The Book of the Sword (Darkest Age)

by A. J. Lake

  Left alone, Cluaran leant against the brick-built wall, for all the world as though it were a tree in his own forest, not the house of a king. He could hear men running to saddle him the fastest horse in Beotrich’s stables: before moonrise he would be on his way.

  For the moment, though, no one paid him any heed. He delved in his pack once more and pulled out the slim book he had taken that day from the cave, running his hand over its spine almost in a caress. Its ox-blood cover was black in the torchlight; no other mark on it but a silver sword shape, gleaming in the smoky light. Cluaran opened it gently. He glanced around to be sure that he was alone, then looked at the first page.

  ‘Here begins The Book of the Sword …’

  Chapter Four

  A sword made of all the substances of earth, they had said; fire and ice; wood, metal and stone. Though I complained, their words had lit a fire in me, and it grew as I worked.

  But I could not make it sharp enough. Blade after blade snapped or warped, while I built the fire ever higher, sought out purer ores. I neglected other work, my family, even when we went hungry. One night I slept at the forge while the latest blade cooled, and woke with a vision in my head. I must take the sword to the Snowlands. I would find the help I needed there – from a girl.

  There were a dozen wolves circling them, while more emerged from the trees. Looking at them through his own eyes, Edmund thought of his father’s hunting dogs, surrounding a stag at bay. He had never liked watching the kill. And the grey-furred creatures closing in on them now were bigger than any hound kept at his father’s palace.

  The crystal sword burned white in Elspeth’s hand, and the great beasts treated her warily, keeping their distance, with their haunches tucked under them. She whirled and stabbed as one of the wolves edged behind her and the creature leapt back, yowling, on three legs. But there were many more with four strong legs, and they ventured closer all the time. Cathbar was on his feet, slashing and lunging, but his blade was dulled from his attack on the dragon and his movements were uncertain; he had not so much as drawn blood. As for Edmund, he had no sword, only a short dagger, and the wolves seemed to be all around him. Already the boldest animals were snapping at his arms, their breath making a cloud about him in the icy air as he backed away. Their rank smell surrounded him on all sides.

  The old male, the one whose eyes he had borrowed, lunged at Edmund’s left side, its teeth clashing shut a hair’s breadth from his thigh. He lunged in return, burying the dagger to the hilt in coarse grey fur. The wolf backed, but did not run howling. He’d barely wounded it! The blade in his hand was dark with blood, but the old wolf was not even slowed: it was coming at him again, and his answering strike was too slow. It took hold of his sleeve, the yellow eyes a hand’s span from his own as it bunched its muscles to spring.

  Something barged into Edmund, knocking him sprawling. Through a faceful of snow he saw the blaze of Elspeth’s sword, and heard the old wolf’s yelps. He pulled himself groggily to his feet. Must she always protect me? he thought – but there was no time for that now. He realised he had lost his knife; it lay in the snow several yards away, but before he could reach it a wolf bundled into his knees, making him stagger. Beside him, Elspeth spun in a ring of white fire, sending the wolves scrabbling frantically away in all directions. The one that had hit Edmund barely stopped to snap at him on its headlong dash towards the shelter of the trees. Next moment it had vanished into the wood, its tail down. The other wolves were still milling about the travellers, keeping a safe distance. Edmund tried to keep all of them in view at once as he edged towards his knife. But he froze again at a hoarse cry from Cathbar, his eyes following the man’s outstretched arm. From the trees behind him, not far from where the fleeing animal had disappeared, another wolf stepped out, its breath pluming ahead of it as its jaws gaped wide.

  It was huge. Its coat was darker than those of the other wolves, and from where he stood Edmund could see the play of muscles beneath as it stood looking at the three travellers. The other animals stopped their skittering and stood still, two dozen yellow eyes fixed on their leader as it made up its mind and turned unhurriedly towards Edmund.

  I could dive for the knife, he thought. Then I’ll be on my belly in the snow when it springs. But there’s nothing else I can do … He began to run, his feet slipping in the powdery snow, just as the great beast leapt.

