The Book of the Sword (Darkest Age) (19 page)

‘Did you feel it too?’ she demanded. ‘The rock closing in?’

‘Loki can force his visions on more than one at a time,’ Eolande told her. ‘Or attack just one among many. He will use your own fears, your own demons, to torment you.’ She did not say anything about her own experience just now, and Elspeth found herself wondering whether this calm, poised woman
had
any fears of her own.

Elspeth was on her guard after that. Later – there was no way to tell how much later, or how far they had come – she noticed a change in the sound of their footsteps on the stone floor: they were softer, as though treading on earth … or through mud. The ground beneath her had grown yielding, sucking her feet into it with each step.

The walls were no longer stone but something wet and reddish, curving around her. It was a gullet, or a snake’s belly; she felt the life pulsing through it and almost lost her footing, to be sucked down the tube and swallowed up.
It’s illusion!
she told herself.
Just a lie to scare me!
– and she drove the sword hard into the slimy redness at her feet. The clang of metal on stone recalled her at once to the rock tunnel. She whirled to see Eolande close behind her: the Fay woman gave her an approving look, but said nothing. The sword throbbed in her hand:
Go on! We are close now!
Of course, Elspeth thought. The sword – Ioneth – could stand against Loki: even against his visions. She was the only thing more powerful than the demon-god, had given her own life to make the sword’s blade so.

They went on in silence, and there were no more illusions. Elspeth found herself walking faster, as if that might make the distance shorter; Eolande matched her pace, staying always a few steps behind her. She could feel the sword constantly in her mind now: not Ioneth’s voice, but a low, feverish thrumming almost at the edge of hearing, that built in intensity with every step.

The air grew steadily hotter, and Elspeth took off her fur cloak and carried it over her arm as she walked. She thought briefly of abandoning it, to retrieve later, but there was no certainty that they would leave the mountain by the same route.
We might never leave at all
. The words flashed through her head, leaving a cold wake – but she did not slow her steps. A sense of unreality had been growing in her: it was hard to imagine anything outside the tunnel, anything but this endless walk through grey stone, with blackness before and after.

When a point of red light appeared in the distance, Elspeth tensed, expecting some new trick. But the light stayed where it was, growing brighter as they approached and casting a dim glow on the walls to either side. The heat was becoming stifling, and Elspeth felt sweat running down her neck. The sword’s hum had become a singing in her head, fierce and eager.

‘We are almost there,’ Eolande murmured, her soft voice making Elspeth jump. The Fay woman seemed as unaffected by the heat as she had been earlier by the cold. In the sword’s white light her face was pale and calm, but a sudden eagerness flickered in her eyes.
Almost there
, came Ioneth’s voice, urgently, and Elspeth felt the dark undertow again, pulling her forward. The sword jumped in her hand – and a thrill of terror shot through her. In just a few moments, perhaps … She tried to push the thought away, reaching for the dreamlike unreality that had lain on her before, but it would not come. She stopped, her legs suddenly heavy. A wave of panic hit her.
I can’t do this!

It’s just the wait that’s bad. The not-knowing
. Her father’s voice came to her, back in her childhood, far from land on the
Spearwa
and facing her first ever storm. She had clung to him in panic as the black clouds rolled towards them.
Once the storm breaks, there’s plenty to do; you’ll have no time to be scared
. And he had been right. After the mad flurry of the storm he had hugged her fiercely:
my brave girl
. Through all the tempests they had faced together after that, she had never felt fear – not even on that last day, in the icy water.

Eolande was watching her, waiting patiently but with that same undercurrent of eagerness. Elspeth breathed deeply, flexed her arms and felt the weight of the sword in her hand.
Ioneth?
she called in her mind, and the sword throbbed in answer:
I am ready!

Without giving herself more time to think, Elspeth strode towards the red light.

With something to focus on at the end of the tunnel, the way seemed short. The red glow grew stronger, rivalling the white light of the sword until they seemed to be walking into fire. The walls ahead of them gleamed and flickered with it.

Just before the walls gave way to open space, Eolande laid a hand on her shoulder.

