The Seven Swords

by Nils Johnson-Shelton

  Bedevere held out his sword and said, “Sir Erik, please, try to calm yourself.”

  Thumb mumbled, “A berserker . . .”

  Artie knew what that was from all the fantasy games he’d played and books he’d read: someone who went into a savage frenzy in battle.

  Erik began to calm. His movements became less erratic. His color returned.

  “So, what, Erik’s like a real Viking or something?” Kay asked.

  “I—I guess,” Artie said incredulously.

  Why not? Really, with everything else that went on in their lives, why not?

  Tiberius returned to the ground and settled behind them. Erik stared at the dragon with wonder, finally taking it in. Erik’s arms and legs were limp and exhausted. His shoulders slumped. “Guys, what is going on around here?” he asked weakly.

  Thumb stepped forward and said, “My boy, it’s official. Welcome to the Otherworld.”

  6 - IN WHICH A PLAN FORMS AND DRED HATES ON FAIRIES

  After watching Qwon and Shallot fight through the spy hole in his door, Dred gathered up Smash and went to report to Morgaine.

  He wound through the castle and came to his mum’s double doors. They were tall and curved at the top and had a fresh coat of bright-red paint. They had pewter knockers that were shaped like foxglove flowers. Dred stood still for a moment and then leaned forward, pressing an ear against one of the doors.

  “Stop eavesdropping and come in!” Morgaine yelled, and the doors magically burst open.

  How Dred wished she would teach him to do things like that. Despite all his pleas, she hadn’t taught him even the simplest conjuration. He would never forgive her for that.

  Morgaine sat at her vanity wearing a light-green cloak. All kinds of bottles and vials were arranged in front of her. Dred knew that some contained makeup, others held elixirs, and a precious few were filled with very strong potions.

  She kept her back to him as she dabbed on some eye cream.

  “How did it go? Qwon didn’t see your face, did she?”

  “It went okay. And no, she didn’t see my face.”

  “Good. She mustn’t.”

  “I know, Mum. They can’t see my face. You’ve told me that a thousand times.”

  “Right. Now, tell me what happened.”

  Dred told his mother most, but not all, of the prisoners’ meeting. He made sure to mention that Shallot had used her fairy scentlock ability to stun Qwon, but he intentionally left out the part about giving Qwon a staff, saying instead that Qwon had managed to break Shallot’s staff in two and fought her off with one end.

  Morgaine sighed. “Pity neither was killed. How I wish I could find the will to kill them myself.” Dred said nothing as Morgaine wheeled around. Her cloak was clasped shut at the neck with a long pin shaped like a tree branch. A small fold of skin fell over the edge of the cloak. Dred thought this one small detail made her look so old. “Continue to watch them,” she said, “and keep me apprised of their condition. Do not give them anything other than that weevil-infested porridge. Understood?”

  “Understood, Mum,” Dred said quietly.

  “Now get out,” Morgaine said, “before I turn you into a newt!”

  Dred turned silently and loped out of his mother’s chambers.

  How he hated the person she’d become these last couple years. How he wished the old Morgaine would come back. Maybe when this whole thing was over—when Artie and Merlin were dead, and any open crossovers had been shuttered—she would go back to the way she used to be. Maybe.

  Back in his bedroom he put Smash on a table and gave him a carrot. He moved to the door that led to the portico and slid open the little window that afforded a limited view of the courtyard. Qwon and Shallot were hunkered down in a patch of sunlight against the far wall. They talked casually, as if they were friends on a playground.

  If he’d been within earshot, this is what Dred would have heard:

  QWON: So Artie is king of the Otherworld?

  SHALLOT: Not yet, but he’s getting closer.

  QWON: Okay. But to become king he has to find these Seven Swords?

  SHALLOT: Right. That’s what the Pretelling says.

  QWON: Crazy. So to help him we have to get the swords that are here—Excalibur and yours, The Anguish—and escape. How are we going to do that?

  SHALLOT: Not exactly sure. But I think you should start by hitting me.

  QWON: What?

  SHALLOT: Hit me. Hard. The boy who brought you here is watching us through that door. Don’t look.

  QWON: Okay.

  SHALLOT: In a few moments, act like I’ve insulted you—really insulted you. Then hit me.

