Battleaxe (11 page)

A
n hour after dawn the small group breakfasted and took their horses not fifty paces from the Silent Woman Woods. A biting wind blew over the land and they all shivered inside their cloaks. The horses shifted uneasily, the nervousness of their riders transmitting itself to them. Belial stared at the path leading into the Woods.

“It won’t be wide enough for two of you to ride abreast, sir.”

Axis sat still and silent, then said, “How far in is the Keep, Gilbert?”

Gilbert looked discomforted. “I’m not completely sure, BattleAxe.”

“I thought you knew most things, Gilbert,” Axis said dryly. “You do know exactly where the Keep is, don’t you?”

Gilbert’s face splotched a patchy red in embarrassment. “At the end of the path, BattleAxe.”

Belial swore under his breath. “Is that all you’ve got to say, you useless lump of…”

“Belial,” Axis said mildly, “it is not a good thing to curse the Brotherhood of the Seneschal. If Gilbert says the Keep is at the end of the path, then the Keep is at the end of the path. Of course, it might help if Gilbert knew how long this Artor-forsaken path is, wouldn’t it, Gilbert?”

Gilbert swallowed. He wished he were back in the Tower of the Seneschal. “We have not had any communication with the Keep for some time, BattleAxe.”

Axis frowned. “Jayme said he was going to send a rider in to tell them we were coming.”

“The Brother-Leader sent a rider, it is true…it’s just that he hasn’t come back out again.”

All the men shifted nervously now. Timozel and Arne, the youngest men present, traded frightened looks and fingered their axes.

Axis remembered how unsure Jayme had seemed about the records the Keep contained. “And just how long is it since the Brother-Leader has heard anything from the Keep, Gilbert?”

Gilbert rolled his eyes skyward, as if he found something terribly interesting among the clouds. His skin was pasty-white in the dawn light. “Thirty-nine years.”

“Thirty-nine years?” said Axis incredulous. “Gilbert, how does anyone know there
is
a Keep in there? Jayme told me that Brother Ogden was chief Brother in the Keep. How does he know that if there’s been no communication for thirty-nine years?”

Arne, a dour-faced and dark-haired man, chuckled suddenly in grim humour. “Because that’s who the Seneschal sent to take charge thirty-nine years ago, BattleAxe!”

Axis stared at Gilbert. “Is that right?”

Gilbert nodded unhappily. “The Brothers are an uncommunicative lot,” he muttered.

Axis swore under his breath. Why hadn’t Jayme told him this? “Belial. If we’re not out in three days, send in a party after us. If that party doesn’t come out within three days, then send no-one else in. Break camp and go back to Carlon. You can tell Jayme that if anyone else has to go back into the Woods then it will have to be him. And if he doesn’t want to go into the Woods, then he can go and stop the Forbidden at Gorkenfort.”

Belial nodded and backed his horse off a little. “May Artor keep and hold you in His hand, BattleAxe.”

“Now and forever,” the others muttered.

Axis turned to the other three. “Arne, Timozel, are you ready?” They nodded. Axis turned to Gilbert. “Brother Gilbert, you may take the lead. Your prayers might help to keep the demons at bay. Timozel, you follow me; Arne, bring up the rear. Are you ready, Axe-Wielders?”

“We follow your voice and we are ready, BattleAxe!” Timozel and Arne shouted.

“Then let us ride,” Axis cried and spurred Belaguez into a gallop.

Belial stood and watched them until they disappeared into the gloom of the Woods, then he slowly turned his horse. He would set guards by the trail night and day until his BattleAxe came back. Halfway back to camp he came across Faraday standing alone in the waving grass, watching the spot where the riders had disappeared.

The men slowed their horses to a walk once they entered the Woods. Within thirty paces of the tree line they were completely lost in gloom. Every man sat straight and tall in the saddle, eyes shifting constantly from side to side, expecting attack at any moment. They could hardly conceive of a world where there were no wide-open spaces, where the sky was not instantly visible. The three Axemen had pulled their swords from their weapon belts and held them at the ready. Gilbert occasionally whimpered in fear and would have stopped had not Axis kept Belaguez pressed against his horse’s rump.

The gloom and the silence enveloped them. Not even birds called from the trees. About one hundred paces in, Timozel abruptly cried out from behind. “BattleAxe!”

