He started fitting rhymes together in his head as he placed the wood into what he figured was a good pattern. Then he stood up and dusted off his hands. Here went nothing. Kay had told him to ask for fire, and this was it. He took another deep breath and recited:
“Thank you, forest, great and good,
For giving me my firewood.
But in order to survive the night,
I need this pile of wood to light.
Please give me what I require,
To make myself a good campfire.”
Daniel held his breath and sucked on his lower lip. What was he going to do if this didn’t work? Start rubbing sticks together, he supposed. He had just started to let his breath out in a sigh of defeat when there was a rustling above as of a bird flying through the branches and a whistle of something descending at speed.
He glanced up just as a stone tore through the leaves above and landed at his feet. It struck another rock and created a massive bouquet of sparks that leapt a foot into the air.
Daniel jumped back in alarm, looking about him at the tree cover. What was this now? Was the forest trying to kill him?
Blinking in surprise, he bent down and examined the object that had fallen. It was a wedge of metal, iron maybe, shaped like an axe head. When it fell, it had struck a fist-sized rock and broken a large chunk of it off. Looking at the rock closer, he found the broken edge glossy and hard-flint.
“You must be joking,” he muttered.
He bent down and gave the metal and the flint a few experimental knocks together, generating more sparks. In a few short minutes he found a way to create a good number at once. He pulled out some dry, brown moss from the woodpile and started striking the rock and the metal above it. It took some time, but the moss started to curl and then smoke. After careful tending, a flame appeared, which he nursed and fed with more moss. He gently pushed it into the centre of the woodpile, then placed the piece of metal and stone into his rucksack.
He kept feeding and nurturing the fire until some of the thicker branches caught and then he sat back and let the fire take its course, watching the flames grow and lick against the larger branches.
He was tired now-incredibly tired. Whatever there was inside of him that had kept him going was almost completely exhausted. He had come a long way since waking up this morning on Magdalen Bridge. He was also hungry. Unbelievably hungry.
He took a sip of water from the skin that Kay had given him and lay back to think of another poem. He looked at the stone that had also been given to him, sniffed it-it smelled of nothing-and slowly stuck it into his mouth.
It tasted faintly bitter-like just about any other rock, he imagined. He hadn’t habitually tasted rocks since he was about four, but this one, even after all that time, failed to impress. It was making his gorge rise. He spat the stone into his palm and looked at it again, now glinting with saliva. Then he tipped his hand and let it fall to the ground. That was enough of that. He turned his attention back to the fire.
As he sat, his ears adjusted to the silence and eventually, over the sound of the hissing wood, he became aware of another noise. With a mighty effort he stood up, his muscles already starting to ache, and went to investigate.
The sound led him to a stream, nearly a river, which was as wide as he was tall. He stood for a moment, puzzled, since he hadn’t seen or heard it when he was gathering firewood, but there was no doubt about it, here it was. The water trickled through a maze of rocks and pools at a fair speed. As he got closer, he noticed something shimmering within the water that flashed with a white, silvery brilliance even in the low light. Stooping over, he saw that it wasn’t just one object, but many similar objects flashing by in the same direction-fish.
There were masses of them swimming past in clumps of dozens. He thought for a moment of going back and finding a stick long and pointed enough to make a spear out of, but the fish were so thickly packed at the spot he was standing, and so close to the surface that he thought he might be able to just reach down and pick them out of the water as easily as plucking apples from a tree-ripe for the taking.
He bent over and stretched his arm out, ready to dart it into the water and pull out a nice, lovely fish but suddenly pulled his arm back. Ripe for the taking. He had almost taken a fish from the stream, a fish he hadn’t asked for from a stream he hadn’t asked the forest to show him.
He drew himself back and sat on his feet. His heart was racing. He was almost gasping at his near miss, but then . . . how near of a miss had it actually been? The only reason he had to believe that there was any danger to him if he took things without asking was Kay’s word; a man-an elf?-that he had never met before a short time ago. It could very easily be he was being lied to, if not ridiculed. That said, the piece of metal from the sky was a bit of a stretch to the notion of coincidence.
