1
Before . . .
The yfelgóp laid perfectly still in a pool of its own blood.
As soon as Daniel and Freya felt able, they stood up, brushed themselves off, and then very cautiously opened the door and crept back downstairs. Modwyn was standing in the hall, talking to Frithfroth and two guards in an urgent and frantic manner. She looked up as Daniel and Freya descended and cried out, “There they are!” All eyes turned up to them.
They saw Freya holding the yfelgóp spear, saw the dark blood on Daniel’s shirt and his own blood dripping from his hand to the stone floor, and gave a gasp of horror. Modwyn rushed forward, arms outstretched.
“Oh, my dear children! Where were you? What happened to you?”
Daniel and Freya felt hands on them, searching them for injuries. They heard questions that came so fast they could not answer them. They tried their best to give a short explanation of what had just happened.
“Frithfroth!” Modwyn called when they told her of the attack.
“Tell the guard to sweep the tower! The lifiendes have been attacked.” She turned back to them and examined the cuts on Daniel’s face. Drawing herself up, she turned to Cnafa and Cnapa.
“Lead these two to the kitchens,” she instructed. “Then bring hot water, poultice, and bindings.”
Daniel and Freya allowed themselves to be led through the silent hall. The kitchen was a cold room with a high ceiling. There were several large ovens that looked very dusty and long stonetopped metal tables that did not appear to have been used recently.
Two metal stools were dragged before them, and they sat down gratefully. Cnapa placed a bowl of water and a cloth before him.
Modwyn entered and hurried over to them. Kneeling before Daniel and Freya, her green dresses flowing out around her, she cleaned Daniel’s wounds as they explained what happened in more detail.
“My poor æðelingas,” she said when they had finished. “I was so worried when I did not see you with the others.” Daniel’s wound had been cleaned of blood. “These are not deep. They will not scar.”
Modwyn cleaned the cloth in the bowl and pushed it away.
“The bell will sound again when the geard is cleared,” she said.
“Until then you must stay in the hall. I must go and find news of the battle. I will send Cnafa and Cnapa to bring you some food. I will return shortly.”
With that and a sweep of her long gown, she left them.
Daniel and Freya went back into the main hallway and found a bench out of the way of the terrified Niðergearders. In a few moments Cnafa brought them a tea-like spiced drink, and Cnapa brought them some more of the flatbread and dried meat.
They sat, sipping at the drink from warm clay bowls and chewing very small mouthfuls of food, which they did not taste. As they ate, they noticed the townspeople watching them. They wouldn’t say anything to each other, just stared and looked away whenever Daniel or Freya made eye contact.
After a time they heard the tolling of a bell. Modwyn entered the hall again.
“The attack is over,” she announced. “The streets are clear. But be cautious in returning to your homes. Do not go alone.”
She stepped aside to allow the people out of the hall and made her way to Daniel and Freya.
“Come with me,” she said.
They left the Langtorr by the large double doors. Once outside she asked a guard at the gate whose arms and chest were covered with putrefying brown blood where the main force was gathered.
He had an odd look on his face—a kind of dazed, unbelieving look. He pointed with a wavering hand towards one end of the city. “Over—over there . . .”
“Is all well?” Modwyn asked the guard. “We were told that the city was clear.”
“And so have I been told, idesweard. And so it seems,” the guard replied. “But for my life I know not why.”
“What mean you by that?”
The guard paused, seemed to choke slightly, and then continued weakly, “The wall has been breached.”
“Yes, of course we know—”
“Nay, niðercwen. Not just the defenses, but the wall itself has been broken.”
Modwyn’s eyes widened. “Where?”
The guard could only gesture weakly. Her eyes blazing, Modwyn spun on her heel and started off in the direction he had pointed. “Come, lifiendes,” she said. “Hurry.”
They rushed through the streets of the underground city alongside Modwyn, passing people returning to their homes and assessing damages. Everywhere they looked—alongside walls and heaped in the middle of the streets—lay bodies of yfelgópes, nearly all of them headless. Daniel wondered why this was, but soon saw that groups of knights and guards were systematically gathering corpses together and chopping the heads from the dead enemies’ bodies. He shuddered and looked away.
Rounding a corner, they saw the city wall with its massive carved trees rise up in front of them—but it wasn’t as it had been.
A large U-shaped section had crumbled away, creating an avalanche of stone that engulfed the nearby houses. Modwyn gave a startled cry when she saw the gap and ran towards it.
There were many guards standing in the breach, their shoulders tense and weapons ready. Swiðgar and Ecgbryt were there, perched on a pile of dusty stones, gazing out into the blackness, cautious and tense. The wall looked as if it had just fallen apart, like the wall of a sand castle.
They were still a fair distance away when they came to the first bits of rubble from the wall. Blocks of stone had fallen against some of the houses, piling like a grey drift of snow. As they started to climb the pile, they were surprised to find that the rocks crumbled to a fine powder underfoot—it was like walking up a snow bank. Daniel knelt down and picked up a large clump of painted ivy. He was able to lift it quite easily. It was brittle and he found he could flake pieces away with his thumb. The sensation was like holding a compressed brick of fine sand.
As they neared the peak of the dusty heap, they became aware of a rhythmic pounding sound: dull, soft, and strong, like the pounding of blood. Modwyn and Freya climbed up to stand behind Swiðgar and Ecgbryt.
“What is it?” asked Freya. “What’s that sound?”
“It is the ’gópes,” stated Swiðgar. “They are letting us know that they bide.”
They all stood and listened to the pounding, pounding, pounding of thousands of hands against the dirt—a steady, synchronized, patient beat. “Why aren’t they attacking?” Daniel asked.
Swiðgar pointed into the darkness.
Standing at the edge of the circle of light thrown by the city’s lanterns was a dim, reddish figure pacing back and forth, just in front of the gap in the wall. “Who’s that?” he asked.
“It is Ealdstan,” said Ecgbryt.
