The great brand Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon, And flashing round and round, and whirled in an arch, Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, Seen where the moving isles of winter shock By night, with noises of the northern sea . . .
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson
There are times, Karl thought, when I like this business a whole lot. He rode Carrot at the edge of the water, sometimes kicking her into a canter, urging her a short way into the surf. Her hooves kicked up spray, bathing both of them in a cool shower.
"Stop that, Karl. Get back on the beach." Aeia laughed, wiping the spray from her eyes. To his left and a few yards behind, she bounced along on Pirate's back, her feet barely reaching the shortened stirrups.
She patted Pirate's white neck. Aeia had grown fond of that horse; it occurred to Karl that she would probably have a harder time saying goodbye to Pirate than to him.
Almost three hundred yards offshore, four dugouts kept pace with them. The first one held Tennetty, Chak, Ahira, Seigar, Wohtansen, and two other Mel paddlers; the other two, each manned by three Mel, were piled high with trade goods from the Warthog. In a couple of days, the men of Clan Wohtansen would free the boat from its sandbar, so that Ganness could sail down to collect his copra.
Ahead, a small island grew closer. Perhaps a quarter-mile offshore, it was heavily wooded and roughly conical, rising to a height of almost a hundred feet at its peak.
Aeia's eyes grew wide. "Karl." She pulled Pirate to a stop and stared at the island, her eyes filling with tears.
He guided Carrot over to her side. "What's wrong?"
"I remember. My parent's house is . . ." Her pointing forefinger wavered, then straightened. "That way. Along that path." Her arm trembled; she lowered it.
He dismounted from Carrot's saddle and helped Aeia down from Pirate. "Let's walk, shall we?"
Taking Pirate's reins in her left hand, she clasped Karl's right hand as they walked along the sand.
From the top of a slanting palm tree, a rough tattoo of drumbeats issued, then echoed as they were repeated along the path into the forest.
As the three dugouts were beached, Karl smiled down at Aeia. "Let's wait a moment."
"But—" she tugged on his hand.
"But nothing." He smoothed down the sides of his sarong. "I may be dressed in local costume, little one, but I don't think anybody grows quite this tall or hairy around here. I'd rather your clan finds out that I'm friendly before we meet them, rather than after I've gotten a spear through my chest."
Seigar Wohtansen spoke a few quiet words to one of his men; the Mel sprinted across the sands and disappeared into the forest, as Wohtansen and the rest walked over to where Karl and Aeia stood.
They were all dressed in local costume. Karl laughed at the way Chak's sunburned potbelly protruded over the waist of his sarong, although Rahff wore his with dignity. On the other hand, Tennetty actually looked kind of nice in a sarong, if you could ignore the scars along her belly and back. And the way that her right hand never strayed far from the hilt of her sword.
I guess I've been away from Andy-Andy far too long, if Tennetty's starting to look good.
Ahira looked ridiculous. The hem of his sarong brushed the sand, and it didn't really go with the chainmail vest that he wore over a thin under-shirt. Dwarfs weren't built to wear sarongs.
But who except me would tell him that?
As always, the dwarf had his battleaxe with him, strapped across his broad chest. While Ahira really wasn't as touchy as his scowling face suggested, it was unlikely that anyone would risk finding that out.
Wohtansen tapped Karl's shoulder. "The Eriksens will be down to pick up their goods in a short while. And, I suspect, celebrate their surprise." He ran affectionate fingers through Aeia's hair; his face grew somber. "Which means that you and I had best be getting on to the cave. I know Clan Erik; likely you won't be able to leave the celebration for days without offending someone."
Aeia's lower lip trembled; Karl dialed for a reassuring smile, relieved to find that at least some sort of grimace spread across his face.
It would be hard leaving Aeia here. Karl had never had a little sister before.
"I guess we'd better," he said, handing Carrot's reins to Chak. "Keep an eye on everything."
"No sweat, kemo sabe," Chak said in English, his thick accent leaving a lot to be desired.