Axis pulled Belaguez to a halt and whipped around in the saddle. “What is it?”

Timozel was bent double, half out of the saddle as he leaned further and further down his horse’s off side. “It’s my axe!” he gasped, “it’s…”

Now Axis could feel it too, a massive weight hanging down by his right hip as if a gigantic hand had seized his axe by the haft and was pulling it towards the ground. He grunted and tried to pull the other way, but whatever had hold of his axe was too strong. The next moment
he was pulled out of his saddle, and though he desperately grabbed the pommel he felt himself being dragged inexorably to the ground. Axis heard Gilbert cry out in horror, but he had no time to see what was wrong with him. The pressure on his axe increased—whatever invisible hand had hold of the haft was unbelievably strong—and, an instant after he heard Timozel hit the ground, Axis was pulled completely out of the saddle himself and hit the ground so hard that his breath was knocked out of his body.

Axis unbuckled his weapon belt to free himself of his axe almost as soon as he hit the ground, and the instant it was free he felt the immense pressure disappear. He jumped to his feet. Timozel and Arne lay struggling on the ground nearby, their horses a little further down the track, milling in confusion. Axis almost lost his footing as the ground swayed underneath his feet.

“Tim…Arne…unbuckle your weapon belts!” Axis shouted, stumbling in his efforts to reach his men still writhing helplessly on the ground. Timozel had been pulled halfway into the ground and Axis bent over him, the ground heaving beneath his feet, desperately trying to help Timozel free himself from his axe. Finally the weapon belt dropped free and Timozel grunted in relief. Axis hauled him to his feet then bent to help Arne, who had also unbuckled his weapon belt. All three turned to look for their axes, but the ground was heaving and buckling even more violently and their axes had completely disappeared underneath the loose covering of leaves and pine needles that littered the surface.

They all stepped back several paces to where the ground was firm, legs shaking. “Artor save us!” Arne gasped, “they would have taken us with them!” For a few heartbeats longer they stood, swords in hand, chests heaving as they fought to recover their breath, watching the ground where their axes had disappeared, hardly able to comprehend what had happened. After a moment the ground settled down until even the leaf litter had ceased to shift. They exchanged frightened glances. What sort of place was this where the forest could eat axes? How could they fight the very earth itself?

“I wonder whether the rider that Jayme sent was wearing an axe,” Timozel said quietly, his youthful face ashen. “And if he was, I wonder if he got his weapon belt off in time.”

“And how many others are buried under the earth in this spot,” Arne whispered.

That thought didn’t bear thinking about, and Axis battled to regain his equilibrium. “Get back on your horses. I for one am going to feel a lot better with Belaguez underneath me again.”

Gilbert rode back as the others remounted. “What happened?” he asked.

Axis swung into Belaguez’s saddle. “We have been deprived of our axes, Brother Gilbert,” he said, a lot more calmly than he felt. “We must hope that the forest does not eat us as well. Ride on.”

Nothing else troubled them for the rest of the long ride, although the forest loomed still and dark around them and they were all tense and jumpy, snarling at each other whenever a twig snapped under hoof or a low-slung bough scraped at a head or a shoulder. Hands lay slippery with sweat on the hilts of swords, but the three Axemen were unwilling to wipe their hands along their cloaks in case the demons, or whatever other dark fiends inhabited these Woods, chose that moment to attack.

After they had been in the saddle almost eight hours, the ground started to drop away underneath them, and they had to rein their horses back on the increasingly steep path in case they slipped and fell. An hour later Gilbert pulled his horse up and turned back to Axis, his face now so weary that deep lines of fatigue scored his pimply cheeks and forehead.

“BattleAxe,” he waved ahead sketchily. “Water.”

Axis peered through the gloom. Although it was difficult to see very far ahead, he could see a glint of water. “Keep going,” he said. “The sooner we find somewhere to rest and eat the better.”

“
If
we find somewhere to rest and eat,” he heard Timozel mutter. Axis hefted his sword in his right hand, almost dropping it as his fingers cramped, and leaned further back in the saddle as Belaguez
slipped a few paces down the slope. Artor, he thought, if we don’t get some rest soon we’ll have to lie down here in the very path.

And if we do that, will the ground swallow us as easily as it swallowed our axes?