“Ealdstan? But . . .” Freya remembered the figure falling out of the window as they raced to the Langtorr. She had forgotten about it until just now but remembered the fall replayed in her head, the swirling robes riffling like a falling flame. Ealdstan must have more power in him than he had given them reason to believe. The swaggering figure striding up and down the battle line in front of the haunting, pounding rhythm of the yfelgópes didn’t act like the old man Daniel and Freya had met. He was strong and spry. Something about the way he held himself made him seem haughty—challenging.
Ealdstan turned and strode back the other way, his chest thrown forward, daring anyone to engage him. None did. Ealdstan made another pass and then spun on his heel and walked back towards the city.
Daniel and Freya shied away slightly as Ealdstan approached the group. Freya still had a bruise on her arm where Ealdstan had gripped her, and neither she nor Daniel had particularly wanted to see him again.
Ealdstan stood for a while, staring into the city, at the ruins of the wall and the bodies of the yfelgópes, lost in his own thoughts until Modwyn addressed him. “What is it that could accomplish this?” she said, raising a hand to indicate the wreckage.
“Gád did this. It is a spell of decay.”
“A magic to corrupt solid rock?”
“He must have been weaving it for some time. He would have had to build an entropic force and then push it along an enchanted wind. The spell would have looked like a black cloud. It blew centuries away from the stone in seconds and then nested inside of it. It is in it now, slowly eating away at it . . . our first, greatest defense . . .”
At his words, a chunk of stone the size of a small shed tumbled down from the top of the wall and crumbled into a mound of dust.
“Meotodes meahte!” exclaimed Ecgbryt. “How can it be stopped?”
Ealdstan sighed like a professor answering an obvious question. “It cannot be stopped—not completely. I can slow it with my power, but it will not quit until Gád’s life leaves him—at which time all spells that he has made will unravel.
“It cannot be doubted that he will strike again,” he continued.
“This is only one move in a game that he and I have begun to play.
There is no question that he has more schemes in mind, some of which are this very moment being put into effect.”
“He must be stopped and destroyed,” said Swiðgar.
“The other knights must be roused,” rumbled Godmund, tramping up the pile of rubble to join them. “They will arrive from all the corners of England and send the yfelhost into oblivion.”
“No,” moaned Ealdstan. “Not those sleeping, not yet. It is not their time.”
“What then?” Modwyn exclaimed passionately. Daniel and Freya glanced up at her and saw a face as harsh as a thunderstorm.
“A wall has been breached,” she rasped, “that has never failed since it was made over twelve hundred years ago. Enemies have had their way with the city for the first time in a thousand. There were yfelmen in the torr, Ealdstan—one of them attacked the lifiendes! If you were to act, t’would best be done soon, and best be done well!”
Ealdstan stood motionless as the silence left by the end of
Modwyn’s rebuke hung in the air. Eventually the old wizard said, “Gád will not be defeated easily. He will not die by spear-thrust, or axe-blow, for his life is no longer in his body. He has hidden his mortality somewhere else—somewhere safe, somewhere unknown to anyone. Only if that mortality can be found and destroyed will Gád will be vulnerable to attack.”
The company took this in.
“What do you mean his mortality?” Daniel asked.
“His life,” Ealdstan answered. “His heart’s soul. It is an object of his—a hand or a finger, perhaps his very heart—into which he has placed his mortal life and then removed from himself. As long as it is safe and secret, none can touch it.”
“How will it be guarded?” Ecgbryt asked.
“It will not be guarded,” Ealdstan replied. “At least, not by any guard aware of his purpose. There may be obstacles, but Gád would rely more on secrecy than force. No, not guarded—hidden . . .”
“I do not understand,” said Godmund. “How would he be terrified of his own weakness?”
“If he were to lose his power,” Ealdstan explained, “he would still want to reclaim his life and use it. The hiding place would be near, but still forgotten . . .” As Ealdstan talked, his eyes and voice drifted off. “He would have placed it on the other side of the Wild Caves, on the other side of the Slæpismere.”
“The Slayp-is-mere?” Daniel said under his breath.
“It means ‘the sleeping ocean.’ It is the name we give to the enormous lake of water that lies beneath this island.”
“Then it is clear,” said Swiðgar. “We gather a party and make a sally out to destroy this mortal heart. What could be more plain?”
“Even so,” growled Godmund lowly, “even were the Grístgrenner killed, there would still be his general, Kelm, to settle with, and the only thing that can defeat the Kafhand is force of arms. Whence is that to come?”
There was silence. Ealdstan stood, muttering, “Not the sleepers . . . not now . . . not yet . . .”
“But with the enchanter,” said Ecgbryt after a short silence, “surely there is no reason to dither. We must destroy Gád, come what may, and it would best be done as soon as possible.”
“It is dangerous . . . ,” breathed Ealdstan.
“I am the fiend of danger.”
“No, you understand not. Gád’s heart can only be destroyed . . . by a mortal . . . not by a sleeper, not by anyone who is now dwelling within Niðergeard. It must be destroyed by a lifiende.”
Slowly, all eyes turned to settle on Daniel and Freya.
“I don’t understand,” Freya said. “What does that mean?”
“Dense children!” Ealdstan sneered. “It means that none in this city can destroy him—except one of you. You really want to leave this place? Then destroy Gád and break the siege. Either that, or grow old down here with the rest of us.”
In the silence that followed, the wizard Ealdstan stalked away.
2
Modwyn led them into a room on the sixth floor of the Langtorr, high enough above the rooftops of the buildings for them to see the ruined section of wall and the work that was already being done to repair it.
Craftsmen from every corner of the city were coming to join the emergency workforce, working quickly, faces gaunt. Stone was hauled from storage by huge workhorses, rolled across the city on metal poles and lashed to the backs of the impressive animals. The old, crumbling rock was being chipped away, carved out so that the new stone would fill the gap precisely. It nearly broke Daniel’s heart to see any of that beautiful, forest-like wall fall away, however necessary.
