Ross Lawhead (7 page)

“Sooth,” agreed Ecgbryt. “It is no boast to tell that of all nobles alive in our age there were none better against a more bitter foe— it is simple truth. The evidence for those words is that we stand before you, for it is why we were chosen. Is it not so?”

“A plain fact,” confirmed Swiðgar with a nod. “Though we are cousins, they called us brothers—we are that much alike in war. Blood could not make us closer.”

“An aye to that!”

“H—how,” Daniel blurted, “how long have you been here?”

Swiðgar began stroking his beard. “Hmm. We were laid to sleep in the same year in which Ælfred the Geatolic died . . . which would be . . .”

“Ah, Blessed Ælfred,” Ecgbryt sighed, his eyes shifting focus. “England's shepherd and dearling. He was the greatest king since Arthur, Bear of Britain. So wise was Ælfred, it was said that even the elves sought his council. And more than this, he brought all of the
Anglecynn
under one banner.”

“We fought with him against the North-men, the terrible Dane
jarls
from their lands of ice.” The knights leaned in eagerly, their earnest faces now close to Daniel's and Freya's. “Though on occasion defeated in the field, we were not defeated in spirit, and our spirits lent strength to our arms—”

“—and our hands fell the faster in battle because of it.”

Swiðgar stood up. “But to put a number to your question, I reckon we have been lying here more than five times two hundred years.”

“One thousand years?” Freya exclaimed. “But that's impossible!”

“Not impossible,” Ecgbryt replied and stood up next to Swiðgar. “Just very uncommon. And difficult—especially in full battle dress and stretched on a cold stone.” He looked from Freya to Daniel. “It makes a body a mite stiff.”

“An aye to that.”

“What are you going to do now?” Freya asked.

“Well, that depends on you, young æðelingas,” Swiðgar answered. “What are
you
to do now?”

Freya and Daniel looked at each other. “We need to get back to our class,” Freya said. “They'll be leaving now—”

“Is that so?” said Swiðgar in an odd voice. “Back to your ‘class,' eh? Back to those you belong to, or who belong to you. Yes, I suppose you could leave, if you could find your way back . . .”

Swiðgar stepped aside and revealed the archway through which Daniel and Freya had walked.

It was completely sealed up.

“No,” Freya moaned. They both rushed forward and pressed their hands against the stone, which was now under the bevelled archway, as if it had always been there. They tried to find a crack or seam that ran along the edge that might suggest it was actually a stone door that had closed or slid shut. They pushed it, banged it, tapped it, thumped it, and kicked it, but it did not respond in the slightest. It was cold, solid, and immovable.

“You'll not be going back that way,” Ecgbryt said.

“When did—
how
did this happen?” Freya gasped. “There was a passage here, a tunnel! Where did it go?”

“The sun will have set by now,” Swiðgar said. “That is a special wall; it only opens at a certain time, and for certain people.”

“I don't understand,” Freya said.

“When the sun has just gone below the earth, but there are not yet any stars out, that is the time when the wall may open—under certain circumstances.”

“We need—we have to get out,” Freya said, starting to panic. “I have to get home.”

“Calm yourself, little æðeling,” Ecgbryt soothed. “That is not the only way out.”

Ecgbryt stepped aside to reveal a plain tunnel that had opened in the wall opposite. Daniel and Freya dashed over to it. There was no archway, just a gap in the wall about the height and width of one of the knights. “That wasn't there before,” Freya stated.

“Are you so sure?”

“Yes!”

“Where does it lead?” asked Daniel.

“It leads to the underground city of Niðergeard,” Swiðgar said. He moved close and placed a large, heavy hand on Daniel's shoulder. “It is the only portal you'll find here. The only way out. We must take you there, young Daniel and young Freya.”

“Aye,” agreed Ecgbryt, pulling a burning log from the brazier, holding it like a torch. “And it's past time we started to cover ground.”

CHAPTER THREE
That Time We Saved the World

1

Now . . .

Daniel was walking down Walton Street—there were police officers at the canal. It was cold and drizzly, and their high-visibility coats stood out like beacons. They stood huddled together just outside of a small marquee-style tent, warming their hands on paper cups of coffee and tea. Inside the tent, they were presumably studying the body Daniel had killed.

He'd kept his pace and turned his head to show what he felt was the expected amount of interest for a passerby to give a crime scene. Then he took a turn down Hollybrush Road, another at St. Thomas's Street, and then up Worcester Street. He wondered where it would be best for him to lay low. The police kept a pretty accurate and up-to-date social map of the Oxford indigent community, he knew. It was starting to look like a cold sleep in Port Meadow tonight. Maybe then he'd think about walking up to Abbingdon, or even Reading.

But it was while walking down Walton Street that he noticed a couple of officers were following him—at least, he felt like they were following him. They were walking the same street as he was, which was long and busy. It could be a coincidence, he thought. Or perhaps not.

He was just re-plotting a route that would take him out of their direction when he heard a familiar voice call his name. He turned and saw Freya waving at him. She wasn't wearing a coat or jacket. Daniel backtracked and came to stand near her.

“Hi, um,” she said, wrapping her arms around her chest and huddling against the cold. “I've got a table in there.” Freya motioned to a café with red trim and large-paned windows. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Daniel looked past her at the two policemen walking leisurely up the street and nodded. Freya smiled at him. “Good.”

They entered and went up to the counter. “What would you like?”

“Tea. Hot tea.”