Almost as soon as that thought crossed his mind, Gilbert’s horse jumped a small obstacle and landed on level ground, Gilbert only managing to keep to his saddle by the most strenuous effort. Forewarned, Axis gripped the saddle with his knees just as Belaguez leaped across a small stream; he called a warning back to Timozel and Arne. The path broadened and flattened ahead and all four men allowed themselves a deep breath of relief at the increased space, Gilbert taking the first opportunity he’d had to rein his horse back from the lead position. Axis kneed Belaguez forward.

“The trees thin ahead,” he said. “There’s a lake.”

A few moments later they had reined in at the shore of one of the most incredible sights they had ever seen. The entire forest sloped down into a deep circular basin, the mass of grey–green trees ending abruptly at the edge of an almost perfectly round lake. But it was the water itself that caught the party’s attention. It shone a soft, gentle gold in the late afternoon light.

Axis turned to Gilbert. “Did you know this was here?”

Gilbert shook his head slowly from side to side, not taking his eyes from the water.

“It must be enchanted,” Axis said flatly. “Water isn’t gold.”

“Perhaps it isn’t water,” said Timozel softly, making the sign of the Plough to ward off evil.

“Look,” said Arne, pointing with his sword. “It’s the cursed Keep.”

The Keep sat virtually at the lake’s edge, about a quarter of the way around, built of pale yellow stone that reflected the glow from the water. Its smooth cylindrical stone walls rose some thirty paces into the air, the walls only occasionally broken by narrow dark windows. It looked to be completely deserted.

“Well,” Axis spurred Belaguez forward, “let us go find this lost tribe of brothers, shall we?”

The horses slipped and slid their way around the lake’s edge, finally reaching the Keep just as the last rays of sun disappeared behind the tops of the forest trees. The Keep looked even more deserted closer up, and the men began to feel uneasy. No-one wanted to spend the night outside in this damned forest.

Axis kicked his stallion up to the barred door and brought the hilt of his sword crashing down on it three times. “Open up in the name of Artor!” he shouted. “We have need of food and rest.”

Nothing happened. Timozel and Arne exchanged looks, and Gilbert groaned quietly. Axis thundered at the door again, then edged Belaguez backwards a few steps so he could gaze up at the impassive stone walls.

“Damn you, open up,” he whispered.

A small trapdoor at eye level in the barred door suddenly swung open. “Well?” a scratchy voice demanded.

Axis felt relief wash through him. He half fell from his saddle and staggered stiffly up to the door.

“I am Axis, BattleAxe of the Axe-Wielders. These are my two companions, Arne and Timozel, and Brother Gilbert, assistant and adviser to the Brother-Leader, Jayme.” There, he thought, let him think about that.

A pair of suspicious grey eyes darted back and forth across the group. “No, you’re not, and no, he’s not,” he said abruptly, and slammed the trapdoor shut in Axis’ face.

“What!” Axis hammered at the door again in angry frustration. “In the name of the Seneschal, open up!”

The trapdoor popped open again. “You’re not the BattleAxe,” the scratchy voice said belligerently, “Fingus is.” The grey eyes shifted to Gilbert. “And he’s not adviser or whatever to the Brother-Leader. I am.”

The trapdoor slammed shut again.

Axis leaned wearily against the door, rubbing his hand over his eyes in exasperation. Fingus had been BattleAxe decades ago. These men had received no news from beyond the borders of the Silent Woman Woods for the past thirty-nine years.

He somehow raised the strength to hammer at the door again.

“Go away!” the voice called from behind the door.

“We are hungry, we are tired, and we need somewhere to stay the night,” Axis said in what he hoped was a reasonable tone. “Please, will you give us aid?”

Finally there was the sound of bolts being pulled back and Axis stood up straight, just in time to avoid falling over as the door swung inwards. A short, plump Brother of about seventy stood there, suspicion darkening the grey eyes in his round, cherubic face. Wispy white hair surrounded his head like a halo. “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place,” he said irritably. “Come in, come in.”

Timozel took the horses and tied them up loosely to a row of iron rings in the wall of the Keep, then he followed the others inside. The irritable Brother slammed the door shut behind him.

“
W
ell? What are you doing here? What are you doing wandering the Silent Woman Woods?” he demanded.