“Why aren’t the yfelgópes attacking?” Daniel asked, staring down from the window onto the work. “Wouldn’t they beat us all if they did?”
“I do not know,” said Modwyn after a pause. “Their minds are so twisted that I cannot guess. They have always plagued us, but I have never known them to be organized thus. I fear their leader.”
“Gád?”
“Yes, and also this Kelm. He is not an yfelgóp, I wist, but something more—something older and cleverer.”
“I don’t understand. Why hasn’t this been dealt with ages ago, when you first saw the yfelgópes?” Daniel asked.
Modwyn sighed. “Ealdstan prevented it—he reasoned that Niðergeard is of little consequence in the face of the battle that is to come.”
“What battle is that?” Daniel asked.
“Just one battle in the long war that has been raging across the universe since near time began. The war between Creation and Destruction. Ealdstan has cast his sight forward and seen great forces clashing upon this island. Although of great consequence to us, this land is just a small pebble in the vast arena, and this glorious city, no more than a grain of sand.”
“But if Niðergeard is threatened,” reasoned Daniel, “that means the knights are threatened, and that means that the country is in danger.”
“Not necessarily.”
Daniel and Freya gazed blankly at Modwyn.
“But,” said Freya, “if protecting this city will help to win the battle—and then each battle afterwards—why not do it? Niðergeard may be a pebble, but if it falls, it could start an avalanche.”
“There are many ways of winning a battle,” Modwyn said quietly and unconvincingly. “What you must understand about Niðergeard,” she continued after a moment’s thought, “is that nothing changes here—it’s not intended to. That is the enchantment’s purpose. It is the price we pay when we give up our mortality; because our lives have no end, nothing we do can have an end. We must always look after the knights, we must always be opposed by the forces of destruction and decay, and we must always keep fighting against the opposition, whatever form it may take, though that fight has no end.”
“That’s—that’s terrible,” Freya said. “To keep doing the same things over and over again.”
“Is that why everyone looks so worn out?” Daniel asked. “So tired? So . . . grey?”
Modwyn nodded. “It is our sacrifice. It is the nature of things.
To gain a gift, we must relinquish a gift.”
“What gift did you have to lose?”
“We had to lose the gift of death—the gift of completion. The door between life and death must always be open for us, but we may never walk through it nor cause others to pass through it. We cannot affect anything completely, neither start nor finish a significant act, such as to create life, share love, or . . . or even destroy an enemy. We must continue, unchanged and unchanging, until our purpose is finished.”
“But you can kill the yfelgópes.”
“They exist on a plane much like ours. Their curse, their sacrifice, is living a half-life, never fully alive. We can kill them individually, though not as a whole. Neither their source, nor their master, may be destroyed by us. We may operate within cycles and affect their course by degrees, but we cannot end or create them. We may alter the balance, but not overturn it—for our lives are thin.”
“But what’s the point of even being here if you can’t change anything?”
“We do not exist to win the battle, you understand—that task has been given to others. We exist to support those who fight.”
“You mean the sleeping knights?”
Modwyn nodded.
“So what are the knights waiting for?” Daniel asked after a time. “Why are they asleep?”
Modwyn drew a deep breath. “They await one of two things. Either for this island’s enemies to invade it, at which time the knights will wake and drive the attackers into the sea. Or they wait for the battle at the end of time, when they will rise up with all sleepers everywhere and fight for Creation.”
“How long until then?”
Modwyn’s clasped hands started to fidget. She looked away from them and smiled coldly to herself. “To speak truly, we did not dream the wait would be this long. When the first knights were laid down, it was thought a hundred years, perhaps longer. But never more than a thousand.”
They sat in silence. Daniel broke it by slowly saying, “But Britain has been under attack lots of times. Have you ever risen up and helped anyone then?”
Modwyn looked up at him and her smile seemed to warm. “Britain has warred many times, occasionally with itself and often with its neighbors, but its people have not yet been in the direst of danger, in peril of the death of their souls. Rulers come and rulers go—the Normans, the Saxons and Jutes, the Angles, the Romans, the Celts, the Picts, and the hidden races before them—and rule of the island is passed from one set of hands to another, but the spirit of the isle remains strong, and soon it is the island that conquers the conquerors. Its ways become their ways, its loves become their loves. In time, they fight for it and its people as fervently as those whom they replaced.”
“So England hasn’t been in enough danger yet?” asked Freya. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“There have been times—as in the period now referred to as the Dark Ages—in which evil spirits began to manifest themselves physically, taking on twisted forms to enslave and destroy the people of this isle—flying creatures ravaged the skies, chilling the hearts of the people, and any manner of striding beasts stalked the forests. It was thought that the time of the greatest threat was near, and so many knights were awakened to join the living heroes who rose at that time to fight them off.”
“You mean—dragons?” Daniel asked, amazed.
“Yes. It was the hardest task of all to rid the island of its dragons. There were some that had gained a firm hold. They are devious creatures—more cunning than men, with souls as cold and powerful as glaciers. They feed on fear and terror and are never wholly out of the hearts of men. But they were not the only foes.”
“There were others? More monsters?”
Modwyn drew in a breath. “Yes, of many various kinds: those of the mischievous variety—wisps, brownies, kobolds, hobgoblins, and ghouls—as well as the larger types—ogres, trolls, and changelings. All of these have been exiled to the lower parts of the world, where it is hot and watch is kept on their doorways. For if once a foothold is gained by that world in this, then the two start mixing.
Babies are stolen to become elf princes; those who would be witches and warlocks sell their souls for power; men are knitted into were–creatures, and it is harder to separate the undead darkness from the world. That was how the elves—the hidden people—became corrupted. It was very hard to force them out of the land.”
“And you said that the knights woke up to help the heroes of that time, right?” said Freya as she started to make sense of this fantastic information.
“Yes,” said Modwyn.
