The Book of the Sword (Darkest Age)

by A. J. Lake

  Chapter Five

  It grieved me sorely to go. I had travelled far enough in my life already. With a sad heart I said farewell to my wife and son, certain I would never return. But my boy, my chattering Starling, was afire to come with me.

  – There’s nothing there but ice, and wolves, and death from cold! I told him.

  But he would not be moved. And at length I weakened, and my wife too.

  – Go, she said, and we’ll both come with you.

  ‘That sword has turned you addled, girl! There’s no question of it. You’re going straight back home, the two of you.’

  Cathbar’s face was red, the burn marks showing painfully dark, but his voice was stronger than Elspeth had heard it since leaving Venta Bulgarum. They were all standing in a huddle outside Grufweld’s hut: Cathbar had leapt to his feet in outrage as soon as he heard her plans, and refused to sit down though it was clear his legs were none too steady. She tried again to explain that she could not go back; that the mountain was where she needed to be, but the captain was not listening.

  ‘I came here to bring you back safe. Do you think I’ll let you go journeying over the ice? Among the wolves? To a fiery mountain?’ He jabbed a finger at her as he spoke, his hand shaking. Edmund, his face tight with concern, took him by the arm, but said nothing. Fritha looked on uncomprehendingly, clearly unhappy at the argument.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Elspeth said again. She could feel the sword’s energy throbbing in her arm, and its voice rang in her head, as familiar to her as her own voice, but sweeter, more powerful. ‘The sword would have brought me here, even without the dragon. I have to take it to Eigg Loki.’

  ‘But how can you tell?’ Edmund cried. ‘We never even heard the name before. How can you suddenly know that you need to go there?’

  Elspeth fought for words. How could she explain the certainty that had filled her, coursing like a storm-wave through her whole body? ‘The sword told me,’ she said.

  Edmund and Cathbar started to talk at once. Grufweld’s deep voice cut through theirs; the big man had come up behind them unheard, rolling a section of tree trunk through the snow.

  ‘I think,’ he said in Dansk, ‘it is time for us to eat.’ He gestured for Cathbar to sit on the piece of wood. ‘And after food you will work out your dispute. Fritha, fetch the barley loaf.’

  The charcoal-burner looked very grave when Elspeth explained to him where she must go, and Fritha turned pale. They sat outside the doorway of the hut, in the brief warmth of the midday sun. Out of courtesy to their hosts, they had not spoken until the bread was eaten, and Cathbar had had time to regain a measure of calm.

  Elspeth had eaten without tasting the food, her mind running over what she was to say. It was so hard to explain to them all how she knew what she must do. The sword was pulling her; that was true: she could feel its voice, its will, even now, tugging at her thoughts. But there was more than that. The sword was a part of her now, and it was hard to untangle its ends from her own. After all, what do I have to go back for? she asked herself. I believe that the sword has a destiny: some good that it can do at Eigg Loki. And what better purpose can I have than to take it there? She tried to put her conviction into words, as Cathbar scowled and Grufweld shook his head.

  ‘Eigg Loki is a bad place,’ the big man said gravely. ‘You should not go there – it would be better if no one did. You have heard of Loki?’

  Yes! hissed the sword’s voice, but Elspeth needed no reminding. The name had been at the back of her mind ever since Cluaran had used it on the hillside outside Orgrim’s cave, warning her that the evil she had fought was not yet defeated. He tried to destroy all that the gods had created … Loki, the wily one.

  ‘He is a god – or a demon,’ she said. ‘He was chained up beneath a mountain. And is Eigg Loki …?’

  Grufweld nodded. ‘It was a hundred years ago and more, but the stories are still told: how he nearly escaped from the chains the gods had made, and burned the land; and an army died to bind him again. Some say he still lives under the mountain, and the spirits of the rocks and water are his servants.’ He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was gruffer. ‘I can’t say if the stories are true, but I fear the spirits that live below the mountain. They took my wife, Fritha’s mother.’ He fell silent again, his head lowered. Fritha, beside him, put her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I was eight,’ she told them softly. ‘It was summer; my father was fishing in the lake below Eigg Loki, and we went to gather cloudberries on the lake shore. But my mother said she heard voices and went in search of them. They drew her on to the ice at the far edge of the lake, and when I called after her she did not hear me – until the ice broke.’