Karl raised an eyebrow. "Kemo sabe?"
Chak nodded, then turned to Ahira. "I said that properly, no?"
"Close." Ahira shrugged an apology to Karl. "Well, he asked to be taught some English. And so did Rahff."
"I can see you started them with the important stuff first."
"Of course."
Wohtansen was getting impatient. Karl turned to accompany him.
"Coming, Ahira?" Karl asked.
The dwarf shook his head. "You have to swim to get there. I think you'd better count me out. But I will want to hear about it, later."
"Swim?"
Wohtansen nodded. "You'd better give your sword to one of your friends. You'd have trouble swimming with it."
Karl unbuckled his swordbelt and tossed the scabbarded sword to Rahff. "Don't lose it, now."
"Of course, Karl." His apprentice nodded gravely. "And . . . up your nose with a rubber nose," he added in English, bowing slightly.
Karl laughed. "Ahira, you cut that out." Karl unstrapped his sandals, then kicked them off, absent-mindedly spraying Ahira with sand.
The dwarf chuckled; Karl and Wohtansen dropped their sarongs on the sand and jogged away.
* * *
The water was warm and clear; Karl kept to Wohtansen's pace as they swam toward the island.
But it had been a long time since Karl had been swimming, and a quarter of a mile was more distance than he was used to; by the time Wohtansen pulled himself up onto the flat top of a jutting boulder, then offered Karl a hand up, Karl was grateful for the help.
He mimicked Wohtansen, stretching out on a rock, resting while the hot sun dried his skin. His breath came in short gasps; Karl forced his breathing to slow down. "Any reason we couldn't just take a canoe over?"
Wohtansen smiled tolerantly at Karl's panting. "Yes." He thumped a fist on the boulder. "Whole island is rocky, like this. No place to beach it. Besides, it's better not to draw attention to this place. Just in case." Wohtansen rose to his feet. "This way."
The narrow path twisted sharply upward through the bushes, until they arrived at the summit of the island, a rocky outcropping overlooking the seaward side. A single palm grew there, projecting out of a crack in the rock. A sparkling in the leaves caught Karl's eye; he glanced up. A glass ball, only slightly larger than a lightbulb, hung in midair among the palm's fronds, bobbling slightly in the breeze.
Wohtansen smiled. "A gift from Arta Myrdhyn; you can see what it does when we get below."
Below?
The Mel brought him to the ledge and pointed downward. A few yards from where the waves broke against the rocks almost a hundred feet below, the water burbled. "There's a spring that feeds into the Cirric down there. It will help us coming out, but it does make it difficult to go in.
"Listen closely: After I strike the water, count forty breaths, take as large a breath as you can, then follow me. Dive directly for the rough water, then swim down, as far as you can. The tunnel goes deep, very deep. Don't hesitate, just keep swimming down. It will be difficult for you, but it can be done.
"You must keep your eyes open; when you see light, swim toward it. I'll meet you and help you the rest of the way. Do you understand?"
At Karl's nod, Wohtansen walked away from the edge, took a running start, and leaped outward, away from the edge, his body arching into a classic swan dive, then straightening a scant pulsebeat before he hit the surface.
Wohtansen struck the dark water cleanly; he vanished, only a small splash marking his passing.
Karl took a deep breath and began counting.
One breath. I don't
like this, not at all. But he kept breathing and counting.
Ten. Well, at least we know why someone as young and vital as Wohtansen is the wizard around here. Not a job for an old man; one misstep and he'd shatter himself on the rocks.
Twenty. If I remember right, the cliffdivers in Acapulco dive more than a hundred feet from La Quebrada—if they can do it, why the hell can't I jump a bit less?
Twenty-five. Because I'm not trained for it, that's why the hell I can't do it. Or why I shouldn't, if I had a brain in my head.
Thirty. But do I have any choice?
Thirty-five. Not if I want to see this sword.
To hell with it. He began hyperventilating, forcing air in and out of his lungs. He counted out five quick breaths, added another fifteen for good measure, eyed the distance from the rocks to the bubbling water, ran, and dove, his hands forming into fists of their own volition.
