The Sword of Life (Chronicles of the Magi Book 1)

by Dave Morris

‘Whatever.’ Caelestis shrugged. ‘Mind telling me why you were so quick to chip in on the barbarian’s side? I mean, considering that anyone we meet down here is potentially our deadly enemy.’

  ‘You could say it was because I didn’t like the odds,’ said Altor. ‘But the truth is I met some assassins like this last night. They work for Magus Byl, and I had a score to settle.’

  They took stock of the room. Faced entirely in gleaming white marble, it reflected the light of the candelabra above with dazzling intensity.

  Caelestis ran his fingers over the wall. ‘No secret doors this time.’

  With no other route available, they retraced their steps and took the black-paved corridor. It led to steps that descended into candlelit gloom. The sound of dripping water reached their ears from below.

  Caelestis held up the torch. Droplets showed on the walls. ‘I do hope I don’t get my cloak wet,’ he said. ‘The damp can completely ruin velvet.’

  Altor laughed scornfully. ‘How inconsiderate of the magi not to see to little things like that!’

  Descending for several minutes, they finally reached a brick archway leading through into another corridor which ended in a colossal doorway adorned with classical designs. Tall bronze candelabra lined the foyer in front of the door, flooding the underworld with pale gold light, but Caelestis and Altor hesitated. Between them and the door stood a motionless figure, leaning idly against the wall with his back turned. In the candlelight they could make out his jet-black ringmail armour and ochre tabard. Here and there rust spots showed like clots of dried blood through the links of his armour.

  ‘Another of the champions?’ Altor whispered.

  Caelestis drew him back behind the brick arch. ‘No, I recognize the uniform. He’s a soldier of the Battalion of Torment—the militia of Kalugen’s dungeons. Tomb rangers, some call them. They’re recruited from condemned cells.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘To guard crypts and catacombs. To keep out grave robbers and the like.’

  Altor gave Caelestis a shrewd look. ‘I didn’t think even you would stoop that low.’

  ‘You can’t take it with you, even if some of them try to,’ Caelestis said with a casual shrug. ‘All I do is make sure wasted currency gets back into circulation. Anyway, the point is these guys are hard nuts. They might spend months or even years without seeing the light of day, and they’ll take on anyone.’

  Altor lifted his sword. ‘Me too.’ He stepped out into the light.

  The ranger looked up without surprise. He did not even bother to uncross his arms, let alone reach for the sword at his belt.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ll make this easy on yourself?’ said Altor.

  ‘What, and miss out on some fun?’ answered the ranger with a sneer.

  Caelestis moved out from behind the arch. ‘Be careful, Altor.’

  The ranger glanced at him lazily. ‘Two of you, huh?’

  ‘It will be a fair fight, by my honour,’ said Altor quickly.

  ‘Fair? But you have a magic sword... How about barehanded?’

  The ranger unbuckled his sword and tossed it behind him. Only Caelestis noticed the crafty gleam that had appeared in his eyes. To his dismay, Altor responded to the taunt by sheathing the silver sword and placing it carefully against the wall. ‘No, Altor,’ he said urgently. ‘He’s up to something.’

  Altor dropped into a fighting crouch as the ranger moved slowly towards him. Both had their arms raised, hands open like wrestlers waiting for an opening. But just as the ranger came within arm’s reach, he threw himself past Altor in a somersault and snatched up the silver sword from where it was propped against the wall.

  ‘Trickery,’ said Altor in a disappointed voice, but he didn’t waste any time berating the tomb ranger for not fighting fair. Instantly he dived to where the other sword lay.

  The ranger just grinned. ‘Yeah, go on—be my guest.’

  Altor drew the sword. It was just the stump of a blade, snapped off inches from the hilt.

  ‘Fair exchange?’ taunted the ranger.

  Caelestis knew he was no match for a tomb ranger himself. Drawing his own sword, he tossed it to his friend. ‘Altor, catch!’

  The tomb ranger whirled and exploded into action. The sword in his hands became a blurred silver arc and, with a clang, Caelestis’s sword was struck from the air before Altor could catch it.

  ‘That wouldn’t be fair,’ said the ranger with a snide grin. ‘Can’t have you substituting your weapon halfway through the fight.’

  He moved forward, slicing to left and right. Altor barely dodged away from the lethal blade.

