Ross Lawhead (46 page)

They walked in silence, alert to their surroundings—trying to be ready for anything unexpected. There was now more evidence of modern handiwork around them. The ledge they were on turned into a metal walkway that bridged the streams beneath them and led them under stone archways and through metal pipes, but their path never diverged from the narrowly railed walkway. Eventually, after about an hour, they allowed themselves to stop and rest.

“What's it like to be a knight?” Freya asked, more to break the silence than anything else.

“It's not an easy life,” Swiðgar answered. “There are hardships and uncertainties. At the root of most events in the warrior's life is death. It is our stock in trade. For payment a merchant will provide goods, a nobleman will provide services for the tribute you give him. A warrior will deliver death.”

“Were you always a knight?”

“Very nearly always. I was young when I entered into the service of my
dryhten
, my lord. I was just thirteen winters, but I had seen much already. My father was a scribe in Eoferwic, one of the capitals of Britain in my time. A wonderful city. He was a church man—a holy man. At that time, a great heathen army from the Danish lands arrived and settled in the area, promising peace and trade with those who lived there. The greedy men clamored to be the first to trade with them. They stayed there for a week. And when all the goods were sold, the Danesmen produced swords and started attacking the lands to the south.

“They raided Eoferwic, killing many, including our king, forcing the survivors to barter for surrender. The Vikings lived in my city, in the homes of the men they had killed. They piled the dead bodies in the wooden church and set fire to it.” He bowed his head. “My father was one of those in the burning pile of the dead.”

Swiðgar said no more, and after a moment Freya said, “I'm sorry.”

“I had a choice, then,” Swiðgar continued. “I could stay and help rebuild and fortify—perhaps take over my father's work, as

I had started to apprentice to him—but my heart was filled with anger. So, in despair, I fled south. I came across news that the king of Wessex, Æthelred, and his brother Ælfred were gathering forces to reclaim the land that was taken, and so I sought them out and joined their warband.

“I do not regret the road that I took. It has brought me honour of many kinds, and I believe I have brought honour to my land, my king, and my God with my service. But I have learned that a man cannot be just a soldier if he is to remain a man and not a monster. Destroying evil is never enough—you must also be willing to build good.”

Swiðgar fixed his eyes on the tunnel up ahead. Glancing up, Freya saw a shimmering gleam in his eyes.

“That is my one fear,” Swiðgar stated. “That throughout my life, I have not built sufficient good.”

Swiðgar said no more, only rose and started gathering his things.

Morosely, Freya joined him and they continued their journey.

The path gave a sharp turn along a wide channel that fed into an even larger river, and they were forced to walk away from the main waterway. There didn't appear to be any other choice. The large tile channel looked fairly unscalable and there was no visible walkway on the other side.

Freya's unease at this new tack quickly evaporated when she noticed a sparkle in the distance. “Swiðgar,” she whispered, “lower your light for a minute.”

He did so, and she shaded her eyes from the light it still gave.

“I think that there's a light up ahead. It might be electric.”

“Electric?”

“It's a sort of . . . light made out of . . . it's kind of scientific. It's a light made by machines.”

“I see.”

“Sort of enchanted.”

“Yes.”

They walked on, slowly drawing closer to the dim light. Freya's gaze was fixed on it as if it might disappear if she even shifted her eyes. It was a lightbulb—a single, naked, uncovered bulb. Her stomach was tense with what she supposed was anticipation— though it felt more like a giddy dread. Finally, they were standing underneath it and Freya let out a long, ragged sigh—and then found herself gasping in the cold, dank air.

“I can feel it too,” said Swiðgar.

“What?”

“The power in this place. As if all things—the walls, the air, the water—as if they all wanted to hold you down, to pull you back. For whatever reason, these things are trying to keep us away from what lies beyond. Either trying to guard it or perhaps guard us. We will walk carefully from here onwards.”

It may have been Swiðgar's words, but Freya did feel that her feet moved more reluctantly than before.

That lightbulb was the first of many; they could see more in the distance. They reached the next and found the others closer together, spaced maybe three or four meters apart in a single line above their walkway, that neither swerved nor branched off into other directions. Their presence was staggering to Freya. Not only was this a place where people had come, at least one person had come regularly enough to replace the bulbs when they burnt out. She walked beneath them, counting as she went, finding comfort in their spaced regularity. She sent her gaze farther along, counting the bulbs in the distance, when she saw something that stopped her in her tracks.

Gasping, she took a step back, falling against Swiðgar. “What is it?” he asked.

“I thought I saw someone—a person dressed in white. They just darted across the . . . the walkway up there. But they were so quick, I don't—I mean, I'm not sure what I saw. They startled me . . .”

“Stay behind me,” Swiðgar said.

They continued more slowly, with Swiðgar cautiously leading a wide-eyed Freya, eventually coming to an intersection. There were two iron walkways that went to the right and to the left.

Both were nearly identical and both led to enormous iron doors.

“I think they're pressure doors,” Freya said. “If the water gets too high, then they'll stop it from getting in. You open them by turning the wheel in the middle.”

She stood looking at them critically. “Well,” she decided, “the person I saw was moving from right to left, so I guess we should maybe take that door?” She pointed to the door on their left.

Swiðgar stroked his beard and then nodded. He put his large hands on the wheel in the middle of it and gave it a mighty turn. It gave and opened without a sound, revealing a man standing just inside, holding a large book open in front of him. He was dressed in a heavy cream-coloured robe that was slightly open to show a white robe made of some lighter, more comfortable cloth. He was old, with shoulder-length white hair and sharp features. He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Hello—?” he began, but was cut off by a cry from Swiðgar.

