The Realms Thereunder aet-1

by Stephen Lawhead

  “Greetings,” said the man across from Ecgbryt, wiping his mouth. He had a squarish build and a large mane of dark, shaggy hair that stuck out at every angle. His face was blunt and puckered here and there with scars. To Freya it looked as if he’d been chewed up by some giant beast and spat out. For all she knew, she reflected, he had been. “My name is Godmund,” he said, slapping his chest with a fist. The fishscale armour that encased him clanked and rattled. “It means ‘good-hand,’ and was given to me by Ealdstan himself. I am Ni?ergeard’s Shield Thane-its protector.”

  “My name,” said the man next to him, a bald and thin man with a pinched face, long moustache, and wiry arms, “is Frithfroth. I oversee the order of this magnificent keep. I am the Torr Thane. If ever you have need of anything on this side of the Tall Tower’s door, but mention it in my presence and it will be brought to you with all possible speed. I give especial welcome.”

  “Hi. I’m Freya Reynolds.”

  The heads at the table turned to Daniel, who smiled and announced grandly, “My name is Daniel Tully. I am a student of the Isis C of E Secondary School in the town of Oxford. My mother gave me my name, though I don’t know what it means.

  I greet you!” He raised up the horn in front of him in a salute to the delight of the table. He put the cup to his lips and lifted the bottom up, up, and up until it was upside down over his face.

  Nothing came out, to the laughter of everyone in the hall. Even Freya muffled a small snort behind her hand.

  Swi?gar reached across and took Daniel’s cup from him. He poured a small amount of pale liquid from one pitcher and some water from another. He handed it back to Daniel, who completed his toast to a cheer.

  Those around the table gazed gleefully at Daniel and Freya as they ate. Suddenly, Godmund’s pipe jumped from his lips. “I have it!” he cried. “It is an onion!”

  “And not before time,” Frithfroth said, smirking. “Take your turn.”

  “Very well,” said Godmund, laying his pipe carefully on the table and interlocking his fingers. Clearing his throat, he spoke slowly and deliberately:

  “A deadly destroyer, divinely descended,

  awakes only when warring,

  stirring when silent objects are struck.

  He is highly borne to battle by foe to fight against foe.

  Though incredibly fierce,

  and madly wild, a woman will wrangle him.

  Though satisfying they who serve and tend him,

  the more you feed him, the hungrier you make him.

  He who builds this battler up

  is doubly delighted, but death follows he

  who carelessly lets this warrior loose.”

  “Samson,” Ecgbryt answered immediately. Godmund shook his head.

  “Anger,” answered Swi?gar. Godmund smiled and shook his fuzzy head once again.

  The hall was silent as the puzzler looked smugly around the table. Each in their own manner either scratched his head, silently repeated lines of the riddle, or stared into nothing. Daniel and Freya looked on with interest as they continued placing meat and bread into their mouths.

  Godmund smiled and tapped out a layer of ash from his pipe. Picking up a splint of wood about the thickness of a match, he held it to the candle in front of him and then brought it up to his cold pipe bowl. He puffed a few times and then held it away. His face appeared thoughtful, gazing at the flame as it traveled up the splint towards his fingers.

  Ecgbryt, his eyes flickering idly across the table, saw him gently blowing on the flame rather playfully. He thought a moment and then his eyes grew wide. “Fire!” he exclaimed. “The answer is fire!”

  Godmund blew out the flame and nodded as the table applauded the guesser.

  It was now Ecgbryt’s turn. “At last,” he said, stroking his long moustache. “And I have a most excellent riddle for you all-a rare and wise riddle it is as well, for King ?lfred the Great himself did teach me this riddle from his own lips.” He cleared his throat.

  “A river twice wet me

  After woodframe had stretched me,

  Once sharp knife had scraped me,

  And a young man first cut me.

  “Then the sun, it did dry me,

  Now my hair had all left me,

  And some cinders then rubbed me,

  Before fingers had folded me.

  “A feather has dyed me,

  A reed also stained me,

  Now two boards press on me,

  And gold bands gird ’round me.