“So you always needed living heroes because mortal people are the only ones who can destroy evil and put an end to the cycles,” said Freya.
“Well said,” Modwyn nodded. “It is just so.”
“And right now,” asked Daniel, “are we the heroes?”
“They can’t destroy Gád or the yfelgópes,” said Freya, gazing levelly at Modwyn, “but we can, because we’re mortal.”
Modwyn nodded again.
“Because we can die,” Daniel added.
“That is right,” said Modwyn softly.
“If Gád is getting more and more powerful,” Daniel continued after another thoughtful pause, “and the yfelgópes are getting to be more and more, then doesn’t that mean . . . eventually . . . that all the monsters will come back?”
“It will mean that,” said Modwyn, “if we don’t find a way of stopping him. The tides of darkness continually wax and wane, and we are in the middle of a strong flow at the moment. For years, evil has been building and gathering on these shores. But that question doesn’t rest on us below, it rests on the state of the souls of those above. If things get worse—if events occur as Ealdstan predicts— then we may yet see monsters again on the Island of the Mighty. We wait and watch. It is what we do. It is what we have always done.
“But don’t look so sad, children,” Modwyn said with a genuine smile. “The battle against darkness is not our battle alone. Whether that darkness be within him or without, it is a war that man has fought since first he awoke. It is the most sublime battle in the universe, and it brings freedom to whoever fights in it, to whatever effect. Although our suffering may be greater than another’s, so also is our blow against the opposer, and our victory and reward the sweeter. For this reason we were placed in this life to fight, and we are fighting as best we can. It may be dark now, and it may be darker henceforth. Our strength may leave us, but what we achieve will not be insignificant, and it will not be unnoticed. The greater the toil in our agony, the greater our glory at the last.”
Daniel and Freya sat still, hardly breathing. They knew that something was expected of them—some sort of commitment or response—but it meant that they would be in danger of pain and death and everything in between. Neither of them could bring themselves to speak. Modwyn herself seemed to be pressing them to say what they knew they had to say.
But still, they said nothing, terrified.
“Come with me,” she said, rising with stately grace. “There is something else you should see.”
3
They ascended the stairs again and went higher up the tower than they had yet gone. She made several halting pauses as if she didn’t completely remember where she was going.
Finally the three came to a metal door that Modwyn opened by turning a large wheel in its centre like a submarine hatch. Freya thought this rather odd and out of place, but had only a couple of seconds to wonder at it before she saw what was on the other side of the door.
They gasped. The room, which was as big as Freya’s bedroom, was filled with modern machinery. At least, it seemed modern in comparison to everything else in Niðergeard. It was more like the sort of technology in old science fiction TV shows—large metal banks and cabinets with dials and switches on them—dials and switches like those in World War II bombers. There was an ornate wrought-iron chair of typical Niðergeard design at a small desk that held a pair of massive headphones that were connected to the bank by a dangling, decaying, coiled cord.
“What is it?” Freya asked Modwyn.
“Our radio,” Modwyn replied frankly. “Ealdstan brought a man in to make it almost a hundred years ago. Our blacksmiths and craftsmen made each piece that he needed to his specifications. Ealdstan said that it would be very useful, and it has been in the past, but it’s been some time since we’ve had any need to come in here.”
She walked over to a large wheel that jutted out from the wall opposite the headphones. It was solid metal, about two feet wide and two inches thick. Modwyn gripped it by its edges and put her whole weight and strength into turning it. It moved slowly and continued turning when she let go. A red lightbulb above it glowed on.
“Do you still use radios where you live?” Modwyn asked.
They both nodded.
Modwyn flipped a large switch that fell into place with a thunk. There was a popping sound, and then a hum filled the room.
“As long as the wheel is turning, the radio will work. If the wheel stops, then give it another turn.” She disconnected the headphones from the machine and a static susurrus filled the air. She went over to a large dial that had many numbers and radial lines on it.
“Turn this to hear different reports and sounds.” With more difficulty than Freya or Daniel would have had, she found a station broadcasting an interview show.
“You may listen as long as you like. If you need something, come and see me or Frithfroth or Cnafa and Cnapa.” She went to the door and turned to them before she left and said, “Destruction and evil is spreading in this world. Listen for yourself.”
They sat for some time, listening to the soothing voices on the radio spar snidely about the current conflict in Palestine, as it related to a book that one of them had written. Shortly after that came the BBC Radio 4 call signal and a political debate show that discussed the proper response towards a certain African despot. Daniel stood up just as the discussion opened to include a South American dictator and turned the large dial to a music station. Then he gave the large flywheel a little more momentum and sat back down next to Freya.
They listened to songs number nine to five on a station’s pop music countdown and then the playlist broke for a news roundup.
There were four items: there was the African dictator again, a young boy who had been stabbed in London the previous night, a body count of people who had been crushed to death in a religious ceremony in India, and a car bomb that had gone off in a British embassy in a country they knew of but couldn’t place. The three-and-a-half-minute segment ended with the prime minister announcing that the army, which was occupying that country, already had suspects in hand and “a very hard line would be taken with them, and those in the area, to ensure that such events do not happen again.” Then there were some commercials.
They finished out listening to the top pop songs countdown, and Freya got up to turn the dial just as the news program started to repeat.
They didn’t know how many hours they sat listening. Perhaps it was a full day. It was both comforting and disturbing to listen to the radio. Comforting because it was familiar and reminded them of home, but disturbing because they couldn’t deny what Modwyn had said: a lot of bad things were happening in the world. Some of them seemed small—the shootings, kidnappings, and murders— compared to the larger events like wars, riots, and racial killings on a national scale.
“Do you think it was always that way?” Freya asked.
“I don’t know, but it’s that way now.”
“It seems like a lot of these things are really big problems.
Were there always rulers who killed lots of people? And wars?”
“Must have been,” Daniel said. “But that doesn’t mean that what Modwyn says is wrong.”
