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

by Dave Morris

  And he too sat upside down. The three adventurers began to feel as if they had wandered into a dream.

  ‘You have done well to come so far, though you are not the first,’ the robed figure said. He seemed to be speaking barely louder than a whisper, but either by magic or a trick of the hall’s acoustics they heard every syllable clearly.

  Caelestis was the first to speak. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I have no name. I guard the gateway to the lower level, where you must now go.’

  ‘Why are we..?’ Altor hesitated, shrugged. ‘Why are we upside down?’

  ‘The normal laws of nature are inverted here. You are halfway to the other world. But my only advice is to put all such questions aside. Logic will not serve you in the place where you must now travel.’

  He reached out towards them and a moment later they felt a tingling sensation crawl across their skin.

  ‘What’s happening?’ cried out Imragarn in sudden alarm.

  The other two turned and stared aghast as his image blurred, becoming ghost-like in front of their eyes. Then they realized that the same thing was happening to them. Slowly they began to slip down into the stone under them, feeling the solid surroundings only as a faint chill against the skin.

  ‘Have no fear yet,’ said the figure in the golden robes. ‘This spell of mine will not harm you. It is what lies ahead that you should fear...’

  Nine:

  The Chasm

  If the robed figure had any more to say it was lost as they submerged in stone. It was like sinking through thick tar at first, soon fading to no more than the breath of a slight cold wind. For a brief time there was nothing but a cocoon of darkness around each of them, the silence of an indefinite void all around.

  At last they emerged from the rock into open air. Solid once more, they fell lightly to land on crude stone steps. An up-draught from below brought a stifling dank heat on which they could taste burning sulphur.

  Imragarn clasped his hands to his shoulders and shivered. ‘I thought I had only imagined you rescued me... that I was back in the ice...’

  Caelestis recognized the tinge of panic in the man’s voice. He did not entirely trust Imragarn yet, but there was no doubt his fear was genuine. ‘in this heat?’ he said, mopping his brow.

  Imragarn gave a weak smile and Altor cast an approving glance at his friend. Caelestis’ joke had stopped Imragarn from going into shock. For all his faults and fancy ways, the young thief was a good judge of men.

  Nodding ruefully, Imragarn visibly pulled himself together. ‘You must think me a pretty feeble ally.’

  Altor laughed. ‘Look at us—bedraggled, covered in lake mud. Hardly the grand heroes that Magus Balhazar would want representing him!’

  ‘He’ll want his money back if we don’t get a move on,’ said Caelestis. ‘Not that he paid us in the first place, mind you.’

  The three started to make their descent. The steps soon emerged onto a perilous ledge that snaked down the back wall of a vast underground cave. They looked out, awestruck, at the unearthly panorama before them. The cavern stretched away for two kilometres or more and the ceiling was a hundred metres high in places, supported by giant basaltic pillars that soared up into the dizzying gloom. The basin below was the crater of a dormant volcano, and a deep red glow illuminated the cave from volcanic geysers that spluttered and gurgled lava through cracks in the cave floor.

  ‘We must be right under the city foundations,’ said Altor, and the thought of the sorcery that kept the ravenous volcano in check took their breath away.

  ‘The power of the magi is...’ Caelestis paused, at a loss for words, ‘much more than I imagined,’ he finished somewhat lamely.

  ‘It’s nothing compared to the power of the True Magi who preceded them,’ said Imragarn. ‘Remind me to tell you about them later when we’re relaxing over a pint of ale.’

  Caelestis smacked his lips.

  ‘Save that talk of ale,’ said Altor. ‘We need to keep our wits about us—now more than ever.’

  Here and there from rents in the rock ceiling, trickles of noxious liquid sprayed down. The smell told them that those were the outlets from the Keep’s sewers, and the volcanic fires burned with a resentful green light whenever one of these streams hit them.

  The bottom of the crater, far below the ledge, rolled with a greenish white mist that made it difficult to see anything but the splutter of red fires. Three pinnacles stood out, islands in the sea of fog. The first of these was joined to their ledge by a narrow bridge. It was barely more than a metre wide, and there were no rails to hold on to. One slip would be enough to cast a person into the gorge, where a torrent of evil-smelling water flowed roaring below the mist.