The air clung to him like a rubber sheet; the scant three seconds that he fell felt like a long hour.
He hit.
The water slammed into him like a brick wall, knocking the air out of his lungs, as he sank into the smooth tunnel, scraping his right shoulder against the stone. For a moment, he considered returning to the surface, giving up for now, trying again later. But he knew that if he backed away now, he would never regain his nerve.
So he swam down, into the black water, kicking his legs as frantically as he worked his arms.
The pressure in his chest grew; his lungs burned with a cruel fire; his diaphragm ached to draw anything, anything into his lungs.
And just when he finally thought his head and chest would split wide open, a horizontal channel appeared beside him, marked by a flickering light. Karl swam toward the light.
A hand grasped his outstretched arm; Karl went limp and let Wohtansen pull him through the horizontal tunnel, then up through another vertical one.
Two yards above him, the surface rippled invitingly. Desperately, he kicked himself from Wohtansen's grasp and stuck his head through to the surface.
His first breath was the sweetest one he had ever taken.
Karl pulled himself out of the water and lay gasping on the rough stone floor.
Seal-like, Wohtansen slipped from the water, then handed Karl a thick, soft blanket. "Here. Take a moment to dry off. It gets cold in here." Following his own advice, the Mel took another blanket from a cane drying rack.
As he dried himself, Karl looked around. They were in a small, almost spherical room, the stone floor concave to accommodate the pool in the center, the walls rising to a height of perhaps five yards. Glowing crystals speckled the walls.
Just like the crystals in the Cave of The Dragon. An icy chill crept along his spine; he rubbed himself harder, but the chill remained.
A long, jagged crack ran along the ceiling on the far side of the room, letting in shreds of noon sunlight through the green foliage that grew over the outside of the wall.
That wall couldn't have been more than a few inches thick; chiseling a doorway wouldn't have been difficult. Still, it was understandable why the Mel hadn't created another, more convenient way into the caverns. If this was the source of their magic, it would be best to keep it hidden.
On the far side of the cavern, a tunnel stood as the only exit other than the pool.
Wohtansen helped Karl to his feet, and they started to walk toward the tunnel. Low enough that Karl had to stoop to walk through it, the tunnel was only ten feet long, opening up on another cavern. "You won't be able to see the magical writing on the far wall, but I think you'll enjoy . . . this."
Karl started. On the wall beside him, a huge picture window looked down on the sea.
Window? How can there be a window? They were inside the island; a window on that wall would open on rock, not look down on the Cirric. And it wasn't a painting; the waves in a painting didn't ripple; the clouds in a painting didn't move.
"That's just not possible. We're at sea level."
Wohtansen smiled. "Remember the Eye you saw above. Arta Myrdhyn left it there, and this here, so that we would never have to leave this place without knowing what lies outside."
Wohtansen at his side, Karl walked to the window and ran his fingers over the cool glass.
The view spun.
"Gently, gently," Wohtansen said, pulling Karl's arm from the glass. He put his own fingers on the left side of the glass, and pressed gently for a moment.
Like a camera panning to the left, the picture moved. Now the glass revealed a distant view of the beach, where perhaps a dozen people stood.
"It seems that some of the Eriksens have arrived on the beach," Wohtansen said. He pressed his fingers to the center of the window, holding them firmly against the glass. The field of vision narrowed, zooming in until it could hold only four figures, all of them with the flat appearance brought on by a telescope or binoculars.
Ahira stood smiling, while a fiftyish Mel couple, their faces dripping with tears, hugged little Aeia so hard that Karl thought they might squeeze the air out of her.
Wohtansen removed his hand from the glass, then lightly touched it on the right side, again removing his hand when the seaside view slid around. "But this is what it's for." He jerked his head toward the exit tunnel. "Come."
They walked into the tunnel. This one was longer than the other, forty yards of twisting turns. As they neared the tunnel's mouth, the brightness grew. But it was a different sort, a whiter, purer light.
