by Garth Nix
Shedding a cloud of dust and cobwebs, the sword swung Eleanor around as though to strike at Odo.
“No!” Eleanor cried, pulling the blade back with all her strength, as she had seen Odo do many times. “He’s my friend! You can’t hurt him!”
“I hurt all who know me. That is my nature. I am cursed to cause nothing but despair. You should have left me sleeping. I will be the ruin of you all!”
Odo fell back, Biter quivering in his grasp. Odo frowned — if even Biter was afraid of this cursed sword, they were doomed indeed.
But when Biter spoke, he sounded excited and amazed, not afraid.
“Runnel?”
Eleanor felt the cursed sword twitch.
“I am not Runnel. I am Reynfrida Sharp-point Flamecutter!”
Behind Odo, Wenneth pressed her way through a collection of hanging fabrics that were suspended from the ceiling on an ancient rope.
“The Sorrowful Sword!” she exclaimed. “Child, what have you done?”
Eleanor stared from her to the sword, to Biter, to Odo, and back again. She had been impulsive, and now she was cursed to die!
“I found a sword,” she managed to choke out. “I just wanted to try it …”
“I understand,” said Odo. He knew it was far more than that, but he didn’t want to say so in front of Wenneth.
“I am death to my wielder,” muttered Eleanor’s sword. She made a halfhearted stab at Odo, but was easily pulled back by Eleanor.
“Stop that!”
Biter pulled Odo’s arm forward as Eleanor pulled back, and the tips of the swords met, just for a moment.
“Runnel? Don’t you recognize me?” asked Biter plaintively. “It is I, Hildebrand Shining Foebiter.”
“You cannot be,” the sword moaned. “My brother is long dead, and I am cursed. All near me shall suffer and despair.”
Odo stared at Biter in astonishment. “You have a sister?”
“I did … I do,” said Biter. “In Eathrylden we were forged from the same ore and in the same fire, and enchanted by the same true smith. Runnel, as he fondly called her, was the first sword he made, I his last. Seventy years divide us. We have not … that is, I had not thought to wonder what she made of my disappearance …”
The pain in Biter’s voice was awful to hear. Odo didn’t know what to say. How did one offer reassurance to a sword that was hundreds of years old and had spent half its life under a river?
“We will take the sword into the chapel proper,” said Wenneth to Eleanor. “You will behave there, won’t you, Reynfrida?”
“It is a hallowed place,” said Reynfrida. “It soothes my curse. For a time.”
Eleanor dragged the sword down and backed past the anvil and then through an arched doorway Wenneth indicated. Odo and Biter followed cautiously, with Wenneth behind.
The room beyond was not full of strange bits and bobs. It had a much higher arched ceiling, with ancient black beams that were adorned with hundreds of small bronze ornaments, designs that neither Odo or Eleanor recognized. The floor was tiled with blue stones the color of a summer sky, and at one end there was a rectangular pool of shallow water that glittered as if many coins or even gems lay beneath the surface.
A high window of clear glass allowed the dawn light in, diminishing the effect of the glowing stones, but already clearly illuminating the room.
It was a very restful place.
The sword in Eleanor’s hand became still as she entered the chapel, and she had to hold it up. The mysteries of the glittering pool called to her, and when she went to look in she was surprised to find six small slots in its tiled edge, each deep enough to take a sword. Kneeling, she slid Runnel into one, the sword quivering as it stood upright.
Odo followed her and also knelt, setting Biter into the stone scabbard next to his sister sword.
The resemblance to Biter was even more pronounced now that they were next to each other, bathed in the swathe of light from the high window.
“She has been here for a hundred and sixty-seven years,” said Wenneth, gesturing towards Eleanor’s sword. “The anvil is much older, being all that remains of the smithy that once stood in this place. One stormy eve, the story goes, a troubled knight took shelter here, but found no peace. All night he raved, driving himself deeper and deeper into madness. When the monk at that time tried to soothe him, he struck down my forebear and killed him. In a fit of anguish, the knight then plunged his sword into the heart of the anvil, swearing never to wield it again. He rode off at dawn, and was later killed ignobly, in a tavern brawl.”