  QWON: What, then we fight again?

  SHALLOT: No. Then I disappear. I can become nearly invisible. They won’t be surprised if they can’t see me—I’ve done it before. Meantime, you talk to Dred and try to get him to like you. Use the fact that he hates me as a conversation piece.

  QWON: Why does he hate you?

  SHALLOT: Fenlandians hate Leagonese, and vice versa. Also, I bit out a chunk of his ear when he captured me.

  QWON: Oh.

  SHALLOT: That’s probably why he gave you that staff. Anyway, convince him you hate me, try to bond with him over that, and maybe he’ll open that door again. When he does, we make a run for it.

  QWON: I guess it’s as good a plan as any. . . .

  SHALLOT: It is. Listen—after I go invisible, I may torment you a little, just to keep up appearances. All right?

  QWON: Got it.

  SHALLOT: Now hit me.

  Dred strained as he watched the two captives conspire. How he hated the fairy! He hated the way she looked, the way she smelled, the way she disappeared for days at a time. He hated that she managed to survive.

  And now he hated that these two seemed to be turning into friends.

  But then! The odd-looking girl reared back and slapped the fairy across the cheek. The fairy was stunned. Clearly Qwon had been insulted. That wasn’t very surprising—fairies were insulting. What was surprising was that the fairy wasn’t striking back.

  And then Qwon did something that made his heart leap! She reared back and slapped the fairy again—with the back of her hand! Man, did he wish he were the one knocking that creature around.

  The fairy picked up her staff, and for a moment Dred’s heart sank, as he was certain that Shallot le Fey would crush the girl’s throat with it. But then the fairy sprayed her heady scentlock, and Qwon was thrown into frozen rapture. Shallot watched Qwon for a moment before tossing her long, pink hair and disappearing.

  Dred had no idea how much time would pass before he saw her again. It could be hours. It could be weeks. He hated when she was invisible, and he figured Qwon wouldn’t like it either. His spirits lifted a little as it dawned on him that these two prisoners were not going to be friends. They had begun their relationship by fighting, after all. What he mistook for friendship a few moments ago he now knew had been a ruse on the fairy’s part. She probably wanted something from Qwon. She was probably trying to trick her in some way.

  Fairies really were the worst.

  Dred knew that Qwon would be stuck in her pungent dreamland for at least another half hour. He closed the spy hole and crossed his room. As he passed Smash, the animal leaped out of a running wheel and asked, “Dred play?”

  “Not now, Smash,” Dred said. He plopped into the chair at his writing desk and looked at a picture of him and his mom from a few years back when they’d gone on vacation to see the Towering Dunes of Sec. He looked like a child, and his mom, though still incredibly old, looked like a much younger woman.

  Dred sighed. He put his elbows on the desk and cupped his chin in his hands. He looked at the wall, which had a mirror in a simple square frame on it. His reflection stared back.

  A reflection that was the spitting image of Artie Kingfisher.

  7 - IN WHICH ERIK TELLS OF HOW HE USED TO BE A DRAGON SLAYER . . . KINDA

  “If the witch is tha
t active, then it’s time to get this show on the road,” Merlin said over a choppy video link on Artie’s iPad. He’d left Kynder at the Library that afternoon to sequester himself in The Bunker.

  “Totally,” Artie said. “Not cool that she almost got another one of us with those freaky dragonflies.”

  Artie, Kay, Thumb, and Bercilak were gathered around the tablet inside the court-in-exile, and they’d just finished telling Merlin about the attack. Erik sat alone on the far side of the table, still recovering from his berserker rage, which he couldn’t remember a thing about.

  Bercilak leaned forward and said to Merlin, a little more loudly than necessary, “Tiberius and I have found her antics to be quite inconvenient of late! She’s even been able to hit Sylvan with rolling blackouts!”

  Merlin smiled. “Two can play at that game, Sir Bercilak.”

  “What do you mean?” Kay asked.

  “Using some of my old tools here at The Bunker, I’ve devised a magical siphon that will tap Fenland’s sangrealitic power lines,” Merlin explained.

  “Sangrealitic power isn’t just for electricity, Artie,” Thumb added. “It’s also a major source of Morgaine’s power. She has knowledge and magical skills on her own, of course, but without a steady supply of sangrealitic juice, her abilities will be greatly diminished.”