  He felt it land on him as he got to the dagger: its claws raking his back; its hot breath on his neck. He staggered, trying to reach down for the knife with his right hand while his left flailed helplessly behind him. But no teeth ripped at him. The weight slid from his shoulders and he turned, dazed and still terrified, to see the wolf lying at his feet with an arrow in its back.

  A young woman came striding out of the forest, the bow still in her hand. She seemed barely to notice Edmund as she crossed to the fallen wolf, slinging the bow over her back and drawing a long knife. In one graceful movement she knelt by the dying animal and cut its throat. Then she wiped her knife on the snow, jumped to her feet and stood for a moment over its body, nodding in satisfaction.

  The wolf pack had fled. Besides their leader only one, the old scarred male, lay dead in the snow. The girl strode over to look at his scrawny body for a moment, then vanished into the trees and returned, dragging a rough wooden sled. She seemed a year or two older than Edmund, and a full head taller, dressed in leather leggings under a fur cape and hood. She nodded to him, and to the others who had come up behind him, her glance curious but not unfriendly. Then she turned, calling over her shoulder in a language he did not understand, and began to drag the body of the wolf she had killed to her sleigh. When Edmund made no move she paused and spoke again, impatient now.

  ‘She says the old one is ours.’ Elspeth had come up behind him, the sword fading in her hand. ‘If we want him we need to take him away and skin him quickly, before the other wolves come back. It’s the Dansk speech,’ she explained, as he looked at her in bewilderment. ‘Most of the Northmen use it; I heard it often on trading voyages.’

  Edmund was suddenly hot with shame: to need rescuing from a pack of animals, and by two girls! Elspeth had had no need to rush in and lose him his knife, as if he couldn’t protect himself. But the Northern girl had truly saved his life and he couldn’t even thank her. At the moment he could not tell which embarrassed him more.

  The strange girl was still looking at him, her blue eyes curious. Then she took a step towards him and spoke, slowly and clearly, her voice surprisingly deep. ‘Ek … heiti … Fritha. Ok thu?’

  ‘She says her name’s …’ Elspeth began, behind him.

  ‘I could work that out for myself!’ Edmund told her. He could feel his face burning, but he managed to look up at Fritha with something like a smile.

  ‘Edmund,’ he mumbled. ‘And … thank you.’

  She bobbed her head in acknowledgement and turned back to her work at the sleigh. Cathbar had come up, moving slowly. He had not been wounded by the wolf attack, but still seemed in great pain: half his face was burned dark red, and his blackened clothes clung ominously to his right side.

  ‘Seems I was right, then,’ he said. ‘We’re in the Snowlands right enough, and I can be of some help to you here.’ His voice was beginning to slur. ‘Soon as I’ve had … a bit of a …’ His eyes rolled and, folding gently to his knees, he fell face forward in the snow.

  Elspeth’s cry of alarm brought Fritha running back over. She looked at Cathbar’s shoulder and exclaimed in horror. Then she ran to tip the dead wolf off her sleigh and signalled Elspeth and Edmund to help her lay Cathbar there instead. She hefted the wolf’s carcass over one shoulder as if it weighed no more than a cloak, and took up the leading-ropes of the sleigh.

  ‘Komm, nu!’ she told them urgently, and led the way into the forest.

  Her name was Fritha Grufsdottir, she told them as they walked, taking turns to pull the sleigh. She lived in the forest with her father, who worked as a kolmathr, whatever that was. Edmu
nd could understand a few of the words she used, and Elspeth would help with an occasional translation, though for most of the journey she was ranging around them watching for wolves, the crystal sword throwing a little patch of light about her. Fritha looked at the sword with open fascination, but without alarm, as far as Edmund could see. She was clearly curious about the strangers, but it was hard to explain anything to her while they were weaving their way through the endless trunks and dodging low branches; besides, his teeth were chattering with the cold. His arm knocked against a tree, tipping a load of snow down his neck, and he cursed silently. He was carrying the body of the scrawny old wolf, meaning to offer its skin to Fritha in thanks for her help, but it was unwieldy and kept slipping off his shoulder. The sleigh-rope cut into his hand, he ached all over, and he could not stop shivering. He looked at Fritha, striding so confidently through the trees, and Elspeth, intent on her watching, and wished that he were the one protecting the party, instead of following behind like a child.

