The Book of the Sword (Darkest Age)

by A. J. Lake

  ‘No need to tie her, boat master!’ he called. ‘I’ll say farewell, and you can catch the tide.’

  The master was as keen as any of his men to leave this desolate place, but he must have felt some lingering sense of responsibility to his free-handed passenger. ‘There’s no one to meet you, master?’ he asked doubtfully.

  ‘I’m well known in the village,’ Cluaran lied. ‘They’ll give me hospitality.’

  The sailors cheered as the boat was turned around. Some of them, forgetting all about the evil eye, turned to wave at him as the gathering breeze caught the sail and sent them back to the safety of the trade route.

  Cluaran made his way along the rocky causeway, his booted feet slipping with every step. He had lost maybe half a day in the calm; night fell quickly this far to the north, and he had far to go before dark. At the cliff face a flight of steps, hacked out of the rock, led down to the beach, and in his haste he stumbled on the last one, staggering for a pace or two on the icy pebbles before he recovered himself. In that unbalanced instant, a man stepped from an angle of the cliff and laid a knife to his throat.

  ‘You should not have come,’ said a quick, light voice in his ear.

  Cluaran relaxed slightly. ‘Ari. Well met to you too.’

  The blade did not move. ‘You know they have not forgiven you.’

  ‘And I have never stopped loving her,’ Cluaran said softly. The man did not move, and after a moment Cluaran reached up to lower the blade with his hand. He turned to look at Ari’s face: pale as a candle, with eyes as green and cold as water seen through the ice. ‘You haven’t changed,’ he said.

  Ari’s face was expressionless. ‘No. But you have.’

  Cluaran started to walk up the beach. ‘Are you here to capture me, or help me? You know why I have come: the sword has returned, and its bearer is taken. For all I know, it’s already at Eigg Loki.’

  ‘No – not yet,’ Ari told him, with more animation than he had shown before. ‘There are still some of us who remember the old danger: we keep a watch on the mountain, and on any who go there. The dragon was seen in the sky three days ago: first flying towards the sea, then returning with captives in its claws. It let them fall in the snow fields – but we found no bodies, and two sets of prints leading into the trees. The children are alive, and safe for now. But there are eyes on them. They may be walking into the very danger we fear.’

  Cluaran had unconsciously quickened his stride. ‘We must find them, then!’ The other man was silent, and Cluaran turned to him impatiently. ‘You’ll come with me?’

  ‘Yes …’ Ari still hesitated. ‘But first you must come with me. They want to see you.’

  ‘At such a time!’ Cluaran exploded.

  Ari’s face did not change, but he took Cluaran’s arm with a slender hand. ‘At any time,’ he said firmly. ‘There’s a debt that must be paid. And then I’ll help you.’

  Cluaran bit back his protest. ‘Oh, very well,’ he said with bad grace. ‘But we leave now, and walk all night, understand? It’s a good three leagues further than I’d planned, and a vile crossing over ice and stone for most of it. I’d meant to keep to the trees, at least.’

  Ari seemed surprised. ‘But there’s no need to go on foot!’

  They had left the beach as he spoke, and were walking up a snow-covered track past the first of the huts. No one stirred inside, but behind the building, tied to a post, were two horses, stamping restlessly in the cold.

  Even in his anxiety, Cluaran smiled. ‘I’m in your debt, Master Ari,’ he said. ‘If I must run to meet trouble, what better way than on four legs?’

  In another place, deep under the rock, the dragon brooded.

  It had never failed before: never been wounded; never loosed its prey. Now one of its eyes was darkened, and its foreleg stiffened as it healed, lying at the wrong angle. Every time it moved, it gave a low rumble of pain and fury.

  The mind behind its eyes had been angry, nearly angry enough to kill. The dragon felt again the volcano erupting in its head, screaming its rage, spewing molten fire over the whole world until nothing was left, nothing but charred stone and white ash … and then that fury had passed, and a cooler voice had whispered that the prey were not lost: they were still down there in the open, both of them, still moving. And if they could not be carried to the place, why, maybe they could be herded there.