  Caelestis watched helplessly. The tomb rangers lived only for violence and killing. Their motto was ‘Death is my brother’ and they acknowledged no other creed. Even in a fair fight the odds would be stacked against Altor—and this was far from a fair fight.

  The ranger pretended to slash to Altor’s head then, as the young warrior ducked, he changed the attack to a thrust which drew a red mark of blood across Altor’s cheek. Caelestis clenched his hands. ‘I wish I could get my sword—‘ he muttered. But the ranger was standing right over it.

  ‘A simple enough request...’ remarked a voice by his elbow.

  Astonished, Caelestis looked round to see a thin elfish figure with powder-blue skin and lavender hair. ‘Who—? What—?’ He closed his mouth and waited for his brain to catch up with his tongue. ‘What are you?’

  The outlandish creature buffed its nails on its sleeve and slowly floated up into the air until it appeared to be reclining on an invisible divan. ‘I am the Faltyn—the genie, if you will, of that ring you wear.’

  ‘That is handy,’ said Caelestis, adapting at once to the new situation. ‘In a moment I will explain the jewels and other finery that I require. First, I wish you to attend to a pressing problem: turn that tomb ranger into a roast suckling pig.’

  The Faltyn wagged a finger at him. ‘I am no slave,’ it replied. ‘For each service I must be properly paid.’

  The clash of metal rang out. Altor was parrying desperately with the broken sword in his hand, but the ranger had him backed into a corner. The silver sword flashed to and fro, a flicker of white fire in the candlelight. Red sparks and chips of rusty metal leapt from Altor’s blade as he parried again. The ranger was clearly toying with him. Defeat—and death—were only moments away.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ said Caelestis to the Faltyn. ‘I’ll pay you. Just get me my sword.’

  ‘I may choose my payment?’

  ‘Yes!’

  The Faltyn gave a broad contented smile. ‘Then I choose the stone.’

  Caelestis was puzzled for an instant, then he fished in his pocket and drew out the fiery orange gem that was one of the three gifts Larisha had given him. ‘This?’

  The Faltyn shook its head. ‘No, the other one...’

  At that moment Altor sensed the grim approach of death. The ranger, tiring at last of this sadistic sport, easily knocked the broken stub of sword out of his hand. Crouching at bay, Altor waited defiantly for the fatal stroke.

  ‘The Battlepits are no place for callow youths,’ sneered the tomb ranger. ‘Even seasoned veterans fear to venture down here. You should never have come.’

  ‘Kill me by all means,’ snarled Altor. ‘Just don’t pretend that skill had anything to do with it.’

  ‘You think I cheated?’ The ranger gave a growl that was half a laugh. ‘This isn’t about fair play, boy. You made a wager with Death when you entered here. Surely you realized you’d be playing with marked cards?’

  Before Altor could reply, the ranger’s expression changed from a sneer to a puzzled frown. They both looked down at the same time. Several inches of slender steel were protruding from the ranger’s chest.

  ‘We switched the deck,’ said Caelestis from behind him as the ranger slumped to the floor.

  ‘Nice moves...’ gasped the ranger. ‘I never heard you coming.’ Then his eyes glazed over and he lay still. />
  Caelestis withdrew his blade and wiped it on the dead man’s tunic. Altor retrieved the silver sword and gave a heartfelt sigh. ‘Caelestis, I owe you an apology! Everything I said about you, I take it all back. You saved my life. You’re okay in my book!’

  ‘Will you still say that, I wonder,’ called the Faltyn, ‘when you see what he has given me?’

  Altor looked up and saw the Faltyn for the first time, hovering directly above his head on a pillow of ethereal blue vapour.

  ‘What on earth—?’ he began, but then he saw the object the Faltyn was holding triumphantly between its fingers.

  It was the pommel stone!

  Seven:

  Death’s Boatman

  ‘How did you get that?’ shouted Altor. He grabbed for the stone, but the Faltyn drifted up out of reach.

  ‘Your friend will tell you,’ said the Faltyn. ‘As for myself, I now return with my prize to the ring.’

  The Faltyn gleamed bright blue, then faded rapidly like an afterimage on the back of the eye. Within seconds there was nothing to show it had ever existed, except for a faint flowery scent in the air—and the growing anger in Altor’s heart.