“But it doesn’t make it true either. She could have planned all this.”
“Planned what? News reports on the BBC? Even if she could, why? Why would she, or they, need to trick us? Why would they want us to do this quest?”
“Who knows?”
Daniel thought some more as classical music played on the radio. “Well, even assuming the worst, I don’t see how we’re going to get out of it. Either we go on this quest to destroy Gád’s heart, or what? We stay here forever?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Daniel thought for a moment. “I feel like I fit in here,” he said eventually, in a low voice, almost surprised at his own honesty.
“You ‘fit in here’? More than the place you grew up in—where you were born? Is school really that bad?”
“You have no idea how much I hate school. And it’s not just that, it’s . . . everywhere. Even in my own home I’m ignored, or in the way. At least here people pay attention to me, you know? Swiðgar and Ecgbryt and Modwyn—even Ealdstan—it’s like we matter here. If we did this, we’d really make a difference.”
“You don’t think you matter in the real world?”
“Do you?” he shot back. “Sorry, of course you do,” he continued sarcastically. “You come from a well-off family in a nice area who has a lot of stuff and parents who like you and give you hugs and presents and cake—”
“Shut up,” Freya said angrily. Daniel didn’t dare look at her but knew that she was glaring at him fiercely. He played with the straps on his shoes instead. “What if I do have all those things? I don’t, but so what if I did? It’s not my fault, is it? I didn’t choose my family or where I got born, so I’m not going to apologise, am I? Anyway, I’m not making you poor, or lonely, or messing up your relationship with your parents.”
“What parents?” Daniel murmured, an uncomfortable lump in his throat. “We’ve known each other since before primary school. I’ve been around your place, but why do you think I never invited you around mine? The last memory I have of my dad is him shouting at my nan. He left me with a mum who sleeps all day, goes clubbing every night, and is always rat-arsed wherever she is.”
There was a pause.
“Rat-arsed?” Freya asked. For some reason, this struck her as funny. She couldn’t stop a giggling snort from escaping her.
“What?” asked Daniel peevishly, but he was smiling too.
“I’m sorry.” Freya gave another little laugh.
Daniel grinned a little wider. “It’s not funny,” he said, still trying to be mad but failing. “It’s really not.”
“No, I know, it’s just . . .” She laughed again and Daniel joined her.
“What are we going to do?” Freya asked once they had stopped laughing.
“I don’t see what option we have.”
“Destroy the evil wizard?”
“Let’s do it.”
“This sounds important. It’s an adventure,” Freya said, smiling. “A once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
“At least I hope it is.” Daniel gave Freya a smile back and they rose together to find Modwyn.
“We want to help,” Freya announced when they found her.
“We’re going to help you destroy Gád.”
“And we want weapons,” Daniel added.
4
Ecgbryt passed his torch to Freya before throwing his weight on a huge iron latch set into a tall stone door. He rattled some other levers, then leaned back on an iron ring, slowly setting the door in motion. Daniel and Freya took several steps back as it ponderously swung towards them. This was the armoury, and it was meant to be hard to get into.
A tide of musty air swept over them, making the torch flicker as Ecgbryt took hold of it again. He led them inside, and Daniel and Freya marveled as the torchlight was reflected and refracted from thousands of shining surfaces. The deep room was filled with shelves, racks, and stands containing swords, shields, spears, helmets, and various parts and types of armour.
“To be on a warrior’s quest,” explained Ecgbryt cheerily as he led them through the weapon hall, “means to be, in part, a warrior. And to be a warrior means, in part, to carry a weapon. For that purpose we are here.”
They walked past shelves of helmets that ranged from simple half spheres of metal to those with noseguards and neck protectors, to those with face deflectors, to those with moveable visors. On the other side of the aisle were racks of axes, some of them like Ecgbryt’s, with straight edges, some of them with curved single edges, some of them with two curved edges, some of them small— as long as his own arm—and some on thick poles much taller than he was. It was like being in a museum, but the artifacts were not behind glass, nor were they old and rusted. All of them looked well polished, well oiled, very strong, and often very, very sharp.
“Are any of them magical?” Daniel asked. “Or enchanted?”
“Enchanted? Nay,” said Ecgbryt with an emphatic shake of his head. “At least,” he said and paused, a disturbed expression flicking across his face, “I hope they aren’t. No, no one would dare . . .”
“But—but wouldn’t that be best? At least, for us?” Freya asked.
Ecgbryt frowned and shrugged. “I don’t believe so. There’s nothing better than a solid piece of steel strongly wrought and well crafted. That’s as strong an enchantment as you will ever want in any battlefield—more reliable as well. Most hero feats were completed with a decent slice of metal and a bold heart. It is unwise to trust enchantments—they often let you down when you need them most.”
Ecgbryt stopped at a rack and ran his finger along a row of sheathed knives and daggers. “Ah, these will do,” he said, picking out two of them. “Here,” he said, passing them along. “Take one each.
A good knife is essential on any journey.” They were small blades, comparatively speaking, only about the length of a hand, with snug leather sheaths, bone handles, and stout metal hand guards.
“I will not deny,” said Ecgbryt as he continued down the hall, “that one may hear of an enchanted blade lending strength to an already strong warrior from time to time. But that warrior still must move it. Some blades of renown are even named and are famous for their names. Even so, can you name any blade more famous than the warrior who lofted it? For what is the use of any object, hallowed though it may be, without a strong hand to lift it? It would be like a horse with no rider—it serves nothing higher than its own purpose. Here we are.”
They stopped in front of a line of spears bundled upright along the back wall. Ecgbryt pulled a couple apart, twice as high as either of his companions, and hefted them in his hand.
“I don’t suppose either of you has started practicing combat yet?” the large knight asked.
“Of course not,” said Freya.
“Pity. That will make it harder to choose the right form of weapon. However, you’ve killed an yfelgóp between you with very little at hand, and that’s not a small thing. I have seen the body and recognised a masterly killing stroke.” He gave Freya a sly glance.
