The Book of the Sword

by A. J. Lake

  Eolande was watching her, waiting patiently but with that same undercurrent of eagerness. Elspeth breathed deeply, flexed her arms and felt the weight of the sword in her hand. Ioneth? she called in her mind, and the sword throbbed in answer: I am ready!

  Without giving herself more time to think, Elspeth strode towards the red light.

  With something to focus on at the end of the tunnel, the way seemed short. The red glow grew stronger, rivalling the white light of the sword until they seemed to be walking into fire. The walls ahead of them gleamed and flickered with it.

  Just before the walls gave way to open space, Eolande laid a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Remember – do not let him touch you!’ she breathed. She looked as if she would have said more, but Elspeth nodded briefly and turned from her. It was too late for advice. She felt her heart beating in time with the pulsing of the sword as she stepped through the red-lit opening.

  The cavern beyond was vast, bigger than any godshouse Elspeth had seen, even the one at Glastening. The rock walls, black rather than grey, stretched off into the distance to both sides and soared above her head into darkness. The red light came from a trench filled with fire, running along the far side of the cave, more than forty paces away. Flames leapt up from it, then died again, casting a flickering light on the figure that hung from the rock beyond.

  A tall and muscular man hung limply from chains that bound him to the rock. Elspeth peered across the cave, but she could see no more through the leaping flames.

  ‘The river of fire that you see is molten rock,’ Eolande murmured. ‘It would not hold him for an instant if he were free, but it stops people from coming to him when he catches their minds and calls them. Come – I can help you to cross it.’

  The ground was rough and black, like cinders. Eolande led her across the vast empty space, the soft fall of their steps drowned out by the crackling of the fire. Elspeth’s eyes were fixed on the hanging figure that flickered in and out of sight through the flames. She drew closer. So this was her enemy; the murderer of her father, and countless hundreds besides, now and a hundred years ago. He had destroyed everything she held dear; her whole past life. And all my people, generations upon generations, all gone, Ioneth said in her head. Her voice seemed to join with Elspeth’s own. Face me! I am here!

  But he was so still, so silent! He did not even seem aware of their presence. As she approached, she saw that he was fastened to the rock by five chains, from manacles on wrists, ankles and neck. His head was lowered, so she could not see his face. Close to his feet, the river of rock bubbled red and yellow, unbearably bright and sending out a fierce heat that made Elspeth shield her face with her hand. Flames danced on its sluggishly flowing surface.

  Eolande had gathered a little heap of black stones, of the same material as the cindery ground. She threw one of them into the fiery river – Elspeth saw how it floated on the surface – and another, and another. When the bubbling surface was covered with black discs, she emptied a little phial into her hand and blew its contents over the rocks, then spoke in a language which Elspeth did not understand. There was a loud hissing, and a cloud of smoke rose from the river, pushing the flames aside. As it cleared, she saw that the black rocks had formed a bridge, narrow and fragile-looking but keeping the fire at bay, at least for the moment.

  ‘Cross quickly,’ Eolande told her. ‘It will not last long.’

  Elspeth set a cautious foot on the bridge. It seemed to bear her weight. She stepped on to the cindery surface, the blood singing in her ears, and walked forward. She felt the little bridge shaking as Eolande crossed behind her.

  As she reached the far bank, the figure chained to the rock stirred for the first time, uttering a low sound like a groan or growl. He hung as if exhausted, his muscles straining against the bands that held him. His head was tipped forward as if it were too heavy for him to lift; Elspeth could see only a tangle of black hair. But as she approached, he spoke without raising his head, his voice low and hoarse:

  ‘So you are here at last.’

  The sword leapt in her hand in a blaze of white: now!

  Elspeth walked forward steadily. Without willing it, she found her arm rising to strike. She could feel Eolande just behind her; feel the sword pulling her hand, both of them driving her on – as if she had no power over her own body. But her mind was still her own. This chained man before her, without even the strength to lift his head … how could he be a god? His bare arms were tanned and streaked with sweat, and he wore a rough tunic, much like those worn by the sailors at home.

