by Ross Lawhead
“Right, then. Let’s head for that . . . see? That junction right there? It’s not far from there to these two chambers, and then this one as well. We can check to see what the deal is there, at a stretch.”
“These places would already have been rendered . . . inert.”
“You mean that the knights sleeping there have been murdered already.”
“Yes,” said Consistent Uncertainty. “You should prepare yourself for a sight that might be unpleasant to you.”
Daniel just stared at him, wondering what he meant, then wondering why he couldn’t seem to make sense of his words. He shook his head to clear it.
“Are you well?” asked Judicious Speculation. Or Argument. Daniel was becoming unsure of all of their names. “Do you need to rest?”
“No. I’ll stick,” Daniel said. “I am all correct,” he said. “My systems are go. It’s good. It’s good.”
The léafléas squinted at him, trying to figure him out. Daniel was aware that other eyes were on him as well. He had to play it cool—not raise suspicion.
“Seriously, I’m folded down and good to go, my little captain. It’s good. It’s good. We need to cover ground anyway. When we get to the next chamber, then we’ll rest. I’ll hold till then. It’s good. It’s good.”
“That sounds like the best course,” Certain Doubt said. He rolled up the map and handed it off to be secured in its tube. “Let’s keep moving.”
The léafléas moved away and Daniel shuffled after them. He had to really concentrate on moving his legs, he was so tired. He could feel his heart—every beat a cold, weak thump. He had to keep it together, to stay normal. To help him in this he recited a short mantra that made him calmer, gave him a feeling of continuity, of comfort.
“It’s good. It’s good. It’s good,” he said under his breath. “It’s sticky, it’s sticky. Sticky. Stretch. Sticky. It’s good. It’s good. It’s in a pocket. It’s good.”
_____________________ III _____________________
They reached a parting of paths. To their right was a carved tunnel, bored by the inhabitants of Niðergeard however many centuries ago, while the natural path they walked continued down a fissure.
“Let’s rest here,” Daniel said. He sat down on a rock and broke out his water, taking a mouthful and swirling it around in his mouth.
“We are still a ways from the first chamber,” said Certain Doubt. “That was where we agreed to make our first camp.”
“I know. I just—I just can’t move another step.” That much was completely true, Daniel thought. “I just . . . it’s . . .” He was about to use one of his lucky words, but he had to watch it with those. He would have plenty of opportunity to say whatever he liked soon enough.
Certain Doubt had pulled the map out. “We are here,” he said, pointing a finger at a spot Daniel could not see. “It would be better for us to be here.” His finger shifted. “This place is too open. Lookouts would have to be spread too far.”
Even better for me, Daniel thought. “Look, I’ve been through a lot—a lot’s happened to me, not least of which was being hit by a troll. A troll. A troll. I’m very tired, and we’ve gone a long way, and I’m very tired. I could have asked to stop earlier. I could have. But I’m asking now. Please. My pocket . . . I’m about to collapse.”
“I believe he is,” Judicious Speculation said. “He gives every appearance of acute fatigue to me.”
“Very well,” Certain Doubt said. “I shall arrange the watch. This is how it will be . . .”
It wasn’t exactly as he said it would be—there was much arguing over the exact times, placing, and identity of the watch, but it was all sorted out eventually. Daniel slumped against the boulder, hunching into himself. It was just a short time now—he would rest up, but he wouldn’t sleep. He had done the calculations while they argued. He rubbed his eyes, gave his leg three hard pinches, and then fixed his eyes on the luminous dial of his watch.
_____________________ IV _____________________
Freya awoke and rolled away from the cold wall she was pressed against. Sitting up, she found Vivienne still sitting at the table, making notes and comparing Ealdstan’s and Freya’s texts.
“Did I miss anything?”
Leaning back in her chair, Vivienne took the glasses off her nose and rubbed her eyes. “Not unless I did as well. Do you want to have something to eat?” She pushed a power bar toward her.