“Unarmed and lacking all wisdom,” said the knight’s abandoned sword in as mournful a voice as any Eleanor had ever heard. “I should have been at his side, but his madness was upon him. At the end, he blamed me for … everything, it seemed. I could not understand. All I know is that I failed him.”
“The story of the Sorrowful Sword does not end there,” Wenneth said. “Three times has it been drawn from the anvil by knights seeking an enchanted blade. Those knights, all three of them, met unhappy ends, though none so bad a death as the first. Afterward, each time, the sword returned to the anvil of its own accord, knowing no other course to take.”
“I’m sorry,” Eleanor said. “I wish I had never touched it.”
“How do you know all this?” Odo asked Wenneth.
“On stormy knights, it talks in its sleep.”
“Is this true, Runnel?” asked Biter. “You are cursed?”
“All who wield me will die,” said the sword bitterly.
“But wait,” said Odo. “Don’t knights usually die? I mean, they fight a lot, and often come up against monsters like dragons. I mean, four dead knights in a row can’t be that unusual …”
He trailed off as the ruby flashed at him.
“Do you doubt my curse?”
“Well, yes. Couldn’t you just be unlucky rather than cursed?”
“Sir Hollis told me I was cursed,” she said. “He called me an evil blade and said I was his master, not the other way around.”
“Yes, but he was mad — Hey, you said so yourself!” he added as Runnel shivered in the floor slot, as if preparing to leap up and strike.
“Sir Odo speaks wisdom,” said Wenneth in a calming voice. “Luck can be tested … and curses broken.”
Hope stirred in Eleanor’s eyes at the suggestion.
“Yes! We could help you, Runnel.”
“None can help me,” moaned the sword. “Anyone who bears me will die because of me. Sir Treddian boiled in a volcanic lake, Sir Faline fell in the first moments of the battle for the causeway at Thradbyrn —”
“I don’t believe they died because of a curse,” interrupted Eleanor, though in truth there was more than a small part of her that thought they might have. “But even if it is true, like Wenneth said, curses can be broken.”
“Indeed,” added Biter eagerly. “It is well known that high deeds and brave action may break any kind of ill-wishing.”
“Yes, see?” said Eleanor. “And we can certainly offer you high deeds. We’re on a quest, Sir Odo, Biter, and I. Come with us and we’ll prove to you that you’re not cursed or unlucky or whatever.”
“Nothing may end my curse but my destruction,” said Runnel.
“You don’t know that,” protested Eleanor.
“It is all I desire,” said Runnel. “One day, a dragon will come, and my curse and I will die together in its fiery breath. You should never have woken me, Eleanor, for you merely prolong my doom and ensure your own!”
“Would you at least agree to not actively try to kill me?” asked Eleanor. “I mean, don’t do anything on purpose against me?”
“I mean you no ill will,” said Runnel. “By choice, I would stay asleep.”
“Sleep is full of eels,” said Biter. “I do not recommend it.”
“Will you just promise not to actively help this curse of yours along, whether it’s real or not?” said Eleanor, who had been thinking hard. “If you do tha
t, perhaps we can give you what you say you want.”
“What do you mean, child?” asked Runnel.
“We are traveling north,” said Eleanor. “To slay the dragon who has boiled the river dry and is going to kill everyone who depends on it.”
“Which dragon?” Runnel asked.
“Quenwulf,” said Eleanor.
Runnel jerked out of her slot with a suddenness that made Eleanor jump.
“Quenwulf! The great dragon whose fire burns hotter than any other! You have my promise. I shall do all I can to resist, if only you take me to the dragon to end my curse forever!”
Wenneth insisted they eat the meal she had made for them before they could even think about leaving, and then while they ate she convinced them that resting afterward would be wise too. Dragons could wait, she said, be they great or old. Waiting was something dragons were very good at, as all the stories told.
They slept on the warm flagstones, leaving the swords to talk to each other in the chapel. Or at least Odo hoped they were talking — he knew well that not all brothers and sisters got on. It was hard to keep track in his own family who was whose best friend or worst enemy. Sometimes they were both simultaneously.