  “What am I?”

  Ecgbryt sat back, finished and very pleased with himself for a full three seconds until Swi?gar said, “I have it.”

  “Hold, knight,” said Frithfroth. “You’ve answered your share-rather, you’ve answered your share and three others’. Let the rest of us try.”

  With a twinkling eye, Ecgbryt poured himself a horn.

  “Kippered herring,” Frithfroth answered, somewhat hastily.

  “No, but a near guess.”

  The table dropped into thoughtful silence a moment more.

  “A fishing bark,” answered Godmund, “with oars and, hmm, feathers . . .”

  “No.”

  There was a further silence until: “Kippers,” Frithfroth insisted.

  “Kippers or cod!”

  Ecgbryt laughed and shook his head.

  “If there are no more guesses beyond ‘kippers,’ ” Swi?gar drawled, “then perhaps I might be allowed . . . ?” The table assented.

  “A book,” he said simply.

  Ecgbryt reluctantly clapped his hands as the rest of the table nodded to themselves.

  Swi?gar began his riddle:

  “There is a strong, savagely bold house-guest

  Who is the lord of my heart’s dwelling-place.

  Hunger does not hurt my ferocious friend-

  He thirsts, ages, but is not diminished.

  Treat him honourably, and with respect,

  And you will receive good fortune when you

  Travel with him all the days of your life.

  And at the end of the highway you are

  Ensured a warm welcome into his vast family;

  But misery rewards the servant who

  Mistreats this most holy of visitors.

  With him ahead of me, I will not fear

  When this friend, kinsman, guest, travels onward

  While I am forced to stay by the roadside,

  Ever willing to part, as once we must,

  Never again being able to meet.

  Friends, if you please, speak the name or title

  Of either this royal household-dweller,

  Or my own name, both whom I have described.”

  There was a groan from Frithfroth as he placed his head in his hands. “By the devil’s nose hairs, you’re a hard riddler.”

  “It sounds like fire again,” Godmund grumbled.

  “There are,” allowed Swi?gar with an agreeable nod, “similarities between the two, yes.”

  The table was stumped. Ecgbryt scratched his head, Godmund kicked the table, and Frithfroth muttered oaths not heard in the British Isles for centuries. Eventually, Swi?gar was convinced to give them the answer. “The soul. The body is the host, the soul the guest.”

  Frithfroth and Godmund insisted on a second reciting of the riddle and then sat in silence, rather morosely.

  “‘Forced to stay by the roadside,’” muttered Godmund, and blinked his grey eyes slowly. A heaviness fell upon the hall.

  Daniel and Freya, being adequately fed by their dry meal, sat in silence, amused and bewildered by the game.

  “I have one,” Daniel piped into the melancholy. “What’s brown and sticky?”

  Nobody at the table guessed; they just shook their heads.

  “A stick,” Daniel said.

  Everyone burst into laughter, as much in relief as in actual humor. Daniel himself laughed as hard as anyone.

  “Here’s another,” he said. “Which room has no door, no wi
ndows, no floor, and no roof? No guesses? A mushroom! Now, what is-?”

  “Enough, Daniel, enough. Give another a turn, or at least a chance to breathe,” Godmund said, his pallid face sweaty and bright with laughing.

  “One more, one more-what’s red and sticky?”

  “Beeswax.”

  “Strawberries.”

  “Earwax.”

  “Honey.”

  “Nope, all wrong. Give up?” Everyone nodded enthusiastically. “It’s that bloody stick again!”

  This brought the loudest roar yet, and even tears to some eyes.

  Which was why no one noticed that Modwyn had entered. Stifffaced, she waited patiently for the laughter to die down. Everyone sobered when they caught sight of her, and the bellows gave way to chuckles that died silently.

  “Ealdstan will see you,” she announced.

  3

  The grandly dressed Modwyn led Daniel and Freya, followed by Swi?gar and Ecgbryt, up staircase after staircase. They followed her with an increasing sense of cautious curiosity as they crept farther and farther up into the dark centre of the tower.