“Thanks,” Freya said, opening it and taking a nibble.
“So. Are we going to talk about Gád now?”
“Sounds like it. What do you want to know?”
“Start with telling me what really occurred when you met him. In your own words. What happened?”
“What happened? Well, I was a little girl, and Gád was much more powerful than I was. When I first saw him, Swiðgar was with me, and he attacked him, on sight. I would have stopped him, but he just leapt forward. And Gád defended himself. Swiðgar died, but not right away, I think. But he was badly wounded. Gád started to talk to me, and I didn’t agree with everything he said, but then . . . I don’t agree with a lot that most people have told me over the years. But right then, there? He made the most sense. So . . .” Freya swallowed, which was difficult, around the lump in her throat. This was harder than she’d thought it would be. “So he told me a way that I would be able to get home. He told me what to tell the others, about him and about Swiðgar, and I did, and . . . we escaped. Daniel and I. So say what you will about him; he got me home.”
“When you say ‘he made the most sense,’ what do you mean?”
“Well, he said things that I realised I already thought but hadn’t been able to articulate. He said that Niðergeard is an oppressive force on this island—they live and operate in secret, making wars in the shadows. And from what I’ve seen here, in these visions, could you disagree? What gives Ealdstan the authority to do what he’s doing?”
“Just because you do not like his methods doesn’t mean he’s wrong.”
“But if he’s right, why would he keep it a secret?”
“Getting back to Gád—what about his methods? He killed Swiðgar.”
“In self-defense. Swiðgar was going to kill him. That’s what the whole mission was about! If the four of us went on a mission to kill you, don’t you think you would be justified in defending yourself?”
“What about your methods, then? It seems to me that you have been just as secretive as Ealdstan. Why did you not tell the others the truth about Gád as soon as you rejoined them?”
“What if they’d kept me there?” Freya blurted. She realised that she’d been holding back tears, but now they were rolling down her face. Her voice was thick and full of emotion. It was all coming out. “What if they’d made me go back and try to kill him again? I never wanted to kill anyone. I never have! I only ever wanted to get out, to go home!”
Vivienne waited until Freya’s tears had mostly stopped before continuing.
“But surely, once you were here, once you saw the importance of this place . . . surely you saw the vital need for it to be delivered from all threat?”
“No. No!” Freya felt the rage swell up inside her. “I never saw the point. Never! I didn’t ask to get sucked into this world—it never did anything for me. Why should I help it? For all I know, Gád was right. The only thing I know about this place is what I’ve been told, and that’s been precious little. If this place is worth saving”—she motioned around to the dark walls—“then why is the world perfectly happy to carry on without it?”
“Because it stands in the breach, Freya. It stands between the spiritual realm of this world and all others that press in on it.”
“Do you really know that? Or have you been told that?”
“Because I was told it doesn’t mean it’s false.”
“And it doesn’t mean it’s true either.”
Vivienne stared back at Freya impassively. “So what is true?” she asked.
Freya palmed away the t
ears on her cheeks. “I understand about the dragon. And someone or something made Stowe do what he did to me. But how do I know that Niðergeard isn’t responsible for that? Or in any case, more responsible than Gád?”
Vivienne nodded. “You should read these accounts. Like I say, they will provide context.”
“I don’t want context. History. I want to know what’s happening now. Vivienne, we should really go search the rest of the tower.”
“You go ahead without me,” she said, fitting the reading glasses back on her nose.
“You want me to go alone?”
“Why not? We know there’s nothing waiting to spring out at us or it would have already done so.”
Freya stood and moved toward the door. She felt in her jacket for the pocketknife they’d given her. “Vivienne, what do you know?”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s something that you’re not saying. You’d rather sit here with books and diaries instead of explore the tower? What’s going on?”
“I would think a young woman would put more stock in learning. Very well, if you wish me to come with you . . .” She pushed herself away from the desk.
