“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 Swi?gar 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?”
Swi?gar began stroking his beard. “Hmm. We were laid to sleep in the same year in which ?lfred the Geatolic died . . . which would be . . .”
“Ah, Blessed ?lfred,” Ecgbryt sighed, his eyes shifting focus. “England’s shepherd and dearling. He was the greatest king since Arthur, Bear of Britain. So wise was ?lfred, 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.”
Swi?gar 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 Swi?gar. “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 ??elingas,” Swi?gar 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 Swi?gar 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 . . .”
Swi?gar 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,” Swi?gar 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 ??eling,” 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 Ni?ergeard,” Swi?gar 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 . . .
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 cafe 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 chewe
d 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-”
“Shut up-shut up. I said SHUT UP!” Freya violently slapped the table several times with the palm of her hand. Then she leaned over the table, buried her face in her hands, and started sobbing.
Daniel fell silent, as did the entire cafe. Eyes turned towards them, concerned.
Daniel looked around and smiled. The manager scowled at him from behind the counter. His look said that although a homeless man was tolerated here, so long as he paid-homeless men who disturbed his customers most certainly were not. Palms outwards, Daniel slowly pushed his chair back and rose.
“You know,” Daniel said as he slid past Freya, “if you ever wanted anyone to talk to, you could have talked to me.”
Daniel pushed through the door and headed out into the evening rain.
Freya sat guiltily, fidgeting with one of her books. Then she abruptly stood and chased after Daniel.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to yell. It just all came back really quickly.” She stood there, shivering in the sleet without her jacket. Her arms were wrapped around her stomach, as she hunched her shoulders against the cold. The gentle shower fell on her face, making it slick, wet. She lifted a hand to brush a bead of water from her brow.
“That’s alright,” Daniel said. “I’m sorry I upset you.”
“Listen, I’ve got to do something tomorrow. Do you mind if we meet the day after? We can talk about whatever you want to then.”
“I suppose that would be alright.”
“There’s a church in Summertown near where I live-St.
Michael and All Angels. Can you be there at four? So we can miss the twilight?”
“Yes, okay. I’ll see you then.”
“Okay, see you then.”
Freya left and entered the coffee shop again, hardly aware that her compulsions seemed to leave her when she was around Daniel.
2
Robin Ploughwright, Lord of the Boggy Marshes and eighteenth Earl of Shotover Hill-a portly, rotund figure-pulled a pocket watch from his large purple waistcoat and marked the time. Even though the sky was overcast, light from the setting sun reflected upon the casing and threw a ray of golden-red upon his round face. He squinted one eye at it, then closed the antique up and deposited it back into his pocket.
Not much longer now. The street that he stood on did not technically have a name but had appropriated the title “George Street Mews.” Although a public right of way, it was rarely used; too small for cars to enter, and too winding to be a shortcut between two places that few people wanted to go to anyway. His sharp hearing didn’t detect anyone at either end of the long passageway. He wouldn’t be disturbed.
He allowed himself a smile. He was happy to be back in
Oxfordshire-even if he did have to wear a different skin. The place always comforted him. It was little more than a swampy basin, really, even after all these years. Because of the hills surrounding it, the sun set early, and because of the built-up marshland, covered rivers and hidden canals flowed through many amusing areas of the city.
And then there were the people-a tidal force in themselves. Half of the year, the population swelled with the arrival of the students. When those left, the tourists descended from the skies. And always throughout there was the steady pulse of ordinary people trying to scratch out an existence. Living and dying, ebbing and flowing, it was a city of flux-always moving from one state into another, and so never really changing at all. A town rife with opportunities.
Robin’s smile twisted into a frown. Come now, surely it was time. How much longer did he have to- Ah, there it was. Th
e stone face in front of him shifted soundlessly to reveal a door-plain, ordinary, and painted blue. It bore the number 141b above a cast-iron knocker, a small flap for letters, and a worn stone step. Apart from the fact that it hadn’t been there eight seconds ago, it was completely unremarkable.
Robin produced a key and opened the door, which admitted entry not into a building but into a sparse courtyard containing a hill.
The high, blank stone walls crowded the hill, which might properly be described as no more than a mound, except that there was a luscious covering of bright green grass that was dotted with bluebells and buttercups. From the far side, a dead, withered tree protruded. It had grown once but had not bloomed in several thousand years.
Robin Ploughwright, Lord of the Boggy Marshes and eighteenth Earl of Shotover Hill, shut the door up behind him and turned to the hill, which was growing blue and cold in the falling twilight.
He found its entrance easily and went in.
The air inside the hill was musty and wet-it obviously hadn’t been aired recently. Still, he wasn’t setting up a guesthouse; he was here on business.
The way was dirty and he had to dodge many low-hanging roots before he came, with obvious relief, to the meeting hall. A small bonfire had been prepared and he drew near it, trying to hide his trepidation. He swallowed a mouth of bitter saliva and turned his eyes to the platform.
The throne was occupied. He flashed a smile and tried to will himself to stop twitching, sweating, and mumbling, his eyes flicking rapidly to and from the four armed guards surrounding the seated figure who blended perfectly into the shadows. This unassuming person was dressed in a casual white shirt unbuttoned at the top, a blue suit jacket, jeans, and brown loafers. His hair was white and flowing, but his skin was uncreased.
Robin bowed hastily. “Greetings, glorious grinner,” he said, smiling.
The man in the throne shifted his weight. “Ploughwright,” he acknowledged. “What news?”
“I have proceeded as you instructed-as we agreed. All is in place. I await your word.”
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