Axis looked around. They were in a large, dimly lit circular room which seemed to take up the entire ground floor of the Keep. To one side a twisting iron staircase led to the upper levels. Various packing cases lay strewn across almost half of the floor space, while the other half was set up as a rude kitchen and eating area. A large wooden larder, propped up by bricks, leaned precariously against the stone wall, while a crude wooden table sat before a small fire in an iron grate. The fire provided the only light in the room. A small and utterly insufficient iron hood led some of the smoke away through a pipe in the wooden ceiling. The rest of the smoke simply drifted about the room.

Axis gave the Brother the Axe-Wielder’s salute; he saw no point in insulting the man. “Brother Ogden?”

The Brother grunted and looked the group over. “That is my name.”

“Brother Ogden, my name is Axis, BattleAxe of the Axe-Wielders. Wait!” He raised his hand slightly and took a step forward as Ogden
started to shake his head. “Brother, it has been thirty-nine years since you had contact with the outside world and many things have changed since you were last at the Tower of the Seneschal. Fingus died many years ago. Now I am BattleAxe. King Karel likewise died many years ago and now Priam sits on the throne of Achar.”

“He was a snotty-nosed toddler when I last saw him,” Ogden grumbled. Timozel restrained a smile at the image of a snotty-nosed Priam, complete with auburn curls. The Brother looked at Axis sharply. “Who’s the Brother-Leader did you say? Jayme?”

Axis nodded. Ogden frowned then smiled as if recalling something. “Well, well. Done well for a boy from the farm, hasn’t he? I wonder what friends
he
made to reach such a high position?” He muttered to himself for another moment, his smile fading, then wandered over to the table. “Well, sit, sit. No use standing about like gawking peasants caught at court.” He kicked out a couple of bare benches from underneath the table. “Courtesy dictates that we offer you some food while you tell us why you are here. Veremund!”

Ogden’s sudden bellow caught the four men off-guard and Gilbert, who was closest to Ogden and in the act of sitting down on the dusty bench, tripped and would have fallen had not Timozel caught his arm.

“Veremund!” Ogden bellowed again, staring at the staircase where it disappeared into the darkness. There was a shuffling from above, then a figure hastened into view, lit by a small lamp that he was carrying. He hurried down the staircase, whispering to himself.

Veremund was as tall and spare as Ogden was short and fat, and unlike Ogden’s pale grey eyes, his eyes were almost black in his pale face. His hair, however, was as white and as wispy as his fellow brother’s. Ink stains ran down his dirty grey habit.

“Guests!” he exclaimed, as he caught sight of Axis and his companions. “Ogden! We have guests!” He hurried over to the table and enthusiastically shook all four men’s hands. “Charmed,” he beamed. “Absolutely delighted, old chap.” He patted Timozel on the head and clapped Gilbert on the shoulder, then he spied the insignia on the breast of Axis’ coat.

“BattleAxe! We are indeed honoured…aren’t we, Ogden?” He looked expectantly at Ogden, who grumbled to himself again and shuffled over to the fire and pushed a large kettle closer to the flames. “Well,” Veremund continued, a little deflated. “We
are
honoured. It’s been a long time. Please excuse Brother Ogden’s poor manners, gentlemen. He does dislike to be disturbed from his contemplations, you see. But I am glad to have company.” He waved at the men to sit down. “Please, sit…sit.”

Ogden banged some dirty plates on the table, stared at them for a moment, then wiped them perfunctorily with the skirt of his habit, leaving even more smears. “They’ve not yet informed me why they’re here, Veremund.” He passed the plates about the table.

Veremund smiled broadly at the men. “Well, that doesn’t matter, does it. We have plenty of time to hear their story.” He paused, and a shadow crossed his face. “Gentlemen, forgive me if I ask this. But I can’t help wondering if you had any trouble coming through the Woods?”

Ogden, who was rummaging in the larder behind their backs, paused and turned back to the table. His eyes briefly met Veremund’s.

Axis glanced at Timozel and Arne. “We were not inside the trees a hundred paces when…” He paused. “When…”

“Ah,” said Veremund softly, wringing his hands, a sad expression crossing his face. “The Woods, you see, they would not allow your axes in, would they?”

“Demons,” said Arne darkly. “No woods or forests should be allowed to stand. It’s an affront to Artor.”