“No.” Freya tightened her grip on the knife in her pocket. “You stay here. I don’t want you with me anymore.”
“Freya, do you have a trust issue?”
“How could I not? Why should I trust anyone? They’ve never trusted me with the truth. Stay here. Read your books. I’ll be back later.”
She didn’t even have her hand on the door before she regretted her decision. And pushing past the ruined iron door, she felt the first drops from the massive reservoir of panic spill over the walls she had built to keep it out. Senseless fear threatened to overwhelm her completely. She stood in the corridor, drawing a deep breath, drawing herself up. She could live her life in fear, which was no life at all, or she could dig deep, draw up the anger inside of her, and take control of her life.
So there she stood, just outside of Ealdstan’s study, fighting indecision. She knew she needed to explore the rest of the tower, and she would, but should she first try to find out where Daniel was? Frithfroth also; where had he slipped off to? And then there was Gád. Should she try to make contact with him? And how would she do that exactly? Just stroll out of the tower and demand an audience? That thought seemed to physically twist at her gut. To align herself practically with Gád was different, she realised, than philosophically. Was she really on Gád’s side, or was she just against Niðergeard?
There were risks on every side. The danger of her situation circled over her like a large, black bird of prey, its shadow of fear occasionally eclipsing the light of any hope, its icy fingers reaching out to snuff even the heat of rage that was pent up inside of her.
But niggling at the back of her head was her secret temptation, which she guarded for herself like a precious thing, kept in a drawer and only taken out to fondle when absolutely no one else was around: she could just leave. She could walk up the stairs, wait for the portal to open—if it would open—and then just leave.
It was a nice, comfortable thought, but she knew it was grown from her fear; the last eight years had taught her that. She actually had escaped Niðergeard, against the odds, and yet fear still ruled her life. She was tired of being afraid. Weary. Fatigued. Fatigued—she remembered that word as it applied scientifically, to metal. Most metals were malleable. You could exert pressure upon them and they would bend—like a spoon curved back on itself. You could apply pressure the other way and it would bend back. And you could keep bending and unbending the spoon and it wouldn’t appear the worse for the wear, but then after bending it too many times, it would break—simply snapping in two. That’s what she felt like now—bending so much from all these different pressures, at some point she’d completely break apart.
She wouldn’t let that happen. She refused to bend any longer.
She reached deep inside and grabbed Fear and threw it into the flames of Rage, letting it be consumed, relishing its heat. And then the fear was gone—sublimated into fuel for her fury.
This was the new deal: she would stay angry and she would stay unafraid.
The first thing she would do is search the rest of the tower.
She had taken a lantern from the study, so as to conserve the battery power of her flashlight, and counted the stairs as she went upward, the temperature dropping as she did so. Her fingers felt like icicles and she could see her breath clouding before her in the light of the lantern. The stairs seemed to go on forever, but finally she came to a landing that snaked away into darkness. At the end of the short hallway she found two identical doors, thin like the small, medieval doorways that were in church bell towers. She reached out and pushed gently on the right-hand one. It shifted at her touch.
She slid into the doorway and squeezed past the door and into a very narrow and unlit corridor. It curved around, as all passages did in the Langtorr, but tighter than usual, and Freya wondered how high, exactly, she was in the spire-like tower, and how thick the wall was between her and the cold emptiness outside.
Her lights picked up something sparkling around the curvature of the walls. It was a bobbing twinkle, as if something was coming toward her. She froze. The bobbing light also froze, and she realised that the light was only a reflection of her own. She drew closer and found herself confronted with an incredibly ornate silver doorway, the likes of which she’d never seen before. It was patterned with circular swirls and knot-work that ran all along the edges, framing a burnished surface that showed her as only a shadowy shape in the dark.
After admiring the door for a moment, she placed her hand against its centre—she saw a ghostly reflection of her own hand rise to meet hers—and pushed, watching her mirrored self fall away.