  Soul-eaters! cried the sword in Elspeth’s mind. How much longer will they do Loki’s work? Let me stop him!

  The force of the words pulled Elspeth to her feet. Her right arm throbbed fiercely, and she saw that it had begun to glow. She held it in her other hand, looking down at the startled faces around her.

  ‘What did you say, girl?’ Grufweld’s voice was suddenly harsh. ‘What do you know about the soul-eaters?’

  ‘I don’t …’ she started to say, but was stopped by a shooting pain in her hand. The sword burst into life, its white brilliance dimming the pale sunlight. Fritha cried out in wonder.

  ‘It’s the sword that knows,’ Elspeth said simply. ‘It was made for this.’

  ‘And if the dragon that brought us here was sent by this demon?’ Cathbar burst out. ‘What then? How do you know he’s not waiting for you to come to him?’

  Edmund was watching her intently, Elspeth saw. She avoided his eyes, looking full at Cathbar.

  ‘If that’s so, then he wanted us killed, or brought to him helpless. But I’m not helpless now! Cathbar – I know there’s danger. But you’ve seen some of the sword’s power: it will guide me, and it’ll protect me on the journey. You go back with Edmund. I can travel alone, but I must go to Eigg Loki.’

  Grufweld stared at her in silence for a long time. At last he turned to Cathbar, his face solemn. ‘You are her guardian, not I,’ he said. ‘But I believe the child must do as she says.’

  Cathbar said not a word. Grufweld rose and turned back to his kiln, summoning Fritha to help him. The sword blazed until it filled Elspeth’s vision, calling her to start the journey now – now! But a hand laid on her arm called her back to herself. Edmund was standing beside her, his face filled with concern. ‘You’re certain of this?’ he asked. ‘You have to go there?’

  ‘Never more certain,’ she told him. ‘I’m sorry to leave you, Edmund, but the sword will keep me safe. I know it will.’

  ‘I’m not leaving you,’ he said abruptly. ‘We’ve come this far together. I’ll go with you to the mountain. And if you really think you can defeat Loki, I’ll help you.’ She must have looked doubtful, for his grip on her arm tightened and he went on almost angrily. ‘He destroyed my uncle! Whatever Aelfred … Orgrim did, he was still my kin. My mother would want him avenged.’

  Behind them, Cathbar heaved himself noisily to his feet. ‘Then there’s no help for it,’ the man grunted. ‘The two of you seem intent on seeking out every foolishness and every danger, but I came here to protect you, and that job’s not likely to be done for a while. I’ll finish sharpening my sword.’

  He lumbered inside the hut, where he had laid the grindstone. Elspeth looked back at the crystal sword in her hand, its light dimming now. Edmund was saying something else to her, but all she could hear was the echo of the sword’s voice in her head: Let me stop him. She gazed across the clearing, trying vainly to catch a glimpse of Eigg Loki above the forest. How long would it take to reach the mountain?

  Over by the kiln, Fritha seemed to be in heated discussion with her father. Her voice, low but fervent, floated across to them, though Elspeth could not hear what she said. Eventually Grufweld nodded, and Fritha walked back to where Elspeth and Edmund stood.

  ‘Elspeth,’ she said, ‘we have been talki
ng, my father and I. We think it is not safe for you to go so far alone, or even with your companions. We know the country around Eigg Loki as you do not – we know where the dangers are. Even a sword will not protect you from the ice.’ She glanced at Elspeth’s right hand. The sword had vanished now, but her hand and arm were still touched with its radiance; Fritha looked at them almost with awe. ‘My father has given me permission to come with you,’ she said. ‘I will be your guide to the fire-mountain.’

  They left the following morning. Edmund had been baffled as he watched Elspeth prepare for the journey: she had argued so strongly that she must go, but now that they were getting ready to leave, she seemed strangely indifferent. She had listened to all Grufweld’s warnings of the dangers ahead without any signs of excitement or fear, though Edmund had felt both, and had seen them on Fritha’s face too. Even Cathbar had talked to the charcoal-burner at length, asking questions about the route and the terrain. Edmund had been full of relief when Fritha announced that she would accompany them, but Elspeth had only thanked the girl politely, as if she cared little whether they had help or not.