“Anything to eat?”

Daniel shrugged. He was famished but didn't want her to know that.

“The toasted sandwiches are good. How about one of those? Ham and cheese?”

Daniel nodded.

“Cool. Why don't you sit down? I'm over there.” She pointed to a table near the window. Daniel turned and went to the table. He pulled out one of the rickety wooden chairs and lowered himself onto it.

There was a pile of books stacked haphazardly next to an open laptop. He looked at their spines. When was the last time he'd read a book? He picked up the one lying on top. It was a thin, small white book—an untranslated study edition of
The Wanderer
. He opened it, paged past the introduction, and started to read the poem.

Freya joined him shortly, bringing a large mug of steaming tea with her. She placed it in front of Daniel. “They'll bring the sandwich to us when it's ready. So,” she said uncertainly, closing her laptop. “How've you been?”

Daniel looked at the pile of books on the table. “What are you studying?”

“Uh, philosophy and theology. At Pembroke.”

“Which is this?” Daniel said, flipping through the booklet.

“Philosophy or theology?”

Freya's brow tightened. “That's—just for me.”

Daniel nodded and put the book back on the pile and focused on his tea. He poured some milk into it from a small pitcher on the table. Then he started adding sugar.

Freya leaned forward and put her chin in her hands. They sat in silence for a little while, Freya looking at the table, Daniel sipping from his tea until it was cool enough to take large gulps from.

The sandwich arrived and Freya shifted things on the table to give Daniel room to eat. He asked for some mustard and the waiter brought it.

“So,” she said. “I've seen you on the street.”

“I called to you once.”

“I heard you, but . . . I wasn't ready to see you.”

Daniel nodded and took a bite of his sandwich.

“What happened?” she asked.

Daniel chewed for a moment. “Things got kind of rough with Mum. Me being missing was really hard on her. Things were better when I got back . . . and then they got worse. I think, in a way, she really enjoyed the attention she got when I was gone—she's still got the newspapers with all the headlines from that time. And when we turned up again, she was overjoyed—there were interviews and photo shoots for a couple weeks, and then they—the newspapers—stopped calling. And a couple days after that, they stopped returning her calls. She went through her first wave of depression then. I learned to stay out of her way. Nothing I could do would make her happy. She'd start things with guys she'd meet from—anywhere, I guess. Those never ended well. Then, as you know, I did an apprenticeship instead of A levels—I wanted to start making money so I could get out of there.

“That fell through and I couldn't get any more work. I joined the army, the regular army, for a year or so. That was a problem for me. I left and I've been on the streets for about . . . six months now?”

Freya couldn't look at Daniel. She was finding it work enough to breathe past the lump in her throat. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I had no idea, all that time.”

“It's alright. You couldn't have done anything. It's like what they say about falling through the cracks—except it felt like I fell through one huge crack that I had no way of getting across. I'll get out again, somehow.” Daniel finished one half of the sandwich and picked up the other. “So, how have you been?”

Freya drew a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. “Oh, you know. Can't complain.”

Daniel laughed, a free and easy laugh. “No, seriously . . .”

“Seriously, not much. I did my A levels—history, religious studies, and philosophy—and managed to get into Oxford. I took a year out and earned some money so that I could travel, mostly around France. And . . . that's it.”

Daniel nodded and finished eating his sandwich.

“You ever think about it?” Daniel asked with a grin. “That time we saved the world?”

Freya frowned. “I try not to.”

“Why?”

“It'd be different if I could talk to someone about it, but as I can't—I've got to keep everything inside of myself. I'm still in . . . therapy, for my”—she drew another deep breath—“habits.”

“Why?”

Freya looked up, locking her eyes with his. “That wasn't a happy time of my life. It was probably the worst thing I've ever gone through.”

Daniel wiped his lips with a paper napkin and put it in his pocket. “It was the best time of my life. It's been all downhill after that.”

“Well, I'm sorry for you, then,” Freya said, pushing back and wrapping her arms around herself. “Or happy for you. Whatever.”

“Freya,” Daniel said, “do you ever think of going back?”

She tried to answer, but her lips clamped down, immovable, like concrete. She shook her head.

“I have, lots of times. I've been back to that church we visited— lots of times. I've poked around, in the evening, dawn—and nothing. But it's important that we try to get back. I've been thinking, and I think something's happening—something to do with what we did. I've been seeing, I don't know,
signs
. If we went back, we could ask what they mean.” Daniel leaned in. In a low voice he said, “I killed a . . . a
you-know-what
two weeks ago. I think I've seen more of them around. I think I'm being followed. I've seen shapes on rooftops.”

Daniel studied Freya's face for a reaction. There wasn't one— she was still frowning—but her face seemed harder somehow, stiffer. “That's not funny.”

“Freya . . . I think—I think there are things still left to do.

We're not done. Look,” he said, drawing his notebook out of his jacket pocket. “Remember what Modwyn said about evil invading the country? I've been keeping a log of the bad things that have happened in Oxford—just in Oxford—in the last eight weeks. See, look at this chart.”

Freya closed her eyes. Her stomach was queasy. She felt like she was in a very small space with tall walls that were quickly deteriorating, and behind those walls, an ocean of fear that would come flooding through at any moment. She knew Daniel was still talking, but she couldn't hear what he was saying. He had to stop—he
had
to.

“Shut up,” she said, in a small voice.

“—where we came out. That wasn't an enchanted site. We find Alexander Simpson again—”