Daniel sighed and then thought for a moment. Then:
“Good forest, please, now I wish
That you would give to me a fish.”
Even by his own standards, Daniel knew that it was a pretty lousy poem, but he was tired and hungry and more than a little confused.
There was a splashing sound, and a fish leapt out of the water, flipping end over end, and landed on the bank next to him, where it floundered half-heartedly. It was almost a foot long.
Daniel didn’t know much about fishing, but he knew enough to grab the fish by its tail and smack its head against a rock to kill it. He did so, and sat for a moment holding it. He thought of another rhyme.
“Forest, I don’t wish to be greedy,
But I am hungry, cold, and needy.
I’d like some fish, a couple more,
Delivered to me like before.”
Daniel couldn’t tell if his poetry was good or not. He’d have to try to come up with something better tomorrow for the path.
There was another splash and two more fish flopped out onto the ground beside him. Shaking his head, he killed them and then scooped up all three fish and walked back up to his camp where the fire needed tending. He did this, raking the new coals together, and got it all burning at a steady clip.
He spitted the fish, set them to cook lengthways against the fire, and started scraping up enough dead leaves for bedding. The birds in the branches above him started to twitter as if commentating and arguing about the scene below them.
Daniel’s head swam with ideas and thoughts about the world he now found himself in. He was extremely tired, though, and before he fell asleep, he had been contemplating the serious and disturbing idea that the forest may be trying to deliberately trap him.
3
The kirk was a small stone building, rectangular and grey. There was no belfry or steeple, just an iron cross on the east end of the roof. Rab Duthie led Officer Alex Simpson through the large wooden door, beneath a carved wooden emblem of a burning bush and the Cross of St. Andrew.
Outside, the sky was grey and cold, but inside the church it was warm and bright. The lights and heater were on and candles had been placed on the altar, the windowsills, in freestanding holders-anywhere there was space for them.
There were about half a dozen people spread throughout the church, sitting in the pews, their heads bowed, some of them clutching their hands, some of them reading silently from Bibles. A man dressed in black walked towards them down the centre aisle. He had a head of well-combed iron-grey hair and a cleanshaven chin. When he spoke, his voice was soft with a very thin
Edinburgh accent. He greeted Rab first, shaking his hand in both of his, and then turned to Alex.
“Reverend, this is a man from the Constabulary-says he’s looking into the-our troubles here.”
“Is that so?” he said, turning a weary smile to Alex and offering a hand.
Alex took it and introduced himself.
“Rector John Maccanish,” the reverend introduced himself.
“How do you do? How can I assist you?”
“Well, Rab said it best,” said Alex. “I’ve heard abo
ut the trials ye’ve been facing up here, and I’ve come to help.”
“Of course, help with what, exactly?”
Alex gazed out into the church. “Ye’ve got a fair few in today- late-morning prayer meeting?”
“It’s-” Maccanish seemed to wrestle with how much to say.
“I’ve organized a few weeks of twenty-four-hour prayer. It’s been- a hard time for the parishioners up here.”
“Rab was telling me about that. There are the things that have been told to the police-the thieving, the vandalism, the suicides.
And then there are the things you don’t tell the police-the ‘accidents,’ the fighting, the drinking, the victimising, the bad crops, sickly animals, new mothers miscarrying. And then there are the things that you don’t tell each other.” Alex turned his eye to Maccanish. “The nightmares, the screams you think you hear in the night, the sleeplessness, the foul looks that you imagine people are giving you in the street, the curl of your own lip and the shortness of your temper to everyone you meet. Ill will. The sense that there’s a thick, oppressive force covering the vale-as heavy and as dark as a wet, woolen blanket-smothering the very life from you, from the loved ones around you.”
Maccanish stood staring at Alex, blinking his eyes. “And you’re with the police?” he asked.
“Aye, the police.” Alex gave another grin.