  They were dressed now in the same clothes that Fritha and her father wore: leggings, wide fur boots, fur caps and rough capes that Fritha called hafnar-feldr, made of wolf fur. For the first time since his landing in the Snowlands, Edmund found he could walk in the snow without stumbling or shivering, the wide soles supporting his weight on the surface and the thick furs keeping out the chill. Grufweld had supplied them handsomely with food and blankets for the journey, and had spent some time that morning talking earnestly to Fritha, no doubt giving her more advice. Edmund had understood enough of the talk yesterday to know that she was returning to the place where she had lost her mother, and he felt a little awed at the girl’s bravery in coming with them – and at Grufweld’s sacrifice in letting her go. Fritha was plainly afraid of the mountain she called Eigg Loki, but Edmund thought he saw a light in her eyes when she talked of the journey: a sense of adventure, or maybe just curiosity. As they looked back at the charcoal-burner standing at the edge of his clearing, his hand raised in farewell, Edmund remembered his own mother, sending him away when danger threatened their home, and he vowed that he would do all he could to return Fritha safely to her father.

  ‘Well, he’s a sensible man, I’ll say that for him,’ Cathbar remarked as they turned away to the trees. ‘Even if he’s too easily impressed by omens and suchlike. Gave me some good tips for keeping out of trouble – and that girl of his seems to have a wise head on her shoulders.’

  Cathbar was walking more easily today, though still slowly. As they followed Fritha and Elspeth through the trees he sometimes had to rest on Edmund for support when the ground became uneven, but he plainly hated to show this sign of weakness, and neither of them referred to it.

  ‘Did Grufweld say anything about the sword?’ Edmund asked as they negotiated a difficult clump of roots.

  ‘He didn’t seem as surprised by it as I’d have thought,’ Cathbar admitted. ‘Wanted to know how Elspeth came by it, and could I swear it was no evil enchantment. I told him the girl had the sword from a man I’d trust with my life, and as for evil enchanters – I saw one she’d struck down with it. And he said, “The gods speed you, then”.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘And I hope they do, boy – and speed us back, more to the point.’

  At first Fritha led them swiftly and confidently, but as the trees began to thin, showing occasional glimpses of the snow plains ahead, her pace slowed. Elspeth kept ceaseless watch about them, the sword flaring in her hand and growing brighter as the light began to fade. Edmund had begun to scan the forest for eyes, but so far nothing had seemed to threaten them: there were furry scurrying things not much bigger than a mouse, and a few woodland birds; nothing more. Yet Fritha seemed more and more anxious.

  ‘We are near to the ice now,’ she told them. ‘When we come out of the trees, there are crevasses covered in powdered snow – Úminni-gjar.’

  ‘Forgetting-places,’ Cathbar translated. ‘If you fall down one, you are lost for ever.’

  It was nearly dusk when they reached the edge of the trees. The trunks became wider spaced, letting in shafts of reddish light, until suddenly they gave way altogether and there was nothing but emptiness ahead: an endless stretch of white, featureless apart from the red glints picking out hummocks in the snow. To their left, the trees stretched out northwards in a black line, while far off in the distance, indistinct grey mountains merged with the low, pink-streaked clouds. Elspeth was about to stride ahead on to the snow, but Fritha held her back.

  ‘We must go northwards, follow the trees,’ she said. ‘Eigg Loki is north-east of here and we can shelter in the forest tonight.’

  Elspeth made a small noise of frustration, but turned to walk along the line of trees, though Edmund saw her casting eager glances across the white wastes of snow towards the mountains. For himself, Edmund was happy to keep to the trees. The snow fields were so vast, so completely barren of life or shelter. He cast his sight out again – and stopped. There, in the trees behind him, was a flash of something that he recognised: low to the ground, but not a mouse or fox … panting … and the flash of a furred side.

  ‘Wolves!’ he cried.

  The others stopped, Cathbar drawing his sword and Fritha fitting an arrow to her bow. But nothing came out of the trees towards them.

  ‘You’re sure?’ Cathbar asked after a pause.