“Certain are you that you’ve never used a spear?” he asked again.
“No!” replied Freya, exasperated. “Well, I threw javelin at school a few times.”
“She was good,” Daniel said.
“Javelin, is it?” Ecgbryt grinned. “Then the choice is clear. I shall start you on your height and a quarter.” He walked down the line a distance until he came to some irregular spears of different lengths. He sorted through them briefly and then uttered an exclamation. “Aha! The very thing.”
He held before Freya a slim white piece of wood as tall as she was. It was lengthened by a metal shaft about a foot long and topped with a diamond-shaped tip.
“Not quite a javelin, but still it is of Roman design,” Ecgbryt told her. “The Romans—or those we used to call the Laedenware— developed spearcraft to a brilliant form, and it will serve you well. The shaft is ash, naturally, the tip tempered iron. It has good balance, and this is how you can tell.” He cradled the spear at both ends of the wooden shaft, between his thumb and forefinger. He then slowly brought his hands together. “The point at which the hands meet is the centre . . . right here.” He circled his hand around the spot and then passed it to her. “Hold it. Heft it for yourself.”
Freya reluctantly took the weapon from him. It was heavier than she expected. She found its centre for herself. “That is the point at which you would grip it,” Ecgbryt said, “if you were to hurl it at an enemy. The Laedenes were keen on such tactics, but I would not advise anyone to throw away a weapon in the normal course of combat. It leaves one short armed and usually gives an opponent the advantage of, in this case, a well-balanced spear. Its tip is designed to pierce armour and yet come out again easily.”
Freya regarded the spear she held in her hand with a doubtful expression. “No thanks,” she said, handing the spear back to Ecgbryt.
Ecgbryt didn’t take it.
“I don’t—I wouldn’t feel comfortable taking it. I don’t know how to use it and—so, anyway, thanks.” She pushed the spear at him again.
Ecgbryt took it but did not return it to the ranks. He held it lightly, absentmindedly, between his fingers and thumb. He shrugged and turned to Daniel, raising his eyebrows.
“And now, young Daniel, we come to you. You defended yourself well with a poker, did you not? How did you find it?”
Daniel squirmed uneasily. “I don’t know. It was . . . difficult.”
Ecgbryt nodded patiently. “Aye.”
“Also frustrating,” Daniel added, “because I couldn’t hurt him with it. I could only defend myself, and it was hard to move. Heavy.”
Ecgbryt smoothed his beard braids. “Yes. A mace or war–hammer would take much strength that would be difficult for you to muster—although you managed to wield it quite swiftly against a knife. Perhaps something to grow into.” Turning, he said, “I have an idea which may be better.”
“Wait, Ecgbryt,” Freya blurted. “Wait a second.” Ecgbryt turned to her. “All this fighting, all these weapons—are you sure this is the right thing to do?”
Ecgbryt’s face appeared blank in the torchlight.
“I mean, isn’t there a peaceful way to do this, without, you know, killing things? It might have been different in your time, but these days people like to talk about peaceful . . .”
Freya’s voice trailed off as Ecgbryt crouched down in front of her, his eyes looking earnestly into hers. He knelt on one knee and squared an elbow on the other. “Bless you for saying that,” he said in a low voice. “Bless you.” His eyes lost focus, his gaze drifting behind her, beyond the walls of the room.
“In my time,” he started and then stopped. He swallowed, looking down at the floor. His eyes came back up and they were steady and firm. “I grew up in the west lands of South Briton—the Kingdom of Sussex. Since before I was born, the Dane men had been making raids upon the northern kingdoms of the isle in their long boats. They would merrily leave their homes waving good-bye to their wives and children as if going on a hunting party. When they arrived, after working themselves into a battle-blindness upon the waves, they would kill another man’s wife and another man’s children for the gain of his pantry, sacking churches, monasteries, feast halls— “As I grew they became bolder, going so far as to settle the land they were continually attacking in order to more efficiently ravage the south lands. There was no telling when they might strike or where. One summer the village next to ours was hit. Everyone was killed—everyone. Lads I had known since before memory were hewn in two like saplings and men gutted like pigs. The noble men and women were bound and taken away to be ransomed.
“It was then that Ælfred the Geatolic arose to defy the invaders. He was an honourable man. As bold as he was wise, as loving as he was fierce. And he was canny, oh so canny. But he was not jealous of his intelligence, for he built up men’s minds and souls as he built his fleet, always strengthening and improving. In this way he was able to rally and unite the kingdoms of the realm and to continually press the Danes and harry them as never before.
“Swa swa,” he continued with a sigh. “There was much fighting. Much blood. Terrible hardships. Their king, Guthrum, the Battle Wyrm, was wily and deceitful, and despite Ælfred’s tenacity there looked to be times when we would not win through. But at Ethandun we did. It was a day lived in hell by every man there. We fought from dawn until dusk, bitter, hard, with watering eyes and grinding teeth, and we beat them back, all of them, to their burgh in Readinga. Come fortnight, they surrendered.
“And Ælfred, instead of killing the invading king as an example for all other would-be attackers, forgave him, schooled him in the way of The Cross, and stood father to him in the church as the heathen Dane had his soul washed. I was there and near wept like a babe.
“War is only barbaric when fought by barbarians— dishonourable when fought by those with no honour. We did not fight for gain, ambition, our right, or even justice in those days. To revenge ourselves on the Dane would have forced us into atrocities as great as they raised against us and made our souls as dark.
We fought for peace, for every man’s peace—including those who opposed us. And our actions bear us out, for they were allowed to reside on the island from that day forth, so long as they lived in peace. Was there ever such fruit of war as that? Perhaps you have seen such. I pray you have, for I would pity you if you have not.
“That is why I fight now. For peace. And I will fight until the end of time to win it.” He tilted the spear, still in his hand at Freya, but she refused it again.