“Well, you’re absolutely right about all of that-dreams, cries in the night, and the rest. Except for the part about no one telling each other-they tell me. All of them. Everybody feels it, and they come here. In their minds, the church is here to prevent all evil touching them-so they can just ignore it and get on with their lives, whether they step in the building or not. When that is found not to be the case-well, then it’s the kirk’s fault for letting it happen, isn’t it? They come here angry, you understand, livid-demanding answers, explanations. I’ve got none for them. They don’t prepare you for this type of thing in the seminary. I’ve been threatened, officer,” Maccanish said, holding out his hands, “attacked! Not by men, by women-mothers in desperation. They want to know what to do. And what can I tell them? It’ll be alright in the end? No. I say watch and pray, read your Scripture, search your hearts, and meditate on the Word. And they leave here angrier than they arrived-spitting, cursing, blaspheming all manner of obscenities. And where do I turn? I called the bishops, but they just fobbed me off. I wanted them to come up and see-feel what it’s like to walk down these paths, and they agreed, but their secretaries refused to make appointments. We’ve been abandoned, all of us. We’d abandon each other, if we could.” Maccanish ran his hands through his hair and composed himself. Then he continued.
“I had a sit-down with the wife, to work out what to do- we prayed long and hard, we listened for the Spirit to guide us, and you know what we heard Him say? Watch and pray. It was the hardest thing to hear at that time. But we set our shoulders to the task. ‘John,’ my wife said. ‘John, go down to the kirk with this load of candles. Get down on your knees and I’ll bring a pot of tea around directly.’ I came down to open the kirk and I found three elderly ladies-parishioners-standing on the doorstep. I asked them what they were doing here and they said that they’d come to help me watch and pray. I nearly bawled like a bairn, I was so relieved. That was over a fortnight ago, and I’ve rarely left the building since. It’s turned the church right upside down. Over two-thirds of my congregation has abandoned the building-won’t even come in sight of the place. I go to visit them and their doors are barred. But there are those who previously wouldn’t nod to me in the street, turning up every day, sitting and praying for hours on end. But praying for what? Watching for what?”
“For me,” Alex said solemnly. “For me, Reverend Maccanish- you’re in the middle of a spiritual battle. You’ve been invaded. And being taken off-guard and ill-prepared, the only thing you could do was dig in, keep your heads down, and wait for reinforcement.”
“A spiritual battle,” Maccanish repeated, his eyes shining. He began nodding his head. “Aye-aye. So what are you? Are you the reinforcement? Are you like-a spiritual general or something?” he asked eagerly.
“Me?” said Alex. “A general? No, I’m not a general.”
He paused for dramatic effect-he couldn’t help himself.
“I’m Black Ops.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Lifiendes
1
Before . . .
The yfelgop laid perfectly still in a pool of its own blood.
As soon as Daniel and Freya felt able, they stood up, brushed themselves off, and then very cautiously opened the door and crept back downstairs. Modwyn was standing in the hall, talking to Frithfroth and two guards in an urgent and frantic manner. She looked up as Daniel and Freya descended and cried out, “There they are!” All eyes turned up to them.
They saw Freya holding the yfelgop spear, saw the dark blood on Daniel’s shirt and his own blood dripping from his hand to the stone floor, and gave a gasp of horror. Modwyn rushed forward, arms outstretched.
“Oh, my dear children! Where were you? What happened to you?”
Daniel and Freya felt hands on them, searching them for injuries. They heard questions that came so fast they could not answer them. They tried their best to give a short explanation of what had just happened.
“Frithfroth!” Modwyn called when they told her of the attack.
“Tell the guard to sweep the tower! The lifiendes have been attacked.” She turned back to them and examined the cuts on Daniel’s face. Drawing herself up, she turned to Cnafa and Cnapa.
“Lead these two to the kitchens,” she instructed. “Then bring hot water, poultice, and bindings.”