  Edmund nodded. He could feel the wolves coming closer. For a moment he risked sharing the eyes of one of the animals: running with its mates, white-furred; intent on the quarry, but keeping a careful distance away … But this was different from before. The wolf was not hungry: it simply felt … watchful.

  ‘Edmund!’ Elspeth’s voice disturbed him. ‘Can’t you find out what they’re doing? We have to get on!’

  Edmund bristled. ‘They’re not planning to attack us – not this moment, anyway,’ he said stiffly. ‘But they’re very close. I think they’re following us.’

  They moved onwards, slowly and cautiously now. Fritha fell back to walk beside Edmund. ‘Thu hefir andar-auga?’ she asked him. ‘You have far-seeing?’ When he nodded, she opened her blue eyes very wide. ‘I never met one before,’ she told him, with a new respect in her voice.

  Edmund watched Fritha pick up her pace to take the lead again. He hoped she would not come to mistrust him because of his gift, as so many people did at home. Her opinion mattered to him, though he could not say why.

  The line of trees led them in a sweeping curve towards the north-east. As the last of the light was fading, turning the snow fields to a vast, vague greyness and the trees to a solid black mass, Fritha stopped.

  ‘We are nearly at the end of the woods,’ she told them. ‘We can go back into the trees to sleep – if it’s safe, Edmund?’

  Edmund cautiously sent his sight back to the wolves. They were still behind them, watching – but there was no sense of ferocity; no hunger. So what was it he could sense behind those yellow eyes? Something like interest – if they had been human, he might have said, concern.

  Could the wolves be guarding them?

  Chapter Six

  I will not speak much of the voyage. Storms followed us as if the Evil One had sent them to stop us, and my wife near pined away from the loss of her green trees and heathland. Only Starling kept up his spirits, and ours with them. And so we arrived, on a day of lowering clouds, at a land where it seemed nothing grew but ice, and rocks, and black pines.

  Cluaran peered impatiently into the mist. There was no time to waste and the little craft was so slow! The sea crossing had been brisk enough: the sleek lines for which he had chosen the boat let her cut through the water smoothly when there was wind for the sail. But as soon as land loomed on the horizon, the wind had dropped almost to nothing; all the helmsman’s skill could hardly move them. Cluaran had taken his turn at the oars with the other men at first as if his wiry strength could move the boat faster. But when the fog
came down, the boat master had made him leave off. The sailors were looking askance at him, and the man nearest him had shifted as if to avoid touching him. Even before this bad luck they had mistrusted the passenger who had dragged them so far from their accustomed trading routes, no matter if he did pay in gold. Now, surrounded by white emptiness, they had begun to mutter of sorcery and the evil eye.

  So Cluaran sat moodily in the stern, willing the land to come closer. He even thought of speaking to the wind, though he knew well that he only had a shadow of the true skill for it. But the ones who had power here would guide the boat, if they wished to see him. Though if they did, Cluaran knew, it would not be for anything good.

  A sudden flare showed in the whiteness over the prow as the helmsman struck sparks from his fire-stone. He set light to a wad of cloth wound around an arrow and fired it into the fog. The little arc of flame showed bravely for a moment, then faded to nothing. But as the men began to groan the helmsman fitted a second burning arrow and fired again. There was no sound, but this time the arrow hit something. The little flare stopped in mid-air, hovering at mast-height, as the master changed course and the sailors cheered and slapped each other on the back in relief. Cluaran’s relief was the equal of theirs, though he kept his face carefully neutral. Whatever the dangers ahead, he would be moving towards his goal again.

  The fog began to clear, revealing tall black cliffs blotched with lichen – the spent arrow hung from a crevice – and the port beyond them. It was a tiny fishing village, little more than half-a-dozen huts facing on to an ice-covered beach and backed by dense forest. The sailors, their sullenness forgotten, pulled on the oars and the boat was soon entering the harbour – if you could give that name to three feet of wall built against a rock, Cluaran thought. It was set with a few ropes tied to hooks, and led to a low spur of the cliff, as grey with ice as the beach.

  Cluaran checked that all was safely stowed in his pack, the book carefully wrapped in his oilskin. He stood up, balancing easily on the swaying boards, and leapt out as the helmsman brought the boat alongside the wall. The stone was slick with ice, but he had judged the jump well.