgar and Ecgbryt, the raiding party consisted of Godmund and three of his best men, his champions. To Daniel they looked like superheroes—stocky with a lot of weight in the chest and shoulders. One of them had a red bushy beard and long plaited hair; his armour was made of medium-sized brass rings, interlocked with one another. One man had black hair and skin that was still slightly olive colour, despite being very pale. The third was a man taller than any knight they had seen so far. He was so tall he looked slightly clumsy and uncomfortable. His whitish-blond hair was uncombed and matted, like a sheepdog’s shaggy coat. He carried a spear in the same hand as his shield and casually gripped a massive war hammer in the other.

They were all big and strong, and although their dress varied, they all wore helmets made of iron with a sculpted figure of an ox on the crest. The three new knights moved sluggishly and creakily, slower than the others. Daniel and Freya wondered if they had just been woken—and if they could really stand up to the erratic frenzy of the yfelgópes, especially if there were as many out there as they all imagined.

And then, with no more preparations to be made, they were ready to depart. The six knights mounted their stallions and set off through the city at a gentle canter. The torchlight played on their armour, making it sparkle and shine; the gold tracing reflected the light brilliantly. It looked as if living fire were flowing through the metal.

Freya and Daniel followed, walking behind the six riders, and were soon joined by others. Niðergearders working in smithies, guards in their barracks, and masons in their workshops, seeing the knights pass by, dropped what they were doing, stood, and hurried to fall into step behind them. The silent procession had swelled to over fifty people when the knights reached the large city gate. They stood for a few moments making final preparations: adjusting the harnesses of their mounts, shifting weapons in their hands, and whispering short prayers.

Godmund, Shield Thane of Niðergeard and leader of the war host, motioned to two guardsmen on either side of the gate. The gigantic hinges started to creak. The large entrance opened a crack, and then— A bell was heard in the distance—it was a deep, solid toll coming from the other end of the city. The crowd tensed and started to mutter in confusion.

“What’s going on?” Freya asked. Daniel shook his head.

The effect of the bell on the knights was instantaneous and dramatic. Several of them jerked back hard on their horses’ reigns, causing them to rear upwards and turn around. “Stop the gate!” yelled Godmund to the guard above him. “Shut it!”

The knights leaned forward in their saddles, scanning the buildings in front of them, ready to gallop back into the city.

“Hold!” cried Swiðgar. “Hold! Wait for the horns!”

The gate shut behind the knights. Godmund turned to Ecgbryt.

“Get everyone to the Tall Tower!” he shouted. Ecgbryt trotted through the crowd that opened a path for him.

“Everyone, this way!” Ecgbryt bellowed, leading them back into the city.

“What’s going on?” Daniel shouted.

“Niðergeard is being attacked,” someone answered behind him. “That bell tolls a breach at the south wall.”

Just then, the sound of a high-pitched horn was heard from a far corner of the city. The other knights spurred their horses and galloped off along the smooth stone streets and were soon out of view.

“Hurry now,” Ecgbryt said, shepherding the crowd. “Move quickly. I do not know how they breached the wall without being seen, but I suspect devilry!”

6

Daniel and Freya tried their level best to stay with the crowd as they fled for the safety of the Langtorr. The streets, buildings, and city guards blurred past them as they struggled to keep up with Ecgbryt.

Horns sounded from other parts of the city. Freya and Daniel kept their eyes on the Tall Tower, remembering its thick iron doors. Freya grabbed Daniel’s shoulder and pointed up at the tower. Following her finger, Daniel saw a flicker of bright red and yellow in one of the windows several stories up. It was Ealdstan, gripping the window frame, with one foot on its ledge. As they watched, he launched himself forward and fell, his robes billowing and flapping around him like flames on a burning arrow. He quickly dropped out of sight, below the roofline of the houses. Daniel tried to shout to Ecgbryt, but it was no use, he couldn’t make his voice heard over the clamor.

They had just turned a corner and had their first glimpse of the Tall Tower’s gates when the yfelgópes caught up with them. The creatures had scaled the buildings and were jumping from roof to roof towards the centre of the city, out of the reach of the guards.

Nine of the creatures dropped into the road ahead of the crowd. Ecgbryt halted his horse and ushered the fleeing townspeople down a side street. The yfelgópes, each of them sprouting sharp bits of metal from joints and fingers, ran towards them, snarling and barking.

From around the corner of a building, Daniel and Freya watched Ecgbryt charge forward, galloping into one end of the line of attackers. With his spear couched in his arm, he drove into the swarming knot of yfelgópes, skewering a creature on his left with his spear and batting another two away with the edge of his shield. Releasing his spear, he drew his axe and sliced cleanly through the neck of an yfelgóp that was slashing at his leg and stirrup. His horse reared underneath him as one of the twisted men raked at the horse’s flank. Ecgbryt kept his saddle and brought his axe down into the attacker’s head with a juicy thok!

The yfelgópes left standing became even more enraged and bestial. With quick, darting movements, they surrounded the lone knight. Ecgbryt reared his horse to make a break out of the ring when a shout rang out from a side street.

Five of the city guards, led by Breca, the guard at the Western Well, swept upon the invaders in a pale, gleaming fury. Their speed was controlled and effective—every blow that fell was either crippling or deadly. In a very short time the yfelgópes were dispatched.