When Eleanor and Odo woke, the sun was high. They found their packs supplemented with numerous small items culled from Wenneth’s collection, such as old but still valuable coins similar to the silver pennies they knew, some ancient playing cards, two glow-stones, and, in Eleanor’s case, a scabbard of just the right dimensions for Runnel. Runnel was almost exactly the same size as Biter, very large for Eleanor. She would have to wield her two-handed, unless the sword could be convinced to help.
When they were ready to go, Odo and Eleanor went to the chapel and took up their swords.
All morning Eleanor had grappled silently with her situation, sleeping only in fits and starts, her mind too active. Part of her fizzed with excitement: Now she had a proper sword at long last, and a magical one to boot. That excited part was balanced by another, full of dread, because the sword claimed to be cursed. But the excitement won out, even if only by a little, because Eleanor now thought she was finally about to get her lifelong desire.
“Three knights drew you out of the anvil before I came along,” she said to Runnel. “Does that mean only a knight could take you from it? So shouldn’t I be made a knight, like Odo?”
“Of course not,” Runnel snapped. “You must earn that privilege. I do not go around dubbing the first person who pulls me out of a river … unlike some swords I could mention.”
“There was blood involved,” Biter defended himself. “I had to. The ancient laws are quite specific —”
“You and your ancient laws, little brother!” scoffed Runnel. But at least it seemed from these words she accepted Biter as her brother, just as she had agreed to help Eleanor in order to work against her curse.
“You both have the hearts of knights,” said Wenneth, farewelling the children outside her strange abode. Her sightless face seemed no impediment to taking their measure. “I knew it the moment I met you. Most travelers run from the bannoch, but you stood up to it. That took great courage.”
“It’s not much good having the heart of a knight if you can’t call yourself one,” muttered Eleanor as they waved good-bye and began to walk along the path that would lead them back to the road. It was easy to see in the daylight.
“Hmmph!” said Runnel. “You, girl, are on a knight’s quest with a knight’s sword. Time will tell if you really have the heart of a knight too. If it is so, I am sure you will be knighted.”
“When we slay the beast, no one will doubt it,” said Eleanor.
“My knight and I will slay the beast,” said Biter. “Sir Odo has the greater experience, and I am the superior sword.”
“Superior?” scoffed Runnel. “I saw that nick in your side, little brother. And besides, rusting at the bottom of a river doesn’t count as experience …”
Eleanor rolled her eyes. It was going to be a long trip if the swords were going to bicker the entire way.
“At least none of my knights went mad,” grumbled Biter. “And I don’t rust —”
“Enough!” snapped Odo. “Quiet, both of you.”
The swords settled into moody silence, but only for a while. When they reached the road and the going got easier, Biter spoke again.
“I have been training Sir Odo in the proper skills and duties of knighthood. You should do the same for Eleanor. She will of course remain Sir Odo’s squire, but it would be wise to prepare her for any eventuality.”
“What’s the point of being trained by a sword who thinks I’m going to die?” Eleanor asked. “Can’t you train me, Biter?”
“I cannot see what anyone can accomplish while traveling,” objected Runnel. “We need a training field, an armory, pells to strike, a quintain to joust against —”
“Indeed we do not!” exclaimed Biter. “Everything begins with basic principles and we work up from there.”
“A proper knight cannot be taught upon the road!”
“They most certainly can!”
“We don’t need to know everything,” interrupted Odo. “Just enough to kill a dragon.”
“So little?” asked Runnel sarcastically. “Many a knight has faced dragons armed with all the knowledge a knight should possess, and still died.”
“At least you could tell us what not to do,” Eleanor said. “That would help. And you promised you would help by not hurrying the curse along.”
“Yeeees,” Runnel conceded. “Very well. You speak of principles, little brother? I suppose you have taught your knight the Eight Proper Stances and the Feints of Fæstenunga?”
“We have begun,” said Biter cautiously.
Odo frowned. The sword had never even mentioned the Feints of Fæstenunga.