Ecgbryt turned to Daniel.
“I want a sword,” Daniel said, smiling. “A long one, I think.”
5
The blacksmith staggered into his workshop, exhausted from hewing stones. He felt the uncommon chill of the room caused by the forge having grown cold while he had been helping to repair the wall. Moving to the fire pit, he stirred the embers with an unfinished sword shaft and shoveled in a couple scoops of coal. This was no enchanted fire but one that needed constant attention. Right now he needed it to be hot—a working flame. In a small handcart by the door he had chisels and picks that needed to be sharpened and tempered for work on the repairs.
As he watched the new coal catch, he became aware of a shuffling behind him. He expected his assistant, and was about to berate him for letting the fire burn so low, when he saw the shape in the doorway. Turning fully, he saw one of the lifiendes— the boy—clutching a sword in his hands. Clearing his throat, he gruffly asked the lad his business.
The boy held up his weapon and mumbled something. He asked the boy to speak up.
“I—I’ve seen some of the knights’ swords have got writing on them,” he stammered. “Could you do that for me?”
The blacksmith said that he could.
“I’d like to have my name on this sword, in the same writing as theirs.”
The blacksmith huffed and stepped towards him, taking the sword from his hands. He turned it over and recognised the work and style. He tapped the steel with a hammer and listened for its hardness. It was a soft blade and he told the boy so. He saw the young one’s face fall and hastened to explain that this blade’s edge was as sharp as any hard blade’s edge but had less chance of shattering than a hard one. It would serve him well, provided he didn’t use it to fence with rocks. As to the name, he replied that it could be easily done, but why should it be done?
The boy said softly, “Because I’m going on a dangerous mission and I might not come back. And if someone finds my sword . . . I want them to know that it was mine, and that I tried.”
The blacksmith smoothed his beard and nodded as he turned his broad back. He rooted around on a high shelf and found a scrap of parchment. He laid it in front of the boy and gave him a stick of charcoal, instructing him to write his name in plain letters, as he wanted it to appear on the blade. As he waited he noticed the child’s thin legs, weak arms, and small chest. His mind went back to a time when children were not an unfamiliar sight, even in his own house. He thought how unsuited this child was to a sword of any type. Was he raised with an illness, or just born small and thin? Perhaps all children looked this way now. Or perhaps they always had and he’d forgotten.
The boy finished and straightened himself, placing the charcoal flat on the table. He scratched away for a few moments and then looked up. “I’d like a name for it. What are some good sword names?”
The smith shrugged and gave him some—many famous, others not so. Gradually, they came to an agreement about what the sword’s name should be and the blacksmith instructed the boy that the work would be sent to the Langtorr in due time. The boy thanked him and then left.
The blacksmith returned to his forge, heaped more coal into the fire pit, and started working the bellows.
6
Preparations for the departure were almost finished. The group would be Swiðgar, Ecgbryt, Daniel, and Freya. For a time it looked as if Godmund would come with them—he would certainly have been appreciated—but it was decided that his skills would be needed defending Niðergeard if there was another assault.
So while supplies were being gathered, Ecgbryt took it upon himself to teach Daniel the principles of armed combat. Freya watched, and after a while decided to take part as well—she figured it would be easier to stay out of the way of someone else’s weapon if she knew how they’d use it. The lessons involved far more talking and explanation than Daniel thought necessary, followed by an almost mindless repetition of motion—sword thrusts and jabs by him, and parries and blocks by Freya. This was done, Ecgbryt said, in order that the most basic strokes and motions of their weapons became as natural to their bodies as breathing.
They became tired very quickly. Daniel was sweating heavily and Freya’s arms felt as if they were going to fall off. She found it hard to catch her breath. They went back to their rooms for a short rest and a wash in the shallow bowls on their tables. Daniel lay down on the bed and let himself drift off. When he woke up he knocked on Freya’s door, but there was no answer. He wandered outside.
As he approached the stone bench—their stone bench—that gave the best, secluded view of the wall repairs, he found Freya already there. He smiled as soon as he saw her. She had her wooden practice spear resting next to her and was wearing a dress—one of the old-style gowns that had been provided for her. It was elaborately embroidered but of a simple design. The cloth and pattern were similar to his own shirt, but hers was a deep brick-red colour.
“I like it,” he said.
Smoothing some of the folds of her skirt, she gave a self-conscious smile. “Thanks. My school clothes were getting really tatty. And with those traveling cloaks they made for us, I thought— why not?”
“It looks good—the dark red works on you. It’s nice.”
“Thanks.”
Daniel nodded and took a seat next to her, his eyes on the reparations to the wall. The workers were starting to fill the gap with new cut stone and had moved large iron pulleys and winches onto the battlements to lift the heavy blocks.
“I really don’t want to go on this . . . mission,” Freya said.
“How did I guess?”
“We’ll probably get killed if we go.”
“We’ll probably get killed if we stay.”
“It’s ‘damned if you do, damned if you don’t.’ That’s what my dad says sometimes.”
Daniel smiled and picked up a few pebbles from the ground. “I think I’d rather die doing something than die doing nothing,” he said, throwing one of his pebbles at a larger rock. “Especially something heroic. Something that no one else can do except for us. Something that will destroy something evil.”
Freya sighed and picked up a handful of pebbles as well. She started throwing them at the same rock. “I honestly don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t think this is a happy story. The world is so much more complicated than that cheesy ‘because they were children they were able to overcome the evil-but-stupid wizard’ nonsense they feed to you in kids’ movies. That stuff never really happens. It’s just something grown-ups come up with to make children feel better—to make them think that they aren’t small and insignificant.”
Daniel threw another couple stones. “Maybe. Although we have come this far. We survived an yfelgóp attack. We even survived Ealdstan,” he said with a grin. “Here,” he said brightly, “look what I got.” He lifted a bundle he’d been carrying that was wrapped in an oilcloth. Unwrapping it, he showed her the sword he’d picked out, pulling it partway out of the scabbard. The words that the blacksmith engraved were easy to pick out on the polished surface, but Freya couldn’t read them.