  The gloom of the forest gradually deepened until Fritha was only a vague shape in the darkness ahead, and keeping his footing took all of Edmund’s attention. Elspeth, walking behind them, had allowed the sword to fade to a pale gleam, as if afraid of attracting unfriendly eyes. He thought he heard her stumble, and was wondering how much further they could manage to go, when Fritha gave a satisfied exclamation and led them out of the trees.

  A sliver of moonlight showed a wide clearing, with stacks of wood piled at one end. A faintly glowing kiln stood a little way from the stacks, and at the other end of the clearing was a large hut, smoke rising from the centre of its pitched roof.

  ‘Fethr!’ Fritha called, dropping the sleigh-rope and running to the hut as a huge, fair-bearded man emerged from the doorway. The two of them talked briefly, and then the man pulled aside the skins hanging over the entrance and gestured to Edmund and Elspeth to go in.

  ‘Aufusa-gestra,’ he told them. The beard hid most of his expression, but the tone of his gravelly voice told Edmund that they were welcome.

  He found himself standing a little straighter. He was lightheaded with tiredness, and longed only to sit down – but this man was offering his roof and board to three strangers, appearing from nowhere. ‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ he said formally, and bowed his head before following the man inside.

  Fritha’s father, who introduced himself as Grufweld, gave up his bed to Cathbar, who was still unconscious, and Fritha tended his burns while the rest of them gathered around the fire in the centre of the hut. Later, Edmund remembered chiefly the glorious warmth, and how hard it was to keep awake as he sat with a bowl of meat stew in his hands, listening while Elspeth tried to tell their story. She spoke the Dansk tongue haltingly, with many gestures and lapses into English, but her listeners seemed to understand her. Edmund had not expected to be believed, but Grufweld listened gravely, while Fritha cried out in amazement to hear of the flight through the sky, Cathbar’s battle with the dragon and their miraculously safe landing.

  The hut was small for five people to sleep in, but Fritha laid down furs for Elspeth between her own bed and the fire, and made up a similar place for Edmund next to Cathbar. Grufweld, it seemed, would stay up all night. The last thing Edmund remembered was the sight of the big man, hunched on a wooden stool over the low-banked fire, while the wind keened outside the hut and Cathbar muttered and groaned beside him in his sleep.

  Light pressed against Edmund’s eyelids, and he blinked and pulled himself up, looking around in confusion for a moment until the memory came back. The hut looked even smaller by daylight; only a dozen paces from end to end, its floor covered unevenly with hides, but with no furniture other than a couple of wooden chests and the pallets they lay on. A shaft of bright sunlight came through the doorway, where the hanging skins had been tied back. The fire still burned low, but apart from himself and Elspeth, the hut was empty.

  Elspeth cried out in her sleep. Edmund climbed off his pile of furs, wincing – every muscle in his body seemed to ache – and went over to her. At the touch of his hand on her shoulder she woke with a start, looking up at him with wide eyes.

  ‘It hates me so much – I can’t bear it …’ Her voice was choked.

  ‘Elspeth, you’re dreaming! What hates you?’

  She focused on his face, and her own gradually relaxed.

  ‘I can’t tell … Something in the fire … It was all burning, Edmund, and there was a man falling … and Cluaran was there! But why would he …?’ She looked bewildered for a moment; then, with a visible effort, sat up and shook her head as if to clear it.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It was just a dream.’ She clambered to her feet. ‘Look, Edmund, Cathbar’s bed is empty. He must be feeling better!’

  They pulled on their shoes and hurried to the door. The cold air was like knives on Edmund’s skin, and freshly fallen snow lay all around the hut, though an area had been cleared just outside it and laid with straw mats. Cathbar was sitting beside the doorway on a seat made from a slice of tree trunk, sharpening his sword on a stone. Fritha had cut away his burned clothing the night before, and he now wore a heavy fur cloak, fastened at the neck, but his right arm, coated with thick green salve, was bared to the frosty air as he worked. The captain seemed not to notice. He moved his arm stiffly, but his back was straight, and he looked up at Edmund and Elspeth with a crooked smile. His face was puckered and scarred, but already less livid in colour than it had been the day before.