The room was lit, which was a surprise, and empty. It was a curved, kidney-shaped space with no windows, but with three large mirrors hanging at opposite ends of the room.
Each mirror was of an ornate, flowing design, with a bulbous, vaguely hourglass shape. There were four odd metal racks in the centre of the room, sort of like coatracks. A golden chandelier in the ceiling fixed with silver lights threw an uncharacteristically warm light on the room. She walked closer to the mirror across from her and stopped in the middle of the room. Something caught her eye and she turned her gaze to the right-hand side mirror.
She leapt aside, and her mirror image also leapt aside.
But it wasn’t her image, not exactly. Freya moved back so her “image” was centred again. It was clearly her, but she was older, maybe thirty, and dressed in fine robes of deep red and burgundy, with bright trim and gold lacing.
She looked confident, self-possessed, a little sad, perhaps, but that seemed to add to her air of wisdom. But it was the crown atop her head that she found most stunning—and disconcerting.
She was wearing the hero’s crown that sat on the throne downstairs—the dragonhelm.
_____________________ V _____________________
Daniel sat down next to Certain Doubt, who tensed instinctively. “Awake so soon? It has been a very short time.”
Daniel nodded and scanned the darkness. He could see almost nothing, just abstract angles where the rock ceiling sloped to meet the floor on various levels.
“You are fully rested? We may depart?”
“No, not yet. Let’s let the others—what’s that over there?”
“Where?” Certain Doubt’s head shifted slightly, giving Daniel the opportunity to shove his sword into the yfelgóp’s throat.
The movement was swift, fluid, and vicious. Daniel knew he’d only get one chance, and he had to be exact or the yfelgóp would raise the alarm and he would be sunk.
Certain Doubt’s eyes bulged and his tongue worked soundlessly, trying either to breathe or shout, Daniel didn’t know, but his efforts were fruitless, and he died quickly. In that moment, Daniel felt his heart calm and beat steadily. He experienced an awareness of his senses that quite took him by surp
rise. As the léafléas writhed on the end of his blade, Daniel felt more relaxed and in control than he had felt in days, and it comforted him. He was doing the right thing.
He wiped his blade against the dead creature’s arm to clean it. And then, working quickly and with some difficulty, Daniel propped the body up to make it look, in the low light and at a casual glance at least, that it was still on guard. He was so successful in this that as he rose and cast a last look back, he almost thought Certain Doubt was still alive and he would have to kill him again.
He laughed at himself. That was silly. No one had to kill anything twice—only Gád was the thing you had to kill again, apparently, and he would. He was working toward it. But first things first. And what kind of name was “Certain Doubt,” anyway? “A spy’s name, that’s what.” Daniel thought that Kelm would give them a better story than some weird names. That wasn’t sticky. Not sticky by any stretch.
Moving forward in a crouch, he made his way to each of the other léafléas on watch, killed them, and returned to the site where the rest of the yfelgópes were resting.
This next part was even trickier, but moving systematically, he made a complete circuit. In his left hand he held a bunchedup piece of cloth that he pressed against the yfelgópes’ mouths to smother any noise they made while he was piercing their throats with the sword in his right. Some of them uttered muffled death rattles that made him hold his own breath, fearing they’d wake the others, but most of them died without even opening their eyes.
The last one dispatched, Daniel tried to dry his sword with the cloth but found it too sodden with blood to be of much use for that. He tossed it to the side and sat down to recover. He had hardly dared to draw breath during the operation, and hadn’t used even one of his lucky words, and now he filled his lungs with a deep, regular rhythm.
“Not shaky. Not shaky. Jagged. Not jagged either. Folded down. In a pocket. Calm. Relaxed. Sticky. Length. Length.” The words were balms to his troubled soul. They were direct lines to meaning in his mind; he could almost feel the strings. Yes, strings. Strings in his mind, connecting thought to action to event to consequence. He just had to keep thinking and it would all stick.