  Across the bridge, a soot-blackened temple could be seen atop the first pinnacle. A group of foul hags capered out onto the terrace in front of the temple and began to jeer at the three adventurers as they wended their way down the ledge.

  ‘A welcoming party?’ muttered Caelestis.

  ‘No, look,’ said Imragarn, pointing above them.

  A host of winged dirges were swooping down through the foetid air. Altor reached for his sword as the sinister shapes began to wheel around in the air currents, but Imragarn put a calming hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

  ‘They won’t attack,’ he said quietly. ‘They’re scavengers.’

  Ignoring the shrill cries of the black-winged dirges, they continued on until they stood on the wide shelf of rock leading on to the stone bridge. Across the deep gorge the ugly hags looked on and jeered, one of them throwing handfuls of a soft substance at the adventurers. Fortunately her aim was short of the platform.

  Altor was at the front; he would have to go first. As he stood steeling himself to take the first step a voice boomed out into the abyss. He looked up and noticed a huge gargoyle head carved into the cave wall near the roof, its mouth moving in time with the ebb and flow of the strange sounds. He fancied he heard words in the rumbling noise, a voice intoning: ‘Face those who wait for you in death.’

  Altor shook his head and tried to fix his concentration on the task ahead. He stepped out onto the bridge.

  A gasp behind him made him look back. A shimmering energy barrier had sprung up, preventing any possibility of retreat. Altor turned round and squared his shoulders. ‘Right then,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘let’s get it over with.’

  He took a step forward. The gargoyle head spoke again: ‘Arise from ashes.’

  Altor looked around again, perplexed. It was only when he turned back to the matter of crossing the bridge that he realised the gargoyle’s words had not been addressed to him. A figure was gradually taking shape ahead of him on the bridge—a hulking berserker in a rotting chainmail vest. He lifted his warhammer with arms that looked bloodless and dead. A flicker of red fire from a spurting geyser illuminated his face. The eyes were cloudy like pearls, the face just a tattered cobweb of decay.

  ‘The winner shall have life,’ groaned the stone head.

  The berserker grinned and stepped forwards. He said in a thick voice: ‘Ja, dearest foe. Here’s where we change places.’

  Altor, his sword already drawn, was puzzled. ‘Dearest foe? I will gladly fight you if I must, but tell me why I should know you.’

  ‘You do not know me. Our weapons have never clashed before this day, but I owe your blood-line a debt of hard hatred. I am Beorn Smith-hammer, slain by your father twenty long years ago. Now I will have my life.’

  Altor was so surprised he momentarily forgot the perilous situation he was in. Raised an orphan at the monastery, he knew nothing of his parents. ‘My father? You knew my father? Then tell me—‘

  His words were cut short as Beorn swung the hammer towards him in a bone-breaking arc. Acting on reflex, Altor dodged and struck out with his sword as the berserker was recovering his balance. Beorn stood teetering, but recovered and brought his hammer up hard towards Altor’s face. Altor tried to step back, managing to avoid the blow, but
tripped and fell on one knee. He looked up to see the tunnel of a mostly empty rib-cage and above him Beorn’s ivory-smooth arms were raised to bring the hammer smashing down on his defenceless head.

  In a last desperate move, Altor rammed his sword up inside the undead warrior’s chest and into his head, twisting as he went. Beorn gave a scream that was visible as a trembling of his exposed vocal cords. Altor drew back the blade, ready to strike again, but its magic had severed whatever spell kept Beorn alive. He slumped forward, the hammer plunging into the soupy depths below.

  The body stayed swaying on its feet like a broken puppet. A kick from Altor tumbled it off the bridge, where it vanished in the haze. And with it, he realized with a sense of sorrow so strong it felt like physical pain, went any hope of finding out more about his father.

  Altor reached the other side and stepped onto the terrace. The hags glared at him, and one of them threw a handful of dung, which thankfully missed. He turned back to watch the others cross.