‘Remember – do not let him touch you!’ she breathed. She looked as if she would have said more, but Elspeth nodded briefly and turned from her. It was too late for advice. She felt her heart beating in time with the pulsing of the sword as she stepped through the red-lit opening.

The cavern beyond was vast, bigger than any godshouse Elspeth had seen, even the one at Glastening. The rock walls, black rather than grey, stretched off into the distance to both sides and soared above her head into darkness. The red light came from a trench filled with fire, running along the far side of the cave, more than forty paces away. Flames leapt up from it, then died again, casting a flickering light on the figure that hung from the rock beyond.

A tall and muscular man hung limply from chains that bound him to the rock. Elspeth peered across the cave, but she could see no more through the leaping flames.

‘The river of fire that you see is molten rock,’ Eolande murmured. ‘It would not hold him for an instant if he were free, but it stops people from coming to him when he catches their minds and calls them. Come – I can help you to cross it.’

The ground was rough and black, like cinders. Eolande led her across the vast empty space, the soft fall of their steps drowned out by the crackling of the fire. Elspeth’s eyes were fixed on the hanging figure that flickered in and out of sight
through the flames. She drew closer. So this was her enemy; the murderer of her father, and countless hundreds besides, now and a hundred years ago. He had destroyed everything she held dear; her whole past life.
And all my people, generations upon generations, all gone
, Ioneth said in her head. Her voice seemed to join with Elspeth’s own.
Face me! I am here!

But he was so still, so silent! He did not even seem aware of their presence. As she approached, she saw that he was fastened to the rock by five chains, from manacles on wrists, ankles and neck. His head was lowered, so she could not see his face. Close to his feet, the river of rock bubbled red and yellow, unbearably bright and sending out a fierce heat that made Elspeth shield her face with her hand. Flames danced on its sluggishly flowing surface.

Eolande had gathered a little heap of black stones, of the same material as the cindery ground. She threw one of them into the fiery river – Elspeth saw how it floated on the surface – and another, and another. When the bubbling surface was covered with black discs, she emptied a little phial into her hand and blew its contents over the rocks, then spoke in a language which Elspeth did not understand. There was a loud hissing, and a cloud of smoke rose from the river, pushing the flames aside. As it cleared, she saw that the black rocks had formed a bridge, narrow and fragile-looking but keeping the fire at bay, at least for the moment.

‘Cross quickly,’ Eolande told her. ‘It will not last long.’

Elspeth set a cautious foot on the bridge. It seemed to bear
her weight. She stepped on to the cindery surface, the blood singing in her ears, and walked forward. She felt the little bridge shaking as Eolande crossed behind her.

As she reached the far bank, the figure chained to the rock stirred for the first time, uttering a low sound like a groan or growl. He hung as if exhausted, his muscles straining against the bands that held him. His head was tipped forward as if it were too heavy for him to lift; Elspeth could see only a tangle of black hair. But as she approached, he spoke without raising his head, his voice low and hoarse:

‘So you are here at last.’

The sword leapt in her hand in a blaze of white:
now!

Elspeth walked forward steadily. Without willing it, she found her arm rising to strike. She could feel Eolande just behind her; feel the sword pulling her hand, both of them driving her on – as if she had no power over her own body. But her mind was still her own. This chained man before her, without even the strength to lift his head … how could he be a god? His bare arms were tanned and streaked with sweat, and he wore a rough tunic, much like those worn by the sailors at home.

I can’t just kill him!
she told the sword.

Now, now!
the voice repeated.
Before he looks at you
.

Elspeth took another step forward. She was close enough to strike now: the sword vibrated in her hand, urging her arm forward. And the figure raised his head and smiled at her.

It was her father.

Her heart became a stone in her chest. She could not move, it was so heavy. Her body was ice. She stood, drinking in her father’s face with a desperate hunger as he looked at her, smiling and then serious.
My girl, grown up so fine and brave…

The sword was screaming in her mind, but she could not make out what it said. Then a cool hand touched her arm: Eolande. The Fay woman clasped Elspeth’s sword hand in both of her own, and the blade writhed like a snake, its shrieks redoubling. But Eolande’s voice, calm and reassuring, carried through it all.