Ogden banged a cold honeyed ham on the table. He chortled. “Young man, the Seneschal have been trying to cut these woods down for a thousand years. Why—so it is said—one day Axemen five thousand strong surrounded the Woods with their axes and tried to cut their way through.” He laughed again. “None survived the experience…Axemen, I mean.”

Axis looked at the others, startled. “But I thought these Woods were left standing because the Seneschal wanted the Keep left undisturbed.”

Veremund sighed and sat down. “Unfortunately, the Seneschal is not yet strong enough to conquer these Woods, BattleAxe. The old magic is still too strong.” Gilbert frowned at the casual mention of magic. Veremund looked back to Ogden, returning from the larder with a tray laden with food. The unspoken thought passed between them—why had the Woods taken the axes yet let the men live to reach the Keep? The Woods had let none live for…well, for many years.

The kettle whistled and Veremund busied himself setting some tea to steep while Ogden unloaded the tray. Their four guests exchanged surprised looks; the food that Ogden laid out was as fine as that of Priam’s table itself. There were four different kinds of bread, an array of cold meats, pickles, mustards, fresh vegetables, various berry tarts and jellies, cream, butter, spiced fruits and a variety of cheeses.

Gilbert cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Brothers, but, ah, I was wondering how you manage to set such a fine table?”

Ogden and Veremund, sitting themselves down at the table, looked baffled. “Why, the food comes from the larder, of course,” Ogden said.

“Yes,” Gilbert pushed, wriggling a little on his bench, “but how does it get in there? I mean, do you butcher and bake all this yourself ? There were no livestock outside, and we saw no gardens.”

Ogden’s eyes snapped. “Young whip-snake, the food comes from the larder. I presume Veremund puts it in there.”

Veremund’s eyes widened in denial. “Oh, no, no, no, Ogden!
You
put it in there.
I
don’t.”

Ogden turned on Veremund, absolutely furious at being contradicted. “No, I don’t! You do!” His plump cheeks had gone pink with anger.

“Brothers,” Axis said hastily to avoid further argument. “It really doesn’t matter. I’m sorry if Brother Gilbert’s question offended you. Please, the food is more than we could have expected.”

“Well,” Veremund huffed. “If you will excuse me, I will attend to your horses. There is a stable out the back. If you could perhaps
leave your tale until I return I won’t have to impose on you to repeat your words.” He pushed himself back from the table and sniffed at Ogden. “Brother Ogden, perhaps you would be so kind as to pour the tea while I am gone.” Then he stalked from the room, slamming the Keep door behind him.

An hour later the men were warm, fed and far more relaxed than previously. Veremund had stomped back inside and joined them at the table. He refused to eat, sipping only at a mug of steaming tea. Ogden leaned forward. “Now, young men, what brings the BattleAxe, two Axe-Wielders, and what you claim to be the Brother-Leader’s adviser deep into the Silent Woman Woods to disturb two old men who would prefer to be left alone?”

Axis stared at his empty mug for a moment, then looked at Ogden and Veremund. “Brothers, we’ve come because the Seneschal, Achar itself, needs your help.”

For almost an hour Axis talked, telling them everything he knew about the problems in the north. Occasionally he’d clarify a detail with Gilbert, and sometimes one or other of the two Brothers would ask a question. Finally he sat back. “Well, can you help us? Can you tell us how to defeat these unbodied wraiths?”

Ogden looked at Axis, then glanced about the rest of the table. His eyes were troubled. “My sons. The news you bring is grievous. I am afraid to tell you that I, we, believe the news is worse than you yet realise.” He paused.

Axis’ face tightened. “Then tell me, man, tell me! Don’t sit there and keep me guessing!”

“BattleAxe. At one point you mentioned the possibility that this danger from the north might not actually be the Forbidden themselves,” said Veremund stumbling over the word “Forbidden”, “but something else. You were correct. Brother Ogden and I are afraid that the danger you speak of might be the Destroyer, Gorgrael himself, driving his Ghostmen and his ice and cloud down from the north.”

Axis glanced at Gilbert, but Gilbert looked as perplexed as he. “Veremund, what do you mean? Who is this Destroyer? This Gorgrael?”

Ogden answered instead. “Axis, first let me explain about this Keep a little.” Axis nodded. “Jayme told you that the Keep contained records, ancient records, from the time when the Acharites penned the Forbidden behind the Fortress Ranges, is that right?”