  He grabbed Caelestis by the neck. ‘You gave it the pommel stone? Where... where, Caelestis..?’ He gritted his teeth, too beside himself with rage to think clearly.

  ‘Where did I get it? Ah, well... loosen your grip, Altor, it’s a bit hard to, er, speak when your windpipe’s being crushed.’

  Altor let go and stood glaring at him. ‘Go on, then. And make it good.’

  ‘Yes...’ Caelestis smoothed out his jerkin, thoughtfully adjusted the tilt of his hat. ‘You know how it is, Altor, when you’ve never met someone. They’re a stranger, right? You don’t owe them anything, they don’t owe you—‘

  ‘Our Lord taught that all men are brothers,’ said Altor, making it sound like some kind of curse.

  ‘Ah! And, yes... didn’t He also preach that we should forgive others? The sinner that repents is worth two in hell, or something...’

  Caelestis fell silent. Altor stood staring at him for a few seconds. His anger had gone; now he felt only bitter disappointment. ‘You stole it, didn’t you?’ he said with icy calm. ‘You picked my pocket and stole it. I can’t believe that. How could you stoop so low?’

  ‘I admit, er, I have no substantive defence in law. Um, I can only plead mitigating circumstances—namely, I was somewhat impoverished and much in need at the time. Which is why that other pickpocketing incident occurred later, for which the militia were trying to arrest me...’

  ‘It wasn’t an isolated case, then? That makes me feel much better!’

  Caelestis spread his hands imploringly. ‘What can I say? I didn’t know that stone was the reason you got into the contest in the first place, did I? I’d have given it back if we get through all this in one piece.’

  ‘Except now you’ve given it to a magic sprite!’ cried Altor with a bitter laugh. ‘There’s nothing to discuss. You’re a lowlife pickpocket, a sometime tomb robber, you stole from me, cheated your way into this contest to escape arrest...’

  ‘I saved your life, though. And got you that sword.’

  ‘We’ll call it quits. When this is all over, assuming we survive, we’ll go our own separate ways and not a moment too soon. Until then, Caelestis, try not to do anything else to annoy me.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Caelestis, equally peeved. ‘I’ll just let you get yourself killed next time, then, shall I?’

  They stepped through the ornamental door into a vast cavern whose walls sparkled with veins of glowing quartz. Rock-cut steps led down to a pebble beach washed by the dark waters of an underground lake. A smooth slab of grey rock with a sculpted frieze running around it jutted into the lake to make a kind of jetty. There were no boats moored there.

  ‘Can you swim?’ asked Altor.

  ‘If that’s a general enquiry, then yes. If you’re asking whether I’m prepared to swim across that—forget it!’

  ‘What choice have we got?’

  Caelestis looked around, then he pointed out four large blocks further along the beach. They looked like sarcophagi built on a monumental scale. ‘Maybe we’ll find something there.’

  Descending the steps, the two trudged across the wet pebbles for a closer look. The sarcophagus lids depicted four goblin glowering ancients in regal attire. Each was more than twice the height of a man, and Caelestis shuddered when he thought what creatures might lie buried there.

  ‘I thought a one-time tomb robber would be made of sterner stuff,’ said Altor with a smile.

  ‘The trick is to be selective about whose tomb you rob,’ said Caelestis. ‘Giant ancient wizards are a definite no-no.’

  Altor reached thoughtfully towards the nearest sarcophagus, then paused. The lid was encrusted with the undisturbed mould of many years.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ whispered Caelestis nervously. ‘Not that I want to encourage you, mind.’

  Altor shook his head. ‘From what the ranger said, we can’t be the first to reach this far. That means whoever’s ahead of us found a way to cross the lake without opening these caskets.’

  Caelestis nodded, not bothering to hide his relief. ‘The jetty, then...’

  They walked back to the jetty, a rounded slab of slippery wet stone like the shell of a giant whelk. Crouching down, Altor examined the frieze running around it. ‘Maybe there’s a clue here,’ he mused.

  Caelestis bent over and examined the carvings with pursed lips. ‘Those are musical notes. It’s just an old tune—The Gondolier or something. Surely you’ve heard it?’

  He whistled a snatch of the refrain, then stopped. The notes wafted forlornly off into the darkness across the water.