  Daniel, walking behind Modwyn, broke the silence of their ascent. “Is Ealdstan really seventeen hundred years old?”

  “As near as can be counted,” the ni?ercwen replied. “Time was measured differently when he was young. Days of birth were not recorded as they are now.”

  “Is he a wizard?”

  “Yes,” she began thoughtfully, “he could be considered one. The word wizard simply means ‘wise one.’ And Ealdstan is unquestionably the wisest of men.”

  “Is he like the wizards in the books and fairy tales? Like Merlin or someone?”

  “He may be,” Modwyn allowed. “It is possible that you have read about him already but do not know it. He has been called by many names throughout his life-cast his shadow upon the ages.” She thought for a few moments, then said, “What evidence there is in history, and what truth there is in myth, of the wise old men in your books and fairy tales has undoubtedly been Ealdstan. He has counseled kings, bishops, and emperors-but it is long since anyone sought his advice.”

  “How long?”

  “Over two hundred years.”

  “Does he still go up to the real world?”

  “No.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He studies now. There are his books, his own writings, the writings of others, the myths and wise tales of days long ago.”

  “It sounds lonely,” Daniel said.

  Stair after stair fell behind them. The carvings on the walls became less and less elaborate the higher they went until what was a beautiful embossed frieze depicting ocean life devolved, gradually, into a primitive running spiral. The bannister turned from an ornately wrought metal lattice of eels and seaweed into a simple twisted band. “That is the price he pays,” she said, and it took Daniel a few seconds to realise that she was still following the conversation.

  “The price he pays for what?” Daniel asked.

  “The price he pays for his wisdom. Wisdom, which is experience and reflection over time.”

  “So the older he gets, the wiser he gets?”

  “As do we all-almost all. There are some people and creatures who are proud, and who have exchanged wisdom for vanity.”

  Daniel considered this. “But how wise is he, anyway?”

  “How can I tell, unless I am as wise as he? Only wisdom can recognise itself.”

  “Well, you’re old, so you must be wise too-unless you’re proud.”

  Modwyn’s lips thinned in a small, brief smile. “The only thing I have learned in my long years is that I have not learned enough. I have always been wise enough to know that I am not as wise as I would like to be.”

  Daniel frowned and Modwyn continued.

  “But as for Ealdstan-he is the most intelligent of all earthly beings. He has meditated lifetimes on single ideas. He has pursued trains of thought for hundreds of years and his interests are unlimited. He has sowed patience and reaped knowledge, has sifted it and nourished himself on the grain. I do not think that any created being knows as much about the workings of the world as he-it would be impossible for anyone to conceive of learning it. There is more than he could pass on in a lifetime.”

  They turned off the staircase and into a cold hallway, past dark, crudely carved rooms, which contained books and loose papers crammed into bookcases. Up ahead they saw a fluttering light. They approached it and filed into what turned out to be a narrow room that contained many barred windows that opened out into Ni?ergeard.

  It was from behind, as he gazed out one of these windows, that Daniel and Freya first saw the bent form of Ealdstan. He was wearing a robe made of bright red and yellow, patterned with bands that wove in and out of each other in alternating rows of red and purple. He did not turn immediately as they entered, but slowly pulled his gaze away from the window and let it drift around the room.

  Ealdstan’s age showed in his manner, if nowhere else. His ancient face, although weathered, was not decrepit. A yellowing beard stretched down past his waist, but it was bushy and full. His head was high domed, but not bald; lustrous hair fell down behind his shoulders. His arm, seen when his sleeve was drawn, was not withered; it was smooth and well muscled, with quick, dexterous hands and fingers at the end of them.

  But his eyes were pale grey, watery, and very, very weary. At first, Daniel thought Ealdstan was blind, his pupils were so drab and unresponsive-lying listless in their hooded sockets. It took a long time for his face to show any acknowledgment of their presence, and when he raised his voice to welcome his visitors, it was the two smaller figures he greeted first.

  “I don’t believe,” he breathed in a thin voice, “that I’ve had the pleasure.”

  There was an expectant pause.