Axis nodded again. “Jayme hoped that these records would contain valuable information about how to defeat the Forbidden.”

Ogden blinked, amused. “Hardly, young man. The records that this Keep contains are the actual records of the Forbidden themselves. They extend back almost eight thousand years.”

“What!” Gilbert was appalled. “They should have been burned hundreds of years ago!” Ever since the Forbidden had been penned behind the Fortress Ranges and the Icescarp Alps the Seneschal had done everything in their power to rid Achar of any sign or memory of the Forbidden, even discouraging people from repeating the old legends that included the Forbidden. No wonder the Seneschal did not encourage any interest in the Silent Woman Woods and Keep.

“Exactly why the Seneschal has not let it be widely known that they exist, you young simpleton!” Ogden snapped at Gilbert. “They might be the records of the Forbidden, but they are valuable for precisely that reason.”

“But the Forbidden are brutes, hardly better than beasts, Ogden. How could they keep records?” Axis asked quietly, leaning forward so that the firelight glinted in his eyes and in the short hairs of his blond beard.

Veremund answered. “BattleAxe. The Forbidden, as you have so simplistically called them, had a written and oral culture that was far more complex than our own. Even after hundreds of years of brothers studying the records that remain, we can only dimly comprehend the complexity and beauty of their lives.”

Arne studied both Brothers carefully. “You sound as if you admire them.”

“Young man, it has been hard for Brother Ogden and myself to do anything but admire them. They were beautiful peoples.”

“Sacrilege!” Gilbert hissed. “You are unworthy to wear the robes of the Seneschal!”

“Hush, Gilbert,” Axis said tersely, though he sympathised with Gilbert’s reactions. How could these Brothers
admire
the Forbidden when, as every Artor-fearing Acharite knew, the Forbidden had done their best to slaughter every man, woman and child in Achar? “You said ‘peoples’, Veremund.”

“The Forbidden are composed of two peoples. The Icarii, sometimes known as the people of the Wing, and the Avar, or the people of the Horn. The records here are mainly of the Icarii, although we do have some relating to the Avar as well.”

“How can you read the language of the Forbidden, Brothers?” Gilbert asked suspiciously, ignoring Axis’ admonition to keep quiet.

“All the races of this ancient land once lived together, Gilbert, and spoke the same language. It has scarcely altered over the centuries.”

We speak the same language as the Forbidden? Axis raised his eyebrows, but he did not dwell on it. “And these records will tell us of what we face?”

Veremund nodded. “I believe so. But it might be better if I show you rather than simply tell you. Ogden, do you think that would be best?”

“Yes, Veremund. I think that would be best.”

Veremund inclined his head and stood up, taking the small lamp providing the only illumination in the room besides the fire, and climbed the circular iron steps until he disappeared from view.

Axis felt a premonition crawl down his spine and he reached instinctively for his axe. But it was gone, buried underneath the Woods, and his sword stood propped out of his reach against the wall of the Keep. He glanced at Arne and Timozel; both looked as nervous as he. How had they let their swords be placed out of their immediate reach?

Ogden noticed their tension. “Gentlemen, I assure you that there is no danger. Veremund has simply gone to fetch one of the Icarii books.”

Soon the four men heard Veremund shuffling back down the steps. He had left his lamp behind, and grasped a large leather volume to his chest with both arms. He almost dropped the volume as he reached the table; clearly it was very heavy. Ogden turned the book around so that he could open it, squinting in the flickering
light and muttering as he leafed through the pages. The others could see that each page was made of vellum, and contained an unfamiliar handwritten script and illuminations of incredible beauty. Whoever had written in this book had used inks of vivid hues, and gold and silver paints glittered among the rainbow enamels of the script.

“Ah,” Ogden finally breathed, his fingers tracing lightly along the lines of a page. “Here we are. Both the Icarii and the Avar, often so dissimilar in nature, had a shared prophecy, a prophecy that dates back many thousands of years. All Icarii and Avar used to pray that they would not be alive when the prophecy came to fruition. Let me read it to you.”

He took a deep breath and began to read, his voice taking on a peculiar musical aspect. “A day will come when born will be…Two babes whose blood…whose blood…” He stopped, rubbing his eyes. “Cursed firelight!” he growled. “You should have brought the lamp back with you, Veremund. Here, can you read this?”