Karl stepped up his pace. He reached the final bend in the tunnel and stepped out into brightness.
"I don't—" the words caught in his throat; his head spun.
Above a rough stone altar, gripped tightly by ghostly fingers of white light, the sword floated in midair.
Chapter Fifteen
The Sword
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead! In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility; But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect.
—William Shakespeare
Karl's breath caught in his throat. His hands trembled.
But why? In and of itself, the sword didn't look unusual.
It was a fairly ordinary two-handed broadsword, three inches wide at the ricasso, tapering at first gently, then suddenly, to a needle-pointed tip; a cord-wound grip and long, thick brass quillons proclaimed it a sword for use, not for dress.
The blade was free of nicks and rust, granted, but Karl had seen many swords just as good. Perhaps a sword like this was worth sixty, seventy gold. No more.
So why was just looking at it like an electric shock?
"Part of the spell." Wohtansen chuckled thinly. "It affects everyone that way."
Karl tore his eyes away from the sword and the ghostly hand gripping it. He turned to face Wohtansen. "What . . . ?"
The Mel shrugged. "I don't know much more about it than I've told you. There are two charms on it that I can see." He tapped the middle of his forehead. "With the inner sight. One holds it there, waiting." He gestured at the bands of light clutching the sword. "For the one whom Arta Myrdhyn has intended to have it."
"The other?"
"A charm of protection. Not for the sword, for the bearer. It will protect him from magical spells."
Karl couldn't keep his eyes off the sword any longer; he turned back. His palms itching for the cord-wound hilt, he took a step forward.
"Wait." Wohtansen's hand fell on Karl's shoulder. "What do you read on the blade? What does the blade say?"
The blade was shiny steel, lacking any filigreed inscription. "Say? Nothing." Karl shrugged the hand away.
"Nothing? Then we may as well go; the sword was not left for you." Wohtansen stared intently into Karl's face. "I'd hoped you were the one," he said sadly, then bit his lip as he shook his head. "But hoping never did make
it so."
Karl took another step toward the sword. It vibrated, setting up a low hum that filled the cavern. As Karl leaned toward it, the humming grew louder.
He reached up and fastened both hands on the hilt, while the radiance grew brighter, the humming louder. The fingers of light dazzled his eyes; they gripped the sword more tightly.
His eyes tearing, Karl squinted against the light and pulled. The vibration rattled his teeth, but he gripped the hilt tightly and pulled even harder. The light grew so bright that it made his eyes ache even through closed eyelids, but the sword didn't move at all.
Goddam it, he thought. Here I am, trying to grab a magical vibrator when I should be home with my wife and child and—
The sword gave a fraction of an inch, then stopped, frozen in place.
"Karl." Wohtansen's voice was shrill. "It's never moved before. Pull harder, Karl Cullinane. Harder."
He pulled harder. Nothing.
He gripped the hilt even more tightly, then braced his feet against the stone altar, and pulled on the sword until his heart pounded in his chest, and the strain threatened to break his head open.
Move, dammit, move.
Nothing. He set his feet back on the floor and released his grip.
The light faded back to its original dimness; the vibration slowed, then stopped.
"I can't do it." Karl shook his head. Wohtansen tugged at his arm.
"A pity," Wohtansen said. "When it moved, I was certain you were the one."
He pursed his lips, then shrugged, as he led Karl back through the tunnel, the radiance diminishing behind them. "But it's not the first disappointment in my life; it won't be the last."
Wohtansen waved a hand at the window and walked to the far wall. "I have to reimprint some spells; if you'd like, amuse yourself with the Eye while I study." He seated himself tailor-fashion in front of the wall opposite the glass, folded his hands in his lap, and began reading the invisible letters, moving his lips as he studied it.
Karl stared intently at the wall. No, it was just a blank wall to him; since he didn't have the genes that allowed him to work magic, he couldn't even see the writing.
The Sword and the Chain Page 17