  Imragarn was hesitant, so Caelestis stepped boldly out next. Since childhood, when he had been nurtured by some of the craftiest burglars of the Coradian lands, Caelestis had been used to leaping across city rooftops and scaling drainpipes. He had no fear of heights. Heedless of the long drop, he danced a precarious jig. The hags gasped and clapped their hands in glee, clustering at the brink of the gorge in their eagerness to see him fall. Caelestis windmilled his arms in mock terror. The hags clutched each other, barely able to contain their excitement. Then he recovered his balance and strolled effortlessly on, laughing when he saw the hags turn away and spit with disappointment.

  Suddenly a rumbling voice dampened his high spirits.

  ‘Come from death,’ commanded the gargoyle head. In answer to its summons a shadowy figure materialised on the bridge ahead of him. It stepped forwards, and the ruddy light of the volcanic jets showed a man in a brocade gown, carrying a metal-shod staff. He had a jewelled patch over one eye, and the other was milky and sightless.

  ‘Hurondus,’ boomed the gargoyle head. ‘Your dearest foe wishes to cross the bridge. Prevent this, and you shall be restored to life.’

  ‘My dearest foe,’ echoed Hurondus venomously. ‘This is where we conclude our vendetta at last.’

  ‘Vendetta?’ replied Caelestis, shaking his head. ‘I have never set eyes on you...’

  The old man’s milky eye seemed to gleam. ‘Three years ago I was arrested and executed for one of your crimes. Three years I have waited for a chance to repay you.’

  Caelestis snorted in protest. ‘Then surely the one you really want revenge on is the magistrate who convicted you? It’s hardly my fault if he got his facts wrong. Also, although I have admittedly committed a few illegal acts in my day, I’ve never done anything that would warrant execution. The magistrate was unduly harsh!’

  ‘Babbling youth!’ cried Hurondus in anger. ‘Do you think I will waste my opportunity to be avenged?’

  ‘By all means take your revenge,’ said Caelestis with an easy shrug of the shoulders. ‘But not on a blameless young chap like myself. Hurondus, use your new lease of life—or undeath, or whatever—to seek out that magistrate. It was his bad judgement that cost you your life, so—‘

  He was cut short by a screech of hatred. Hurondus raised his staff, snarled an incantation, and a gout of green flame went hurtling towards Caelestis.

  Altor and Imragarn, on opposite ends of the bridge, saw the tumbling mass of flames. It struck where Caelestis was standing and exploded in a brilliant green light. The glare was so bright they had to shield their eyes.

  When Altor looked back his heart froze in horror. Except for the blind wizard the bridge was now empty.

  Caelestis had been burned to ashes!

  Ten:

  The Face of Death

  Hurondus tapped his way forward, swinging his staff in front of him. When he found his foe was gone his shoulders began to shake with mirth and a horrible gravid cackle reverberated around the rock walls. He advanced slowly to the edge of the bridge, a brooding presence wrapped in his own thoughts of triumph, while Altor and Imragarn could only stand paralysed in shock.

  As Hurondus’s staff probed into the gulf, a hand suddenly shot up from under the bridge and grabbed the end. Hurondus gave a croak of surprise and began another spell. He hand pulled sharply and Hurondus flipped over and cartwheeled into the void. Somewhere deep in the white wreath of mist, his final spell exploded in a pale burst of green light.

  Caelestis nimbly hauled himself up from under the bridge. The hags, annoyed to see him survive, hissed and emitted foul odours as he skipped across to join Altor.

  ‘You gave me a nasty shock,’ said Altor. ‘I thought you were a goner.’

  ‘What, and leave you to take all the reward money for yourself?’ Caelestis grinned in sheer relief. ‘You can’t get rid of me that easily, my friend.’

  Altor looked across to where Imragarn stood wavering. He called out in encouragement, but Imragarn seemed not to hear him over the dull reverberating roar of the river below.

  The hags brayed with laughter, sputtering phlegm over their cyanic lips as they rubbed their hands in vicious merriment. Sensing Imragarn’s fear, they anticipated a tragedy.

  This time they were not to be disappointed. Imragarn edged nervously out onto the bridge. He was a stocky man, not light on his feet at the best of times, and his nervousness made it worse. As he neared the middle of the bridge, the gargoyle boomed its summons: ‘Relinquish the grave.’