  “I-I am Daniel Tully, sir.”

  “I’m Freya-Freya Reynolds.”

  “Really . . . ,” Ealdstan trailed, his voice not much above a whisper. “Are you really . . . ?”

  “Are you Ealdstan?” asked Freya.

  “Yes, I am . . . or as much of Ealdstan as is left . . .”

  “We have heard that you are very wise.”

  “Am I? I suppose . . . speaking . . . comparatively, of course . . .”

  All of Ealdstan’s sentences trailed off, making conversation awkward. It was hard to tell if he was at the end of a breath or a reply. “Shall we sit?”

  At the other end of the room were a long stone table and many short stone stumps that were used as stools. Ealdstan placed himself at the head of the table on the far side of the room. Daniel and Freya sat at the opposite end and the others found places in between. The table was covered with bits of paper of many different types, shapes, and sizes. Some were thick and brown and were written on in faded ink in blocky, raggedy-edged letters filling sheet after sheet, each word looking indecipherably similar to the last. Other pages were newer, thinner, almost translucent, with rough fibers here and there showing through the paper. They were mostly scrawled on with an elaborate, spidery script. There were some oddly bound books, both large and small, of the type that Freya had seen only in museums, which gave glimpses of illuminated letters and detailed pictures.

  “So . . . ,” Ealdstan breathed, apparently to himself. “Swi?gar and Ecgbryt have come back, have they? And why is that?

  Swi?gar . . . ,” he repeated, as if trying to remember who went with the name. “Ecgbryt . . .”

  He was silent long enough for Swi?gar to jump in. “It was because of the lifiendes, Ealdstan dryhtwisa.”

  “The mortal children? Yes? And why did you not chase them off or put them to the sword?”

  Daniel blinked. Freya gasped and opened her mouth soundlessly for a few seconds before she managed to stutter, “You-you couldn’t have just-”

  “We can and do . . . ,” Ealdstan interrupted. “Do you children think that you are the first to happen upon one of the chambers of the sleeping knights?”

  “And you
killed them for finding you?” Freya turned from Ealdstan to Swi?gar.

  “Hmm. I have never killed an innocent,” Swi?gar said. “The enchantment is strong. It stops all from entering. Nearly all.”

  “Swa swa, Swi?gar,” Ecgbryt said, his face suddenly bright. “Do you remember that curate who stumbled upon us? When you grabbed his sleeve he leapt so far back that his cassock-”

  “Shush, bro?or, this is not the time,” said Swi?gar peevishly.

  “We are fighting a hidden war,” Ealdstan said. “The position of our troops is of the foremost importance. Even a guileless fool can let slip vital information that would allow the enemy to strike a severe blow. We battle for the souls of millions, and the lives of a few are light in the balance . . .”

  There was a short silence following Ealdstan’s words, which was broken by Swi?gar. “Ealdstan,” he said, “we have observed the situation outside the wall.”

  The old man turned tired eyes on the knight.

  “How long has the siege lasted?”

  Ealdstan did not answer, only just gazed at him.

  “Some months,” Modwyn eventually replied.

  “What has been done?” asked Ecgbryt roughly.

  Modwyn looked to Ealdstan, who still gave no reply. “Very little,” she responded. “We still have many supplies and are able to travel rather freely-the yfelgop have not discovered all routes in and out of the geard.”

  “But something must be done,” insisted Ecgbryt. “What are their numbers?”

  “We cannot tell,” Modwyn spoke slowly. “Or even estimate. All we can do is count the campfires.”

  “How many are they?” Ecgbryt pursued, stern in his questioning.

  “Of hundreds, nearly nine.”

  “How many to a fire? Can you assay that?”

  “We do not know, perhaps as many as eight.”

  “You have made no sallies?”

  “None. There are times when a handful of them will climb the walls, but they never get past the parapets, and we never capture them alive.”

  “Who leads them?” asked Swi?gar.

  “Once we used the tunnels to listen to them,” Modwyn continued slowly. “There are two leaders, a master and a general, though they would mention only the general by name. He is called Kelm Kafhand.”