  Once, the dragon would not have done this. Once, it lived only for the sky and the chase: the swoop on the squeaking prey; the joy of skewering and rending; the rich taste of blood. But since the voices had entered its head, those days were past. Its mind was not capable of regret, but for an instant it formed a picture of plummeting down on the prey that had turned on it, biting into bits the shining spike that had hurt its leg and eye, and feasting …

  It gave a long roar of remembered pleasure, the flame playing over the rock wall. Then, in obedience to the voices, it heaved itself up to the cave mouth, growling with pain, spread its great wings and leapt into the evening sky. Over the snow plain it soared in wide circles, one foreleg trailing, searching by scent, by the hunter’s instinct and its one good eye, for the tiny creatures that it must not kill … not yet.

  Chapter Seven

  The fishermen at the harbour feared strangers and would give us no hospitality, but we had sent word ahead to a name that the Fay visitors left me – Erlingr. We sheltered that night in a cave, and were met there by Erlingr’s men next morning.

  They were pale as the ice, and kept back from our fire as if it would melt them. With them was a woman, barely more than a girl. She was pale in the face as they were, but her hair and eyes were black as coal. She looked on us with eagerness, as if we brought something she had long hoped to see. And my boy Starling looked at her in the same way.

  They were close enough to the edge of the forest to catch slim fingers of the early morning sun. Each one touched Elspeth with new warmth, and she looked up at the pale blue sky between the trees with a rush of exhilaration. The excitement had been growing in her ever since they had set off at first light this morning: the others had grumbled about their damp blankets and stiff limbs, but Elspeth had hardly noticed them. She was on the right path; she knew it. She felt the weight of the invisible sword in her hand; she could conjure it so vividly in her mind that as she swung it, her eyes caught glints of sunlight as if reflected from the blade. And at the edge of hearing she could hear its voice – her voice, as familiar now to Elspeth as her own – murmuring that she must go on; go quickly. The sense of urgency was always with her, though she was still not sure what she would find in the mountains. Could there really be spirits in the rocks, as Fritha feared?

  Elspeth shivered: a few days ago she had thought dragons were fables. She knew better now. The monster that had carried her off had flown towards Eigg Loki: would she have to fight it there? And what of Loki, the demon-god of Cluaran’s story – and Grufweld’s? Was he waiting for her in the depths of the mountain? Or was it just some evil influence, that called up dragons and sent men mad?

  The cool voice in her head gave no answer. She whispered only, Whatever dangers you face, I face with you.

  The voices of Elspeth’s companions broke into her thoughts. Fritha was telling Edmund and Cathbar about her homeland: the darkness in the dead of winter when she and her father kept fires lit outside the hut night and day to scare off the wolves; the lakes in the shadow of the mountains where the fishermen camped until their catches were big enough to take back to the villages … and the mountains themselves, where no one ventured for fear of the beings that lived there.

  Elspeth could understand the older girl fairly well, having heard the Dansk tongue often from the blond, bearded sailors who had traded with her father on voyages to Hibernia. Cathbar seemed to speak the language like a native, but Edmund was clearly having difficulties. Every sentence or so, he would stop Fritha to ask for explanations, then carefully translate her words with an English phrase which she, as carefully, repeated back to
him. Through all her preoccupation, Elspeth could not keep back a smile to see them so earnest together. Edmund seemed taken with the Northern girl, she thought: his eyes were bright as he listened to her, and his pale face had more colour than Elspeth had seen since they came to this icy land. It warmed her to see Edmund’s animation, but she could not share in the talk for now. Her mind was too full of the journey, and the thought of what might lie at the end of it.

  They emerged from the last of the trees into a world of whiteness, lit with pink and gold by the low sun. Through the dazzle Elspeth could just make out the grey mass of the mountains to the north and east, their flanks white with freshly fallen snow. In every other direction the land stretched blue-white and level as far as the eye could see. She heard Edmund and Cathbar behind her, exclaiming in wonder. But Elspeth had eyes only for the mountains, and the golden light that lay on the snow like a path towards them: the way I must go.

  She had started eagerly forward when Fritha pushed in front of her. ‘Stothva-sik her!’ the older girl cried. ‘Don’t go too fast here! There is danger – the ice is close here, and beneath it is water … and the creatures that live in the water.’