  In answer to the summons, tendrils of mist licked up from the clouds below the bridge. They thickened to form a hazy pillar ahead of Imragarn, then gradually subsided to reveal a dark cowled woman of majestic stature. She stepped towards the trembling figure of Imragarn, and by her gait the gruesome goddess was revealed: Hela, Queen of the Dead, Ruler of the Afterlife.

  ‘Imragarn,’ Hela said in a voice to chill the blood. ‘I am the one you must face, for I am Death and you belong to me.’

  Imragarn started to raise his hands in defiance, but they were shaking. Caelestis and Altor saw him take a deep breath and try to draw himself up to his full height as he stared the dread Queen full in the face.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I defy you. I have been given a second lease of life. Why should I give it up?’ He shook his head violently.

  Hela smiled, but it was the smile of Death. ‘You were torn from me and I have searched long and hard for you in this place. You and I belong together...’

  She reached for him with lean white hands. ‘I know you have been so lonely without me,’ she said softly, and her voice was like the whisper of dry wind through the hollows of a skull.

  ‘No!’ cried Imragarn, and turned away from the apparition, his eyes screwed up in pain.

  ‘Imragarn!’ called Caelestis. ‘Don’t listen to her! You’re with us and you are alive!’

  Altor put a hand on his arm. ‘He’s beyond hearing you,’ he said gravely.

  Imragarn was rooted to the spot, his whole body quivering with the conflict that raged inside him. He looked towards Hela, the emotions on his face flickering between defiance and resignation.

  Hela moved to embrace Imragarn and he let out a roar and thrust her away with all his strength. She dropped out of sight over the side of the bridge. Stunned, Imragarn went to the edge and stared down into the void after her, but there was no sign of any falling form and when he turned around Hela was again standing there.

  ‘There is no escaping me, Imragarn,’ she said with surprising tenderness.

  He looked at her for a long moment, and then his trembling stopped and he allowed her to enclose him in her arms. The look on his face now was one of adoration. To Caelestis and Altor the Queen of Hell appeared only as a grinning monstrosity of bone and gristle. But perhaps Imragarn could also see her other aspect—no monster, men say, but a goddess beautiful beyond belief.

  The two of them faded away, leaving the bridge stark and empty.

  Altor and Caelestis were both
too stunned to speak.

  At last Caelestis managed a wisecrack: ‘That’s as close as I ever want to get to Death if I can help it!’ But his tone was too hollow to sound flippant, and there was a slick of nervous sweat on his brow.

  ‘I’ll light a candle in the Abbey for Imragarn’s soul when I get home,’ said Altor. ‘He deserves that much, at least.’

  The show over, the hags were wandering back to their cauldrons in front of the ruined temple. Altor nodded towards them. ‘Do you think we could get anything useful out of them?’ he said dubiously.

  Caelestis strode up to the hags. ‘Well now, weird sisters, what are you doing?’ he asked, putting on a bold voice even though the sight of their warty faces and snaggle-toothed gums was enough to make him feel like retching.

  The hags looked up and grinned. With their skin creased by long long years and their eyes like tiny blighted holes it was like looking at a row of rotten pumpkins.

  ‘Just our cooking,’ said one, clattering the lid of her pot aside. A bilious aroma shot up Caelestis’ nose, bringing tears to his eyes. Altor, catching a faint whiff that was still strong enough to strip paint, wisely hung back.

  Another of the hags scuttled over and put a hand on Caelestis’ bare arm. ‘You’re a tasty little morsel, ain’t you?’ she cackled. ‘A bit on the scrawny side, though. Want a taste of this to put some meat on them bones?’

  She proffered a ladle dripping with steaming gruel.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ screeched another, ‘I don’t think the seasoning’s quite right.’ She took a decomposing rat out of a pouch beside her and dropped it into the bubbling cauldron.

  Altor decided things were getting out of hand. ‘Can you tell us if anyone else has passed this way?’ he asked in a stern voice.

  The hags dissolved into a hideous parody of girlish giggling, clutching each other for support. ‘Lots. Many. A number beyond counting,’ tittered one at length.

  ‘Today?’ pressed Altor.

  ‘Oh, you mean recently? One there was from far away, from a land where the sun rises and finds the birds still a-slumber.’