“I’ve learned them too,” said Eleanor eagerly. “The Proper Stances anyway. I followed whatever Odo did.”
“Forget them!” instructed Runnel. “They are foolish proscriptions unsuited to actual battle. I will teach you real fighting.”
“Bah!” said Biter. “The principles are sound. Where else can you begin but there?”
“As eldest, I will instruct you,” said Runnel. “Look for a suitable clearing upon the road and we will begin.”
The woods soon rang with the sound of metal on metal, accompanied by barked instructions and grunts of effort from the student duelers. Eleanor forgot her concerns and concentrated on enjoying the lessons, which were very different from Biter’s. Where he was strict about traditional forms, ensuring Odo knew the proper names for every stance and movement, it soon became clear that Runnel was entirely more practical. “Strike at the Knee with Intent to Maim” meant exactly what it said.
Practice slowed their progress through the forest somewhat, and they wore out faster than they otherwise would have, but no one suggested taking a break. It was much more enjoyable to learn swordplay against an opponent, even one much bigger in Eleanor’s case, or one much quicker in Odo’s. What Eleanor lacked when it came to the force of her blows she more than made up for by dodging or sneaking past Odo’s guard, which alternately frustrated and delighted him. He liked seeing his friend enjoying herself again, even if it meant being the object of frequent jabs and blocks. Fighting her was very different than sparring with shadows and imaginary fiends.
Eleanor soon learned that Odo was a worthy opponent in his own right. What he lacked in speed he more than made up for in strength, and he had the added advantage of some practical experience with a sword as well. Runnel seemed pleased with her progress, and suggested that if she could curb her automatic urge to strike first and think later, fighting with the sword in one hand and her urthkin knife in the other would make her a fearsome enemy.
Biter, however, grumbled that what Runnel was teaching her was worthy of a common soldier but not a knight.
“Would you have her spit in Sir Odo’s eye next, or throw dirt in his face?”
“Yes,
if it would help her survive. Remember this, Eleanor, along with the other tips I taught you, in case you need them one day.”
“But a knight never seeks victory at cost to his honor,” Biter said.
“A knight seeks victory at all costs, if that’s the way she can do the greatest good.” Runnel’s ruby flashed. “That is the only rule you need to remember. Now, Eleanor, again — the lunge followed by the block athwart my cross-guard. I will show you how to kick with the side of your boot to trip your opponent off balance …”
The training was hard, and the way ahead long, but the time passed quickly, and Eleanor and Odo were surprised when the green shade of the forest gave way to direct sunlight. Behind them was a wall of ancient trees stretching to their left and right. Ahead a steep-sided canyon lay directly across their path. They had ascended much higher than they realized, to the very top of the foothills. Beyond the canyon lay mountains, partly visible behind a thick column of blue smoke, the source of which lay just out of sight.
Despite the late afternoon sun, Odo felt a sudden chill.
The smoke had to come from a dragon’s lair.
We’ll have to be more careful from here on,” said Eleanor. She too felt daunted by the sudden imminence of their destination. “We don’t know that it’s Quenwolf — but it could be. If the dragon sees us coming, she could fly over and burn us in a moment.”
Odo shielded his eyes against the setting sun with his free hand and studied the canyon, the mountains beyond, and the rising smoke.
“We’ll have to wait here under cover of the trees till nightfall,” said Odo. “Then move at night. Our only hope is to surprise Quenwulf. Even with two enchanted swords.”
“Good thinking,” said Runnel.
“Bah!” exclaimed Biter. “The two of us can dispatch any dragon —”
“How well do you remember fighting dragons?” asked Runnel.
“Ah,” replied Biter, somewhat taken aback. “Not very … not at all, really …”
“I do,” said Runnel, very much the older sister. “Flame from above, hot enough to melt even us, and the merest edge of it will kill a knight by sucking the air from their lungs. Close-up, they have an armored hide with few weak spots, claws that can slice through the best mail, and jaws that can bite a warhorse in half. Both knights and swords are fortunate that so few dragons go bad.”