Stephen Lawhead - The Realms Thereunder

“I don’t think so,” Daniel replied. He had lost grip of his lantern, but it was lying quite near him. He checked himself for damages, but beyond the buzz of adrenaline, there was nothing.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

He rolled over to pick himself up. Ecgbryt had already made it to his feet and was looking over the collapsed section of the bank.

Coming to stand next to him, Daniel gazed up at a large scoopedout area where the path they were walking had been, and beneath it, a pile of rubble. It looked pretty impossible to get back up.

“It would seem,” stated Ecgbryt, “that our best course would be to follow the burn with an eye to the path. If it wanders from us, then we will find a way to pursue it. But for now we must ensure our way is fast. I fancy that path fell by design, not by accident, and that our steps are not going unnoticed.”

They gathered themselves quickly and moved on without a word more. They were walking along in the sludge now, so their progress was unsteady at first in the slippery canal but then more sure-the sewage water pulled at their feet, urging them faster and faster onwards.

Freya and Swi?gar crept up the tunnel, against the flow of the water.

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,” Swi?gar 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.”

Swi?gar said no more, and after a moment Freya said, “I’m sorry.”

“I had a choice, then,” Swi?gar 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, ?thelred, and his brother ?lfred 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.”

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

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

Swi?gar 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. “Swi?gar,” 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 Swi?gar.

“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 Swi?gar’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 Swi?gar. “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,” Swi?gar said.

They continued more slowly, with Swi?gar 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.

Swi?gar 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.