  ‘Fish, you mean?’ Cathbar said hopefully. ‘We’ll need more food soon.’

  ‘Worse things than fish,’ Fritha told him. Her face was anxious. ‘You must follow where I walk now – and tread carefully.’

  Edmund fell in behind her at once, placing Cathbar ahead of him. The captain seemed fresher this morning, but his face was still an angry red all down one side, and his movements were slow and stiff. Elspeth, forced to take up the rear, felt a fierce impatience with their cautious pace: she could almost have wished she was travelling alone.

  They trudged through the white wasteland in single file, following Fritha. The sun rose above the tallest peaks, driving away the blue shadows until the snow was dazzling white on all sides. There was no talk now, only the crunch of their boots in the snow. Elspeth kept her gaze fixed on the mountains, willing them to come closer, but their progress seemed maddeningly slow. Once, as Fritha stopped to test the ground, she glanced behind her: the trees were a dark smudge in the distance, and the snow stretched all around, broken only by the wavering line of their footprints. The size and emptiness of it dizzied her, and she turned quickly back to the others.

  The mountains had grown closer; they stretched out now like arms to each side of the travellers. Fritha had turned northwards, heading for the centre of the range. Elspeth stared at the jagged peaks, wondering if she would somehow recognise her destination when she saw it. The sword had fallen silent, but before she could try to raise the voice in her head she was startled by a cry from Edmund.

  ‘Look! There’s smoke!’

  Fritha nodded. ‘Fiskimathar – fish-mans,’ she told him. They were near the mountain lakes, she explained, long, narrow run-offs from the glaciers, covered in ice now. Some of the bolder fishermen came here throughout the winter, melting holes in the ice with fire-pans to reach their catch.

  ‘I thought there’d be fishing here!’ Cathbar exclaimed. ‘Are they hospitable, these men?’

  Fritha looked grave. They were not bad men, she said; but they would be suspicious of strangers, especially in this place. She agreed to stop by the lake and make camp, but Elspeth could tell that she was nervous, whether of the men or of the place she could not tell.

  The fishermen’s camps soon appeared: a cluster of orange sparks which became smoky fires, and an uneven row of makeshift hide tents with tiny figures moving between them. The lake itself was mostly covered with snow, but near where the tents were thickest Elspeth could see great dark patches beneath the whiteness. Fritha saw them too: the fair-haired girl stood very still for a moment before she moved them on again. She walked slower now, treading lightly and prodding the ground ahead of her with a long branch. Finally she stopped, a good way away from the closest tents. The sun was dipping low in the sky behind them, and the blue-grey mountains reared around them on all sides.

  ‘We have reached the lake,’ Fritha told them. She used her branch to sweep away snow from the ground in front of them, uncovering a surface of dully gleaming ice. ‘We’ll camp here, and if we can break the ice, we can fish.’

  They gratefully dropped their packs and firewood bundles. Cathbar showed Edmund how to scoop a hollow in the snow at the lake’s edge and line it with thick branches before laying out charcoal for a fire, while Elspeth helped Fritha to peg together a set of short wooden rods from her pack as tent poles. Ahead of them, the evening sun struck glints from the ice and lit the upper slopes of the mountains. One peak stood out above the others. What looked like a river of ice ran down it to one side, glowing in the yellow light and making the rocks around it look black in comparison. Elspeth felt her hand throb. There! came the voice in her head.

  ‘Is that Eigg Loki?’ she asked.

  Fritha nodded. ‘You can see the glacier running down it to the lake.’ To Elspeth’s surprise she started to hum. ‘It’s a song my mother sang to me when I was little,’ she explained. ‘It says, Ice spirits in the glacier, water spirits in the lake; cold brothers. It didn’t make me scared then because the tune was so sweet. But since my mother died, I don’t like it so much.’ She turned abruptly to the packs and started shaking out blankets to drape over the tent poles. Elspeth felt a sudden longing to go to the older girl and take her hand, to tell her about her own father, drowned so short a time before. But she felt awkward, and busied herself instead in helping Fritha with the tent.