‘Don’t fear, Elspeth. Let me help you.’

Her hands were cold and smooth as marble as she brought Elspeth’s sword arm down.

They were all dead – every man. Their spirits wailed around us, trapped by the one we had chained below.

We took what we could find for burial, knowing we had failed. Loki was bound again – but too much had been lost.

Erlingr cast us out. His son and grandsons were dead, and all through my fault, he said.

And then Ioneth came to me.

– It’s time to forge the sword, she said. We must kill him.

I looked around me, at the shattered men, the weeping women, and far off, the blackened mountain.

I could not refuse her.

The tunnel mouth was further along than Cluaran remembered, and when he did reach it he almost walked past the opening before he recognised the spot.
Careless!
he chided himself.
Keep your wits about you, man!
Eolande’s name, so innocently mentioned by Edmund, had plunged him into
confusion – but there was no time now for grief or guilt.
Think of that later – for now, you’ve work to do
.

He gathered the group about him. Ari knew the place nearly as well as he did; he would be a good ally here. But the humans … well at least he could put them on their guard.

‘This passage leads to the cavern of Loki, under the mountain,’ he told them. ‘You should know that he is still powerful, though chained. He will sense us coming, and it amuses him to play tricks on his visitors. Captain Cathbar, and you, girl: there’s no reason for you to come with us.’ There was no reason for Edmund to accompany them either, he thought, but he knew better than to suggest that. The boy would not wait outside while Elspeth was in danger.

Cathbar flatly refused to stay outside, and so did the girl, to Cluaran’s surprise. She was white in the face, but her expression was determined, and Cluaran was too full of haste to argue. He pulled a stick of firewood from his pack and began to wrap it in cloth for a makeshift torch while he gave his instructions.

‘We’ll have to go single file. Whatever you see, whatever you feel in the tunnel, do not run. Loki is the master of lies, remember that. He cannot harm you unless he touches you.’

They all nodded, and he gave them one last, doubtful look. The captain would obey orders, he knew – and the girl was doing a fair job of hiding her terror, though she was plainly nervous of Ari.
Grown up on tales of ice monsters, no doubt
, he thought wryly. As for Edmund, the boy was exhausted, but
there was something new about him – a toughness that Cluaran had not seen before. He would do well enough.

Cluaran coaxed a spark from his fire-stone, lit a torch for himself and one for Ari, and led the way into the tunnel.

The dark closed in on him before he had gone five paces; too thick a blackness to be much disturbed by his little torch. He raised the stick higher and glanced over his shoulder. Edmund was just behind him, his face determined. The girl, Fritha, who came next, was almost lost in shadow, but Cluaran could see that she was walking quietly and did not seem about to panic. The other two could not be seen, but Ari’s torch was a smoky flickering in the darkness behind. Cluaran thrust his own light ahead of him and pushed on. It did not illuminate much more than the next three steps, but he remembered the descent as almost straight, with no sudden drops – unless something had changed it. He had thought he knew what they would face down in the cave … but Eolande was there! He was well aware of her power. What might she use it for, if Loki had taken her?
And how was he able to take her?
a voice in his head asked; but he put that aside for now.

He set each foot down gently, keeping all his senses alert for traps.
Don’t try to run!
he told himself.
Remember how long the way is – we have to be of some use when we get there
. But he could not stop his steps from speeding up. Behind him he heard Edmund and Fritha talking in low voices, and had a momentary urge to snap at them to be silent – but why? Loki
would know they were coming. The chains might still be holding, down there in the fiery chamber, but he had long been able to send his mind out into the mountain, and far beyond it. Cluaran was only too well aware of that.

Edmund and Fritha fell silent after a while, as if the tunnel sucked away sound as well as light. The heat was beginning to creep over them. Cluaran’s torch was smoking badly; he heard Edmund cough as a stream of smoke drifted sluggishly backwards. Next moment, the cloth he had wound about the stick came loose: an end trailed down, scattering sparks over his sleeve. Cluaran cursed, moving to beat them out – and the flame caught and ran along his arm; across his chest. In two heartbeats, his whole body was engulfed in fire.