  ‘On my feet again, as you see,’ he said. ‘That young maid has a rare skill with her salves! Must be on account of her father’s work.’ He gestured towards the other end of the clearing, where Grufweld was bent over the kiln. ‘Charcoal-burner,’ he explained. ‘I warrant he’s had some bad scalds in his time.’

  Grufweld straightened up as he spoke, and called to them in his deep voice, gesturing towards the hut. ‘He says you’d be better off inside, dressed like that!’ Cathbar translated. ‘His girl plans to make us all some warmer gear. And he says if we’ll stop with him three or four days more his charcoal will be ready for market, and we can go along with him to the nearest village. We’ll make our way to the coast from there and take ship back home.’

  ‘We can’t do that!’ Elspeth burst out.

  Edmund nodded vehemently. Grufweld had given up his bed for them last night; had made supper for five when he had food for two. How could they stay with him for another three days?

  ‘Hard to know what else we can do,’ Cathbar was saying. ‘He told me the village is two days’ walk away, and there’s no road.’

  ‘Please tell him,’ Edmund said, ‘that we’re more grateful than we can say for his help, but it would abuse his hospitality to stay so long. I think I can find our way.’ He had already cast his sight into the dark trees all around, looking for eyes, and found nothing but a bird or two. ‘I’ll be able to tell when we’re near a village,’ he added.

  Cathbar shrugged, heaved himself to his feet and trudged through the snow to talk to Grufweld, who had turned back to his work. Elspeth took Edmund’s arm, and he saw a sudden urgency in her face.

  ‘Edmund,’ she said awkwardly, ‘you and Cathbar should go to the village, but I don’t think I can. There’s somewhere else I need to go.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Shock made Edmund’s voice shrill. ‘On your own? Go where?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’ Elspeth’s voice was steady, but she avoided his eyes, looking down instead at her right hand. ‘But I think I’ll find out very soon.’

  He was about to protest, but at that moment Fritha appeared from behind the hut with a long knife in her hand and streaks of blood on her bare arms. She walked lightly, her fair plaits swinging, and Edmund noticed that her wide-soled boots stopped her feet from sinking into the snow as his did.

  ‘Al-gerr!’ she called to her father. Seeing Edmund and Elspeth, she flashed them a smile and said something else.

  ‘She’s thanking us for the wolfskin,’ Elspe
th explained, when he looked helplessly at her. Fritha nodded.

  ‘Ja,’ she said, and added, carefully, ‘Thenk … for vulf.’

  She took them to see the two new skins hanging in the tiny, reeking drying-shed behind the hut, and showed them the already cured skins that she had cut out to make leggings for her unexpected guests. Edmund was ashamed to think of the work they were giving her, but when he tried to protest she replied firmly, through Elspeth, that she could not let a guest die of cold!

  ‘But she says we can help her,’ Elspeth added, and Fritha set all three of them up on tree-stump seats outside the hut, draped in furs for warmth, sewing with bone needles. Edmund had never done such work before, and had to keep stopping to blow on his numb fingers, or unpick clumsy stitches. Fritha and Elspeth talked as they worked, and Edmund found that he could pick up much of what Fritha said. She would not hear of them leaving her father’s home alone; Grufweld would need to watch the kiln for some days yet, but if they were determined to leave now, she would go with them. It was too dangerous for strangers to be in the forest on their own.

  ‘We can deal with wolves,’ Elspeth said stoutly, but Fritha shook her head, her blue eyes serious. It was not only wolves that they had to fear.

  ‘There are vakar … holes in the ice. Very dangerous. And there …’ she pointed towards the east, ‘Eigg Loki.’

  Edmund heard Elspeth gasp. Fritha started to describe the terrible fire-mountain that once spewed flame and molten rock over the land; now it was the home of spirits that could entice you into its crevasses…

  But Edmund knew what was coming. A faint, pulsing glow had begun to shine from Elspeth’s hand as soon as the mountain was named. Elspeth dropped her needle, and stared towards the east as if listening to another voice than Fritha’s.

  ‘That’s where I must go,’ she whispered.