  The ripples came first, stirring the glistening black water against the sides of the jetty. Then the soft sigh of a single oar, and a boat hung with dark blue drapes slid into view as if congealing out of the void. As it drew nearer, a boatman became visible although somehow they had failed to notice him at first. He worked his oar with thin but apparently tireless arms, bringing the boat to a halt beside the jetty.

  Waves lapped the shore, producing an eerie shush-shush like a great beast breathing deeply in its sleep.

  Altor and Caelestis watched the boatman. His scrawny frame was wrapped in odd folds of cloth, his face hidden by one of the despondent theatrical masks used in Ancient Emphidian tragedies. He stood in silence as though waiting for something.

  ‘You know what I said about not needing to open the sarcophagi?’ ventured Altor.

  Caelestis gave him a wary sidelong glance. ‘Yes...’

  ‘Well, I think we will have to after all.’

  Caelestis sighed. ‘Somehow I knew it. But why?’

  ‘From what I remember of mythology, this must be the ferryman of the souls of the dead. The Ancient Emphidians called him Keron, which the peasants of modern Ellesland have corrupted to Stug the Careworn—‘

  ‘Spare me the history lesson, Altor.’

  ‘Well, I think he needs payment before he’ll ferry us across the lake. The ancients used to bury their dead with a coin under the corpse’s tongue so that the soul would have something to pay him with.’

  Caelestis looked back along the beach to where the four sarcophagi waited. When he tried to swallow, he found his mouth had gone as dry as parchment. ‘Okay, let’s do it,’ he said grimly.

  Sheathing his sword, Altor strode up to the nearest sarcophagus and placed his shoulder against the lid. He leant forward and braced his feet solidly in the wet shingle. For long moments he strained in silence. The whiteness of his face and the hard cords of muscle in his neck gave the only clues as to his titanic exertion. Then at last he gave a gasp that was echoed by the grating of stone, and the lid slid aside leaving a small gap.

  Altor staggered back, leaning on his knees while he got his breath back. Caelestis peered dubiously into the dark slit between the lid and the side of the sarcophagus. A smell that reminded him of in
cense and dusty garments rose in the clammy air.

  ‘Go on, then,’ said Altor as he straightened up and drew his sword.

  ‘Why me?’ protested Caelestis.

  ‘My hand wouldn’t fit in that small a gap, for one thing.’

  ‘And what else?’

  ‘Well...’ Altor grinned. ‘If the corpse comes to life I’d better be ready to fight it.’

  Caelestis glared at him. ‘Thanks a lot. I’d managed to keep my mind off that possibility until now.’

  Turning back to the sarcophagus, he held his hand over the gap as if he were steeling himself to plunge it into icy-cold water. Then, with a deep breath, he reached inside.

  His fingers felt a hard bony dome covered with a few dry wisps of hair. The skin crackled away under his touch like old tissue paper. Choking with disgust, he felt down across the sharp nub of bone that marked the corpse’s nose, over dry crumbling lips... His fingers probed between the teeth.

  ‘Argh!’ he screamed suddenly. ‘It’s got me. Help, Altor! It’s biting my hand off!’

  Altor was so shocked that he bounded forward, lost his footing on the shingle, and sat down hard. Caelestis stopped screaming and dissolved instead into fits of giggles. ‘I had you going there, didn’t I?’ he laughed, drawing his hand out of the sarcophagus to show the antique silver coin he’d found.

  ‘You toad,’ said Altor, picking himself up. ‘I really thought it had got you.’

  ‘Ah, come on. It was just a joke. It was you that put the idea into my head, after all.’

  Altor managed a rueful smile. ‘I guess I deserved it. Let’s see if the boatman will accept our payment.’

  They returned to the jetty and now the boatman spoke from the first time behind his mournful mask. ‘The fee is one obol.’

  ‘How about this?’ said Caelestis, putting the silver coin into the boatman’s clay-pale hand.

  ‘It will suffice. Come aboard.’

  He waited until they had settled themselves on the bench under the boat’s blue awning, then pushed off from the jetty. Eddies of water swirled beneath them, as dark and impenetrable as the depths of the night sky. Above, the roof of the cavern swept up to vast heights where stalactites hung like the chandeliers of a great cathedral. Staring ahead into the gloom, they could not make out the far shore of the lake, and since by now they had lost sight of the jetty as well it was as though they were drifting in an immense void.