“Hwaet, Breca,” Ecgbryt said, addressing the guardsman.

“What news?”

“The wall has been breached. Few have entered—very few. It is possible that this attack is a feint.”

“Or that the force was not so great as we thought,” Ecgbryt suggested.

“Perhaps,” replied Breca, signaling to his men. “We go to join the forces already guarding the Carnyx. The rest have been ordered to sweep the city.”

“Swa swa, I will join that number,” Ecgbryt replied, tugging on his mount’s reins, “when I have delivered the rest to safety.”

“God by ye,” Breca said, and turned to order his men.

Ecgbryt urged his horse forward and away after the fleeing citizens. Plucking his upright spear from the chest of its victim, he caught up with the crowd just as the first and fastest of them entered the gate of the Langtorr. Daniel, with Freya clinging to his arm, turned just as he started up the steps of the torr. He saw Ecgbryt halt his horse and dismount as people flooded in around him. He heard growls and screams as yfelgópes leapt from the rooftops, and two of the knights in the raiding party came into sight, being pursued by a swarm of the twisted creatures.

As they ran across the wide courtyard that separated the Langtorr from the rest of the city, Daniel paused to look at the squat building that protected the Great Carnyx. A body of guards, Breca amongst them, was encircling it on the outside as warriors on the inside ran to take up places around the structure’s battlements.

Freya pulled Daniel’s arm very hard and he allowed himself to be dragged forward. But in the pushing and jostling of the crowd she lost her grip on him. Springing up the steps, he tried to catch up with her.

Once inside the crowd scattered in confusion. Servants tried to herd the refugees into the banquet hall, but everyone was taking stock of themselves, looking for companions, and staggering in exhaustion. Daniel tried to see through the commotion but couldn’t find Freya anywhere. He called out her name but had trouble hearing even his own voice over the din.

He was about to enter the hall with all the others when he saw a swift movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked up and saw that someone was running up one of the staircases: Freya. She must be headed to her room—but why? He leapt up the stairs after her and ran down the hallway to her door. It was closed but he flipped the latch and threw himself against it, expecting it to be locked or barred, but it swung open easily.

“Freya?” he hissed. There was no answer.

He tried again. “Freya? Where are you?”

A sound came from under the bed. “Shh!”

“Freya, what are you doing under there? Let’s get with the others!”

There was no reply. He bent down and stuck his head underneath the bed frame. “Freya, it’s safer in the hall.”

“You don’t know that.”

“They have weapons to protect us.”

“I don’t care! There are too many of those—those—things.

Find someplace to hide or go back to the others, but just get out of here!”

“I’m not going to leave you alo—”

At that instant the door flew open with a bang.

Daniel spun around and let out a shout of surprise. Then his heart froze.

In the doorway crouched a snarling yfelgóp. It wore loose bits of plate armour over its bare skin that was painted with an angry, black zigzag pattern. Its head was inhumanly white as if it had been bleached. The thing brandished a short, crooked, and fearsomely pointed spear in one hand, let out a curdling scream, and leapt.

Daniel dove out of the way and the creature skittered across the covers of the bed. Sinking its fingernails into the mattress, it spun itself around and crouched to leap at him again. Daniel lunged forward and pulled hard on the thick bed sheet, flipping the yfelgóp onto its back. He threw the cover on top of it as the thing spat and writhed.

Rushing to the fireplace, Daniel snatched up a poker, the only weapon he could see to hand, as the sound of ripping cloth came from behind him. He spun around and lofted the heavy, blunt length of iron. The yfelgóp crouched in the middle of a pile of shredded cloth, trying to free itself with a jagged knife—and jerking away the tough threads that were caught on its rough armour.

Daniel saw his opportunity. Yelling, he dashed forward, swinging the poker in a wide arc. The yfelgóp dipped sideways and deflected the blow with an armoured arm, but the blow clipped him on the temple. The momentum in the swing carried Daniel and he felt his feet slip from under him. He landed lengthways on the floor.

Grunting and snorting, the beast tumbled out of the bed and landed on top of him—Daniel felt sharp knees dig into his sides as a claw-like hand gripped his throat. He saw the jagged knife silhouetted against the ceiling and desperately swung the poker against the ugly, snarling face but managed only enough force to bat the yfelgóp’s head to the side.

Snarling, the yfelgóp slashed at Daniel with its talon-like fingers. Daniel cried out, his eyes squeezing shut in pain. When he opened them again, he saw the arm once again drawn back to strike. Daniel scrambled for the poker and felt his fingers close around it, but it was too late. The knife sailed through the air—and then clanked to the floor. The yfelgóp choked and glared hatefully at Daniel, its eyes angry and wild. It leant forward slowly and spat a gob of sticky blood against the side of his face and shoulder. Then it slumped heavily against him, letting out a ragged, gurgling sigh as its eyes rolled back in its head.

Daniel looked up and saw Freya standing over him and the body of his attacker. Her face was terrified and tear-streaked. She was holding the yfelgóp’s black, crooked spear, still partially entangled in the bed sheet and now also planted between the creature’s shoulder blades at the base of its boney neck. She gave the dark metal a sharp twist and the thing against Daniel twitched and lurched.

With a mighty heave, Freya tore the spear from the corpse and Daniel pushed the fetid body off of him. He stared up at Freya, who was huffing through clenched teeth, and he started to cry.