“Devil!” the knight shouted, leveling his spear and pulling his arm back, ready to strike.

“No!” The old man flinched and dropped his book. He leapt to the side just in time to stop being skewered by Swiðgar's spear, but not far enough to avoid it altogether. It tore into his side, causing him to cry out in agony. He dropped to his knees as Swiðgar brought his spear back again.

“Quick, lifiende,” Swiðgar urged.

“Is it Gád?”

“It is!”

“Are you sure, I mean—”

“I'm certain! Hurry, now, before he can recover—before he can speak—
kill him!
”

“What? But that won't—Daniel has to—”

“He may have done so already; in any case, it'll keep him down. Hurry now!”

Freya looked down at the old man, blood seeping from his side. “No, I—I don't think—”

Swiðgar pulled his spear back and lunged for another attack, but it was the worst thing he could have done. He thrust the spear forward just as Gád leapt aside, missing him narrowly. With unbelievable speed, Gád gripped Swiðgar's spear, bent the top end of it back, snapping it off completely, and—gripping the head by its splintered shaft—thrust it back at the knight with incredible force. It penetrated his mail coat and lodged deep into his chest.

Astounded, winded, and now mortally wounded, Swiðgar made a grab at the frail old man, who ducked and dodged out of his way. Gád then delivered a blow to Swiðgar's chest, which drove his spearhead farther into him and caused him to fall backwards against the metal door opposite.

Freya cried out and dashed to Swiðgar's side. Swiðgar moved his lips, trying to speak, but only blood came from his mouth, exploding at first, and then in cascades as he fought for breath.

“What have you done?” Freya said, turning angrily. “What have you done?!”

“Hurry,” Gád said, his hand moving back to his bloodied side. “I must talk to you. You are not out of danger yet.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Gád

1

Gád took Freya by the arm and pulled her gently across the doorway. She now found herself standing at the entrance to a large, luxuriously furnished room—completely out of place in a sewer and oddly unreal, like a movie set or a French palace. The room was several storeys high and square, with a multi-tiered floor. The walls were lined with bookcases and electric lights in extravagant sconces. Deep, red-patterned carpets were laid around the room atop white marble floors. Expensive-looking furniture filled the interior—grand armchairs, plush couches, wide tables, and a long desk—all beautifully carved and polished to a shine. There was a grand chandelier overhead, an enormous fireplace in one wall, and even an ancient TV set, the kind that looked like a small cabinet with a screen on it.

“Let go of me,” Freya said, pulling her arm away from Gád.

“I really mean you no harm,” he said, bending down before her. “I must talk to you for a few moments. Do you want to sit down? Are you hungry? Thirsty? I do so want to help.”

“Then help Swiðgar. He's still alive. He—”

“Believe me,” said Gád, standing up and moving to an armchair, “that no good would come of that. You saw his reaction upon seeing me. Is violence the first response of a reasonable man?”

“But you're evil . . . ,” Freya said, uncertainty creeping into her voice.

“Yes,” Gád said, sitting. “I assume that's what they would have told you. That's just one of the lies of Niðergeard. Please, sit down and allow me to explain.”

Cautiously, Freya approached and stood near the chair opposite. She cast a look back at Swiðgar. “Please,” she said, “before it's too late. Help him!”

“Yes, I will. But first I must see to the wound that he gave me,” Gád told her, indicating the gash at his side. “Come inside, there are things I must talk to you about.”

Reluctantly Freya followed him inside.

“I don't blame you for your trepidation,” Gád said with a wince. He leaned forward and drew out a wooden box that was underneath the chair. “It's not your fault, I know. You've been told all types of lies about me—lies that left no room for question, lies that you thought could not be challenged.”

“What lies? You control the yfelgópes. You've had Niðergeard surrounded for decades. I was there the last time you attacked. I was almost killed.”

Gád brought the box up onto his lamp and opened it. It contained bandages and bottles. He shook his head. “Lies spun with the threads of truth are always the hardest to disbelieve. Yes, I control the yfelgópes, and with them I've surrounded and attacked Niðergeard—several times now, in fact. But
why
have I done so? For what purpose? Can you tell me? Do you know?”

“Because you're ev—”

“No!” Gád snapped, thumping the box with his palm. “The exact,
specific
reason! No one is simply ‘good' or ‘evil' entirely. You can't tell me, can you? You have no idea!” Gád spat these words angrily, his face turning red. He jerked forward in his chair, causing Freya to flinch. “Stupid girl!” he spat at her.

Freya clutched the back of the chair, wanting to run but now afraid to. Gradually, however, Gád leaned back into his chair and placed a hand over his eyes.

“Forgive my temper,” he said. “I have been unjustly imprisoned by Ealdstan for hundreds of years and I have forgotten my manners. It is unfair to you, I know, and I apologise.”

He turned his attention back to the box and withdrew some sheets of sterile cotton and a bottle. He unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off his shoulders, then set about cleaning the wound.

“Yes, I've raised an army and intend to crush Niðergeard, but there is more than one reason that a man may revolt against the established order. They told you I was an oppressor, but under what circumstances would they tell you anything else? Authoritarian regimes need scapegoats to blame for their own mistakes. You've been there, you've seen what kind of place it is. The people are wasted, lifeless, spiritless. They want to die, but they keep hanging on. And whose fault is it? Not
theirs
, for the choices they've made. Not
Ealdstan's
for deceiving them. No, it's
mine
—the evil wizard's. Yes, they told you I was an oppressor, but what if I'm a freedom fighter? A revolutionary?”