  “Sweet,” Kay said.

  “Quite sweet, my dear,” Merlin said. “Opening crossovers will help curb her power as well, which you will do when you retrieve Gram. Speaking of Gram, I wonder how Master Erikssen is getting along? Is he ready to claim his sword?”

  They turned to Erik, who held himself by the shoulders and rocked back and forth. When he realized they were staring at him, he blurted, “What?”

  Bercilak said, “Wilt Chamberlain wants to know if you’re ready to retrieve Gram.”

  The color drained from Erik’s face as he said, “I guess. And why do you call . . . Merlin”—he was having trouble accepting the fact that there was a real Merlin—“Wilt Chamberlain?”

  Kay chuckled as Bercilak turned to Artie and asked, “I can’t remember. Can you, sire?”

  “Nope,” Artie said. “Just one of those things.”

  “Uh, all right,” Erik said uncertainly. “Yeah, I guess I’m ready. I did see a dragon today. It can’t be worse than that, can it?”

  Merlin clapped his hands. “I hope not. I’ll leave you to it then. So long, knights!”

  Artie shook his head. “You’re supposed to say, ‘over and out,’ Merlin.”

  “Aha.” Merlin smiled. “Over and out!”

  Bercilak rattled his armor and asked, “Over and out of what?” but no one bothered to explain as the video hiccupped and Merlin disappeared from the screen. “Truly, how does that work again?” Bercilak wondered, studying the iPad.

  “I really don’t know,” Artie said. “Science. Lots of science.”

  “Fascinating,” Bercilak uttered, shaking his empty helmet.

  Artie elbowed Kay and pointed his chin at Erik. “Hey, Erikssen,” Kay said gently. “Why don’t you come over here?”

  “Yes, why don’t you?” Bercilak said, taking pains to sound super nice. “There’s a very comfortable chair here. It’s got pillows.”

  Erik shook his head. “Uh-uh.”

  “Suit yourself, lad,” Thumb said, unwilling to treat Erik with kid gloves. “Bring up the sword app, Artie.”

  “All right.” Artie reluctantly turned away from Erik and touched the sword app icon. The app popped up and revealed a stonework background with a banner across the top depicting Artie’s coat of arms. Below the banner, in illuminated text, was the title The Seven Swords.

  Below this, in smaller but still fancy type, were the names of the unique weapons: Excalibur, Cleomede, Gram, the Peace Sword, Kusanagi, Orgulus, and The Anguish. Behind each of these was a silhouette of the weapon in question.

  Artie touched Gram and a block of text faded in next to two maps: One was of Sweden, with a red star in its northern region; the other was a detail of the starred location.

  Artie read: “‘In Old Norse, Gram simply means “wrath.” It was forged at an unknown time by a mythological figure named Wayland the Smith.

  “‘In many ways, Gram is the Norse equivalent of Cleomede. Instead of a stone, it was stuck in an ancient tree—a tree that still stands, though in a very secret place (see map at right)—and like Cleomede, only one person could pull it out. In the case of Gram, this was the hero Sigmund.’”

  At this, Erik leaned forward slightly.

  “‘It was eventually used by Sigmund’s son, Sigurd, to kill the dragon Fafnir.’” Artie paused. “Good thing Tiberius didn’t hear that.”

  “Please,” Thumb said. “Each of these swords has slain at least one dragon.”

  “Quite true, sire,” Bercilak added. “I half expect that’s why Tiberius is so moody all the time. Not much fun being surrounded by dragon slayers—if you’re a dragon.”

  Artie continued: “‘Like most of the Seven Swords, Gram fell into obscurity, and eventually found its way back into the ancient tree. It is to the tree that you must go. It is called—’”

  “Barnstokk,” whispered Erik.

  Artie’s chair creaked as he turned to his friend. “That’s right. You’ve heard of it?”

  “My great-uncle used to tell my brother and me those stories about Sigmund and Sigurd,” Erik recounted, trapped in reverie. “We loved them. He was a Minnesota wheat farmer. Big guy, long hair, a beard. Looked just like a Viking. We used to take turns pretending we were Sigurd. His dog was always the dragon, Fafnir. Obviously we never killed the dog, but in our imaginations he died a thousand times.”