  I can’t just kill him! she told the sword.

  Now, now! the voice repeated. Before he looks at you.

  Elspeth took another step forward. She was close enough to strike now: the sword vibrated in her hand, urging her arm forward. And the figure raised his head and smiled at her.

  It was her father.

  Her heart became a stone in her chest. She could not move, it was so heavy. Her body was ice. She stood, drinking in her father’s face with a desperate hunger as he looked at her, smiling and then serious. My girl, grown up so fine and brave…

  The sword was screaming in her mind, but she could not make out what it said. Then a cool hand touched her arm: Eolande. The Fay woman clasped Elspeth’s sword hand in both of her own, and the blade writhed like a snake, its shrieks redoubling. But Eolande’s voice, calm and reassuring, carried through it all.

  ‘Don’t fear, Elspeth. Let me help you.’

  Her hands were cold and smooth as marble as she brought Elspeth’s sword arm down.

  Chapter Twenty

  They were all dead – every man. Their spirits wailed around us, trapped by the one we had chained below.

  We took what we could find for burial, knowing we had failed. Loki was bound again – but too much had been lost.

  Erlingr cast us out. His son and grandsons were dead, and all through my fault, he said.

  And then Ioneth came to me.

  – It’s time to forge the sword, she said. We must kill him.

  I looked around me, at the shattered men, the weeping women, and far off, the blackened mountain.

  I could not refuse her.

  The tunnel mouth was further along than Cluaran remembered, and when he did reach it he almost walked past the opening before he recognised the spot. Careless! he chided himself. Keep your wits about you, man! Eolande’s name, so innocently mentioned by Edmund, had plunged him into confusion – but there was no time now for grief or guilt. Think of that later – for now, you’ve work to do.

  He gathered the group about him. Ari knew the place nearly as well as he did; he would be a good ally here. But the humans … well at least he could put them on their guard.

  ‘This passage leads to the cavern of Loki, under the mountain,’ he told them. ‘You should know that he is still powerful, though chained. He will sense us coming, and it amuses him to play tricks on his visitors. Captain Cathbar, and you, girl: there’s no reason for you to come with us.’ There was no reason for Edmund to accompany them either, he thought, but he knew better than to suggest that. The boy would not wait outside while Elspeth was in danger.

  Cathbar flatly refused to stay outside, and so did the girl, to Cluaran’s surprise. She was white in the face, but her expression was determined, and Cluaran was too full of haste to argue. He pulled a stick of firewood from his pack and began to wrap it in cloth for a makeshift torch while he gave his instructions.

  ‘We’ll have to go single file. Whatever you see, whatever you feel in the tunnel, do not run. Loki is the master of lies, remember that. He cannot harm you unless he touches you.’

  They all nodded, and he gave them one last, doubtful look. The captain would obey orders, he knew – and the girl was doing a fair job of hiding her terror, though she was plainly nervous of Ari. Grown up on tales of ice monsters, no doubt, he thought wryly. As for Edmund, the boy was exhausted, but there was something new about him – a toughness that Cluaran
had not seen before. He would do well enough.

  Cluaran coaxed a spark from his fire-stone, lit a torch for himself and one for Ari, and led the way into the tunnel.

  The dark closed in on him before he had gone five paces; too thick a blackness to be much disturbed by his little torch. He raised the stick higher and glanced over his shoulder. Edmund was just behind him, his face determined. The girl, Fritha, who came next, was almost lost in shadow, but Cluaran could see that she was walking quietly and did not seem about to panic. The other two could not be seen, but Ari’s torch was a smoky flickering in the darkness behind. Cluaran thrust his own light ahead of him and pushed on. It did not illuminate much more than the next three steps, but he remembered the descent as almost straight, with no sudden drops – unless something had changed it. He had thought he knew what they would face down in the cave … but Eolande was there! He was well aware of her power. What might she use it for, if Loki had taken her? And how was he able to take her? a voice in his head asked; but he put that aside for now.