Daniel and Freya allowed themselves to be led through the silent hall. The kitchen was a cold room with a high ceiling. There were several large ovens that looked very dusty and long stonetopped metal tables that did not appear to have been used recently.
Two metal stools were dragged before them, and they sat down gratefully. Cnapa placed a bowl of water and a cloth before him.
Modwyn entered and hurried over to them. Kneeling before Daniel and Freya, her green dresses flowing out around her, she cleaned Daniel’s wounds as they explained what happened in more detail.
“My poor ??elingas,” she said when they had finished. “I was so worried when I did not see you with the others.” Daniel’s wound had been cleaned of blood. “These are not deep. They will not scar.”
Modwyn cleaned the cloth in the bowl and pushed it away.
“The bell will sound again when the geard is cleared,” she said.
“Until then you must stay in the hall. I must go and find news of the battle. I will send Cnafa and Cnapa to bring you some food. I will return shortly.”
With that and a sweep of her long gown, she left them.
Daniel and Freya went back into the main hallway and found a bench out of the way of the terrified Ni?ergearders. In a few moments Cnafa brought them a tea-like spiced drink, and Cnapa brought them some more of the flatbread and dried meat.
They sat, sipping at the drink from warm clay bowls and chewing very small mouthfuls of food, which they did not taste. As they ate, they noticed the townspeople watching them. They wouldn’t say anything to each other, just stared and looked away whenever Daniel or Freya made eye contact.
After a time they heard the tolling of a bell. Modwyn entered the hall again.
“The attack is over,” she announced. “The streets are clear. But be cautious in returning to your homes. Do not go alone.”
She stepped aside to allow the people out of the hall and made her way to Daniel and Freya.
“Come with me,” she said.
They left the Langtorr by the large double doors. Once outside she asked a guard at the gate whose arms and chest were covered with putrefying brown blood where the main force was gathered.
He had an odd look on his face-a kind of dazed, unbelieving look. He pointed with a wavering hand towards one end
of the city. “Over-over there . . .”
“Is all well?” Modwyn asked the guard. “We were told that the city was clear.”
“And so have I been told, idesweard. And so it seems,” the guard replied. “But for my life I know not why.”
“What mean you by that?”
The guard paused, seemed to choke slightly, and then continued weakly, “The wall has been breached.”
“Yes, of course we know-”
“Nay, ni?ercwen. Not just the defenses, but the wall itself has been broken.”
Modwyn’s eyes widened. “Where?”
The guard could only gesture weakly. Her eyes blazing, Modwyn spun on her heel and started off in the direction he had pointed. “Come, lifiendes,” she said. “Hurry.”
They rushed through the streets of the underground city alongside Modwyn, passing people returning to their homes and assessing damages. Everywhere they looked-alongside walls and heaped in the middle of the streets-lay bodies of yfelgopes, nearly all of them headless. Daniel wondered why this was, but soon saw that groups of knights and guards were systematically gathering corpses together and chopping the heads from the dead enemies’ bodies. He shuddered and looked away.
Rounding a corner, they saw the city wall with its massive carved trees rise up in front of them-but it wasn’t as it had been.
A large U-shaped section had crumbled away, creating an avalanche of stone that engulfed the nearby houses. Modwyn gave a startled cry when she saw the gap and ran towards it.
There were many guards standing in the breach, their shoulders tense and weapons ready. Swi?gar and Ecgbryt were there, perched on a pile of dusty stones, gazing out into the blackness, cautious and tense. The wall looked as if it had just fallen apart, like the wall of a sand castle.
They were still a fair distance away when they came to the first bits of rubble from the wall. Blocks of stone had fallen against some of the houses, piling like a grey drift of snow. As they started to climb the pile, they were surprised to find that the rocks crumbled to a fine powder underfoot-it was like walking up a snow bank. Daniel knelt down and picked up a large clump of painted ivy. He was able to lift it quite easily. It was brittle and he found he could flake pieces away with his thumb. The sensation was like holding a compressed brick of fine sand.
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