Ross Lawhead (26 page)

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.