  He set each foot down gently, keeping all his senses alert for traps. Don’t try to run! he told himself. Remember how long the way is – we have to be of some use when we get there. But he could not stop his steps from speeding up. Behind him he heard Edmund and Fritha talking in low voices, and had a momentary urge to snap at them to be silent – but why? Loki would know they were coming. The chains might still be holding, down there in the fiery chamber, but he had long been able to send his mind out into the mountain, and far beyond it. Cluaran was only too well aware of that.

  Edmund and Fritha fell silent after a while, as if the tunnel sucked away sound as well as light. The heat was beginning to creep over them. Cluaran’s torch was smoking badly; he heard Edmund cough as a stream of smoke drifted sluggishly backwards. Next moment, the cloth he had wound about the stick came loose: an end trailed down, scattering sparks over his sleeve. Cluaran cursed, moving to beat them out – and the flame caught and ran along his arm; across his chest. In two heartbeats, his whole body was engulfed in fire.

  He heard Edmund gasp; Fritha screamed, and he thought even Ari cried out. Ignoring the panicked beating of his heart, Cluaran closed his eyes. No. The heat he felt was no worse than before. But his mind was still howling at him that his body was burning …

  ‘No!’ he cried aloud, and opened his eyes. The hand that held the torch was lapped in flame; blistering, blackening; but he looked away from it, at the others. Their stricken faces were clearly visible in the red glare. All had leapt backwards, away from him; only Ari stood unmoving behind them.

  ‘It’s not fire!’ Cluaran shouted. ‘It’s just seeming!’ The raw horror on Edmund’s and Fritha’s faces had not changed. He looked down at his body. His chest was blazing as if his very heart were on fire. His hands were blackened claws. He turned his face away from them and walked briskly away down the tunnel. ‘Come on!’ he yelled, without turning his head. ‘Would I be standing if this were real?’

  There was still no move behind him. He darted a look backwards, and saw that the flames had spread with him. From the place where he had stood before, the tunnel was filled with fire. He took a deep breath and roared into it.

  ‘I’m not harmed! Close your eyes, and come forward!’

  They came to him through the fire. Edmund opened his eyes after the first step, looking about him in wonder as the unfelt flames licked at him. Fritha, her eyes screwed shut, held on to Edmund’s cloak to follow him. It was Cathbar who seemed the most troubled: the captain marched forward, squinting through half-closed lids, but when he reached Cluaran his face was grey, the old burn-scars standing out lividly on his cheek and chin.

  Ari came last, his torch held aloft, though its flame was lost in the fire all around him. And then the fire was gone like a candle snuffed out, and the blackness returned, so thick that it took long moments for the torch flames to be visible again. Cluaran glanced up at his own torch: the cloth was tightly secured around it, double-knotted with twine. The hand that held it was his own hand again, unmarked. The relief that washed over him took him by surprise. He waited for a moment, listening to Edmund’s and Fritha’s exclamations and nervous laughter and Cathbar’s reassurances; then, when he was sure his voice would be steady, he called them to order.

  ‘Loki plays tricks, remember? But he can’t hurt us unless we let him, as you see. Now – we still have a long way to go.’

  They set off again, and this time Cluaran did not try to pace them. They marched through the darkness until the nervous energy sparked by the fire began to wear off, their eyes slowly accustoming to the dim glow of the torches. When the others began to drop behind, taking off their cloaks in the growing heat, Cluaran slowed his pace a little, though he felt he could have gone on like this for longer.

  They walked on unhindered until the red spark of the opening appeared in the distance. The torches were burning low by now, and Cluaran saw the faint red glow appearing on the walls with relief. Then, just as they were beginning to see the tunnel unaided, the ground dropped away a single step ahead of him.

  ‘This is the cavern?’ Fritha whispered.

  The walls had given way too: they stood looking out on to a vast, empty chasm, lit by red fires a hundred feet below. There was nothing beyond; nothing but the dizzying drop.

