Ross Lawhead (25 page)

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.”