  They joined Cathbar and Edmund around the small fire, and ate some of their dwindling supply of bread and dried meat. Elspeth realised for the first time how hungry she was and thought longingly of fresh fish – but Fritha explained that they could not melt the ice as the fishermen did: the men did not light fires on the ice itself, but used hot charcoal in a metal pan with a long handle, which she did not own. They could try to fish if they liked, for tomorrow’s meal, but they would have to break the ice with knives, if they could. After the scanty dinner, Fritha found a spot where she thought the ice was thinnest, and Edmund gladly began to chip at it with his knife. But after a dozen blows, he looked up in frustration.

  ‘I’ve barely scratched it!’ he complained, looking ruefully at the pitted surface. ‘Elspeth, couldn’t the sword help us?’

  Elspeth started towards him, but something held her back. She felt – what was it? A strange sense of reluctance, almost fear. Why shouldn’t she use the sword? She knew well enough that it could cut through anything. Not this, the voice in her head said. Better not…

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Perhaps it’s not right to use the sword just to get food.’

  ‘Just!’ Edmund retorted. ‘What use is the sword to us if we starve to death?’

  ‘Right,’ Cathbar agreed. ‘Come on, girl; you’re not going to blunt it.’

  Sword? Elspeth asked in her head. There was a moment’s hesitation, and then the sword flared out.

  ‘Cut here!’ called Edmund, stepping back from his place on the ice and pointing.

  Elspeth reached the spot in two strides and plunged the blade down. It sliced through the surface – like cutting meat, she thought. She brought the blade around in a circle and withdrew it, leaving a round hole like an eye in the scratched grey ice. Elspeth looked down in triumph, about to call to the others, but her voice died in her throat.

  There were people in the water! Dim, drifting, near-transparent figures, their great eyes reflecting the cold light of the sword. They raised slender arms towards her, calling her name. No – not her name. Ioneth, the faint voices chanted. Ioneth, come to us … There were so many of them … all the way down to the depths…

  Hands grabbed Elspeth’s shoulders and pulled her backwards. The sword flickered and died as she staggered, colliding with Fritha and Edmund, and sat down hard in the snow.

  ‘What were you doing?’ Edmund demanded. ‘Another moment and you’d have fallen in!’

  ‘Di
dn’t you hear …?’ Her voice trailed off as they stared back at her. Edmund looked puzzled and concerned; Cathbar exasperated.

  Only Fritha showed the beginnings of alarm. ‘What?’ she asked, her face tense. ‘What did you hear?’

  Elspeth hesitated, then risked another glance at the ice-hole. The water beneath lay black and undisturbed. ‘Nothing,’ she said finally. ‘I was afraid the ice was cracking, that’s all.’

  Fritha did not look convinced, but she asked no more questions. She produced a thin rod from her pack and settled down by the hole to fish, watched by Edmund. Cathbar went to tend the fire. Elspeth turned away from them all and tried to calm her thoughts. She had lied to them. Well, she told herself, Cathbar would not have believed her. Edmund would think her dreaming, probably. And Fritha … Fritha would believe her all too well, and would be afraid. Surely the things she had seen, whatever they were, were too insubstantial to hurt anyone! But what were they? Fritha’s evil spirits?

  Elspeth found herself wandering along the edge of the lake, as if movement could ease her confusion. The sun was getting low now, the little fires that dotted the shoreline glowing in the gathering shadow, but she walked on restlessly. Fritha believes in spirits under the ice – but she didn’t see them. I did; and they called to me. Why? And what was the name they had called: Ioneth? It seemed somehow familiar, but she could not remember ever hearing it before.

  ‘Thu, myrk-har!’

  She jumped. The deep voice made her think of Fritha’s father, Grufweld, and for a moment, disorientated, she looked around for him. But this speaker had called her myrk-har, black-hair, not by her name – and his voice held none of Grufweld’s gentleness.

  Now that she looked around, she saw that she had wandered some distance from her camp toward the tents of the fishermen. Three big, bearded men in heavy furs were standing around her. The largest was speaking again, but she could not understand him at first; something about fire. When she did not reply, he repeated himself with a scornful lilt, as if talking to an idiot. He stood a little unsteadily, she noticed, as if he had drunk too much ale.