  ‘Not yet,’ Cluaran said. ‘Stay where you are.’ His cloak was over his arm: he dropped it over the edge of the chasm and saw it fall, the fastening-pin flashing red, to vanish in the fires below. He knelt and stretched out a hand, closing his eyes tight. The stone floor was rough and warm beneath his hand, and there was the familiar material of the cloak, lying in a heap just beyond.

  He stood, draping the cloak over his arm and extinguishing the torch; hearing the exclamations of alarm behind him.

  ‘Edmund,’ he called softly, ‘take hold of my back, and have Fritha do the same to you. Form a chain, close your eyes again and walk when I do. Don’t let go, and do not open your eyes, whatever happens. Is that clear?’

  He took a moment to check that they had followed his instructions. Then, closing his own eyes and stretching out his hands to the walls on each side, he moved out over the abyss.

  The stone walls were firm under his hands. The ground stayed beneath his feet, and Edmund shuffled behind him, one hand on each of Cluaran’s sides. After a dozen paces Cluaran risked half-opening an eye. He was suspended in empty space; the walls abruptly vanished and for a hideous second his fingers could not feel the stone. Panic overtook him and he hurled himself sideways, clenching his eyes shut. His head collided painfully with the wall, and Edmund’s hands were almost wrenched from his sides.

  ‘Don’t open your eyes!’ he snapped, as if Edmund had disobeyed him. He moved on, clinging to the wall and feeling each step with agonising slowness, until his hands reached the opening, and his face felt the hot air that breathed through it. You can stop your illusions now, monster! he thought, savagely. You have us before you.

  There were voices in his ears – real voices. He heard Elspeth, crying out in protest; and another voice, low, cool and painfully familiar.

  Cluaran shook off Edmund’s hands, and in two paces he was in the cavern, its echoing spaces and red light calling back all the memories he had hoped so much to bury. He peered through the flames at the cavern’s end: the prisoner was still in his shackles, shrunk to man-size. But there was someone with him. Across the river of fire, someone had charmed a frail bridge, almost eaten away already by the flames. Cluaran broke into a run, hardly hearing the cries of Edmund and the others behind him.

  Elspeth stood as if turned to stone, gazing at the chained Loki. All the life in her body seemed to have gone into the sword, which twisted and writhed above her head like a living thing, blazing white. A cloud of after-images danced in the air around it. Eolande stood behind Elspeth, both her hands on the girl’s sword arm, urging her towards the chained figure on the rock.

  And as Cluaran rushed towards them, Loki turned
his head to look him in the face, a figure of flame, yellow eyes flashing, his mouth stretching in a grin of ferocious joy.

  Elspeth took a single step forward, and the woman guided her hand down – but not towards Loki’s breast. The sword screamed as it sliced through the chains binding his feet – one, two! Cluaran was almost at the bridge as Eolande brought the blade up to free the prisoner’s arms. Loki was on his feet, bound only by the one remaining chain at his neck. His smile broadened as he reached out towards Elspeth, and the flames around them roared upwards, hiding him from sight.

  Howling wordlessly, Cluaran leapt into the trench, launching himself through the flames and feeling the last of the bridge crumbling beneath his feet. He threw himself on Elspeth and Eolande, hurling the girl to the ground and grasping the woman by both arms.

  ‘Stop!’ he gasped. ‘Mother – what have you done?’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I have destroyed all I held dear.

  My son burst in on us as Ioneth entered the sword. I had not known he was capable of such suffering. He will not speak to me again.

  The sword is like no other. After it took Ioneth, it vanished, but I felt it in my hand, and feel it there still. Yesterday the Chained One called forth his rock dragon, and the sword sprang forth to meet it. Ioneth and I beat the dragon back; we saved many lives.

  I am tired, and very old. But the battle is not over.

  For a moment Elspeth lay where she was, her head spinning. Someone had burst through the flames shouting and stopped her from killing her father – no, from killing Loki. She opened her eyes and blinked in a glare of firelight. Flames danced near her face, scorching her. She pulled herself to her knees, gazing about her in confusion. Where was her father?