Ross Lawhead (19 page)

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.”