“See this?” Daniel showed one side to her, which read HAELEÞSCIEPPENDE IC EOM. “It means ‘Hero-Maker, I am.’ That’s the name of my sword, Hero-Maker. And on this side,” he said, flipping the blade over, “it says ‘Ic agenes a Daniel Tully’, or ‘I belong to Daniel Tully.’ ”
“Now if I stab anyone,” he said, smiling, “at least they’ll know my name.”
Freya couldn’t help laughing.
“Whatever happens,” Daniel said, sliding his sword into its sheath, “I’ll protect you. You know that, right?”
Freya turned to him, her eyes lively and a sardonic grin on her face. “Why would I need protecting from you? I was the one who saved you when that thing had you on the floor.”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“He was going to eat your face,” she teased.
“Gross! He was not.”
Freya stood on the bench and grabbed her spear, brandishing it at him. “I completely saved you. You only want me to come along because I’m a better warrior than Swiðgar and Ecgbryt put together!”
Daniel started to duel with her using his sheathed sword. “Hey, you said their names right! You’ve been practicing, haven’t you?”
“Maybe,” Freya grunted, attacking him with the blunt end of the spear. “Admit it, you want me to come so that I can save your life again.” He held on to her spear and she spun around and grabbed his arm, twisting it playfully around his back. “Admit it!”
“Ah! Okay, okay! You’re right! Leggo!”
Freya released him and fell back, laughing. She seemed to come to herself again and her laughter stilled. “What is going to happen to us?”
“I don’t know,” Daniel said, a smile still on his face. “So let’s find out.”
7
The travelers gathered silently around the base of the Great Carnyx—Daniel, Freya, Swiðgar, and Ecgbryt. There were also those who had come to see them off—Modwyn, Godmund, Frithfroth, the servants Cnafa and Cnapa, and another man— one who stood a small distance apart, making it clear that he didn’t want to talk to anyone; the blacksmith who had worked on Daniel’s sword. Ecgbryt fiddled with his pack’s straps as Swiðgar clamped his teeth on his empty clay pipe. Freya tugged at her dress and Daniel fidgeted with the hilt of his sword.
“Remember,” Godmund said, reiterating the plan for the umpteenth time, “there are many paths through the Wild Caves that will take you to the Slæpismere—and all of them bend downwards. Once across the Slæpismere, look for any sign that might lead you, but remember that which you are pitched against is devious and diabolical.”
They were waiting for Ealdstan, and he was not soon in coming. From time to time Daniel glanced up at the large metal horn—the Carnyx—suspended in its small, blunt fortress. The great horn possessed an oddly attractive power. It was captivating, hypnotic. They would tear their eyes away, only to be unwittingly drawn back to it again.
Daniel wondered how many knights would wake up and where they’d be if ever the horn was blown. How would they know what to do?
Freya, however, was wondering what sort of enchantment empowered it and how it worked. Perhaps there was a rational, scientific explanation. Perhaps it was a vibrational thing.
A bell tolled from across the city, signaling the change of the watch, and Godmund made his good-bye. He embraced Swiðgar and Ecgbryt and wished the “fair lifiendes every good fortune and preservation on the journey,” which he hoped would be swift. He shook hands with them awkwardly and left.
Frithfroth puffed out his cheeks impatiently and scuffed his feet against the close-set green and red marble flagstones.
Removing his pipe and placing it in a small leather pouch, Swiðgar cleared his throat. “Time marches on,” he said firmly, “and so must we.”
“Hold,” said Modwyn. “He approaches.”
They turned to see Ealdstan striding across the square, a scowl on his face. He met them and turned his weary eyes to Daniel.
“Destroy it, boy,” he commanded. “Destroy whatever houses Gád’s mortality—whatever the soul box contains—and all his spells and sorceries will unravel.”
Freya didn’t appreciate being ignored in this exchange but was glad she didn’t have to talk to the mean-spirited wizard. Daniel returned Ealdstan’s gaze with a fixed face and gave a solemn nod.
“I won’t let you down.”
Then, with a mournful look, Ealdstan sighed. “I truly wish it was not necessary for you to become involved.” He raised his hands and uttered in a steady voice:
“May the Hand that Makes guide your hearts, May the Light that Illumines shine on your path, And the One that Goes Between aid your steps.”
He dropped his hands unceremoniously.
Then he offered one final piece of advice. “Follow the water,” he said, and turned away. Modwyn frowned after him and turned to Freya. As she opened her mouth to speak, the alarm bell tolled violently. She stiffened, startled.
“Another attack!” Frithfroth exclaimed, his eyes wide with fear. He bowed quickly to Daniel and Freya. “Good-bye, children, may you return swiftly and whole, your task complete.” He rushed away with the two servants behind him.
“You must hurry,” Modwyn said, pushing Freya and Daniel towards the Carnyx building. “The entrance to the Wild Caves is within.” They dashed into it, closely followed by the knights, passing under a low archway, next to which stood several anxious guards. Once through the arch, large metal doors were swung shut and locked behind them.
The inside of the building was like a small maze. The walls and paths twisted and branched, making, supposedly, the centre easier to defend. The knights very quickly led them through the narrow passages. Looking up, Freya saw that it was the central chamber that housed the Carnyx suspended above their heads. Set into the wall was another pair of stone doors a foot wide, tilted back at an angle, like the doors to a bunker or storm cellar. Ecgbryt and Swiðgar flung these open, revealing a tunnel that sloped downwards.
Grabbing two silver lanterns and passing one to Ecgbryt, Swiðgar hurried them inside. With tremendous effort, he pulled both the stone doors closed. They met with an earth-shaking thud and sealed so that they were neat and flush with the other stones in the wall—as if there had never been a doorway there at all.