  Kay approached Erik and put a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her. He was too exhausted and overwhelmed to be happy that Kay Kingfisher was actually touching him. Still, he smiled. She smiled back. “Welcome to the club, sport.”

  “So, what, I’m actually a Viking?” Erik asked.

  “Not yet, I’d wager,” Bercilak said. “You’re quite scrawny.”

  “Erik, it was the same with me,” Artie said, ignoring Bercilak’s comment. “I couldn’t believe any of this at first. But that started to change once I got Cleomede. And it really changed when I got Excalibur.”

  Erik stood. He was shorter than Artie, but outweighed him by about twenty pounds. He may have seemed scrawny to Bercilak, but he wasn’t. He was strong.

  “So,” Erik said slowly, “if I go with you to find Gram—in Sweden—then maybe all this will make a little more sense?”

  “Exactly,” Artie and Kay answered together.

  Erik looked around the great hall, eyeing the weapon racks at the far end. “Okay. But can I borrow some of those in the meantime? And maybe some armor? I mean, you guys look like you’re ready for a pretty big tussle, and I look like I’m about to go to school.”

  “Of course!” Artie said, happy to hear that his friend was coming around.

  Kay clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, Erikssen, let’s get you set up and then let’s get our butts to Sweden.”

  8 - HOW ARTIE AND CREW ENJOY CROSSING OVER TO NORTHERN SWEDEN

  Erik chose a chain mail shirt, a thin but sturdy dagger, and a truly frightening war hammer as long as his leg. He figured he’d done well with the carpenter’s hammer against the dragonflies, so he’d probably do even better with the kind that was meant for battle.

  All the same, he was a little freaked out about the prospect of hitting something as hard as he could with a hammer.

  While Artie and Thumb huddled over the iPad, studying the map of Sweden, Bedevere and Lance gave Erik some last-minute fighting tips (how to parry a thrust, how to duck a swipe, how to use the war hammer like a staff, and, most important, to remember that in hand-to-hand combat a fighter’s first weapon was his feet—keep them moving at all times, and run if necessary). Kay sat next to her brother, coiling a long length of rope. They’d really needed rope when they were making their way down to Tiberius’s cave
a few weeks back, and they weren’t going to forget it this time.

  Thumb pointed at the map on the iPad. “For Gram, we have to start in the Otherworld land of Surmik, where we can open a crossover to northern Sweden. All we have to do is punch coordinates into this app and it will show us exactly where we need to go on this side.”

  Artie entered the Swedish coordinates, and a blue circle snapped to the middle of the screen as Sweden dissolved into a map of Surmik, the circle still intact.

  “There it is!” Artie exclaimed.

  “Looks like a pretty happening place,” Kay said sarcastically, peering over Artie’s shoulder at an icy, barren landscape.

  “You’re right that it isn’t, Sir Kay,” Thumb replied with a smirk. “It’s big and cold. Lots of animals and very few people.”

  “Which I guess makes it a little like Sweden, huh?” Artie mused.

  “Nah, Sweden’s cool,” Erik interjected, taking a break from swinging his war hammer. “We went there when I was eight. In the summer the sun never goes down, and in the winter it never comes up.”

  “For real?” Kay asked.

  “For real,” Erik said. “Since it’s September, it should still be sunny most of the time.”

  “Cool,” Kay said, putting the rope in the infinite backpack.

  Artie smiled. “Definitely. Lance? Bedevere? You guys ready?”

  “Yes, sire,” Bedevere said.

  “You know it,” Lance boomed. “I need to see me some more of this Otherworld ASAP. I still can’t believe I’m finally here!”

  Artie turned to Thumb. “When will you and Tiberius leave for Leagon?”

  “Right after you.”

  “Good. How long before you return?”

  “Unsure, lad,” Thumb said. “Dealing with fairies can be tricky.”

  “All right, but don’t take long. We’ve got only nine days,” Artie said despondently. He knew that they were going to be the hardest nine days of his young, regal life. Artie reached into his coat and pulled out the precious pommel. “Hey, Erik, you ready to go through your first moongate?” The other one didn’t count since Erik had been knocked out.