Dark Blade Page 7

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Lann said, throwing back the covers. He stopped, staring down at the sword in his hand, his heart beating furiously in his chest.

  He hadn’t taken the blade into bed with him. He distinctly remembered putting it next to the nightstand in its scabbard. Now here it was, unsheathed, in his grip. Maybe Halbe hadn’t woken him after all, maybe it had been the sword. Because it was talking – a haunting, urgent whisper repeated over and over.

  Nir-akuu. Monsters.

  The house wight raised a hand in the direction of the door at the rear of the cabin.

  Fleya.

  Throwing a cloak about him, Lann hurried through the cabin and out into the gloom of the woods beyond.

  Long, thin clouds raced across a moon that briefly painted their edges with its silvery light. It was cold, but the temperature hardly registered with the boy as he ran through the trees. The sword was more than a weapon now. It was a thing of energy, and the power coursing through his body excited and scared him in equal measure. It was also his guide, and he knew the blade sensed where and what the danger was.

  Nir-akuu, it continued to repeat in that eerie voice.

  A cry, unmistakeably Fleya, caused him to take off in the direction of the noise, ducking branches that whipped at his face and skin. A tiny part of him told him it was foolish to rush headlong into danger like this, but his aunt needed him.

  He stumbled into the clearing and stopped in horror. Two creatures were attacking Fleya. They were twisted and misshapen things, with large bulbous heads and gro-tesquely bulging eyes. One had grabbed Fleya from behind, its left arm wrapped around her throat in a grip that was choking the breath from her. The other was standing before the witch, its hands clamped on either side of her face so she was forced to look straight into its wide-open mouth. White, smoke-like stuff, was being drawn out of his aunt into that mouth, the extraction accompanied by a sound, like a lover’s sigh. Whatever the creature was attempting to take by force was weakening her so much, she seemed on the point of collapse.

  Lann took all this in, in a heartbeat. Roaring with anger, he leaped forward, lifting the black blade over his head as he did so and swinging it at the nearest monster.

  The blade sang as it cleaved the air, a low, thrumming noise that caused the creature to stop and look back over its shoulder just as the edge bit into the flesh of its neck. Time seemed to slow almost to a halt for Lann. He watched as the blade cut easily through flesh and bone before it emerged again on the other side, droplets of inky black ichor flying from its tip and out into the night air. There was a surprised expression on the foul creature’s face as its head toppled to the floor.

  The second creature let out a terrible scream of fear and rage. Fleya was momentarily forgotten, thrown to the ground, as her tormentor leaped towards Lann, clawed hands outstretched to rake flesh and tendon. But Lann, empowered by the magical sword, moved like a shadow. Swiftly stepping to his right, he twisted his torso so the black talons missed him by inches, while simultaneously reversing the swing of the sword, pulling it up and across, so that a huge diagonal gash opened the creature from hip to shoulder. As he delivered that dreadful slashing wound, Lann bellowed a war cry in a long-dead language, becoming, in that instant, one with the Dreadblade.

  A terrible screech filled the air, and the creature stumbled to a halt, looking down in surprise as its entrails tumbled out into the night. The monster grabbed at the steaming, grisly mess as if trying to put its innards back where they rightfully belonged, before crumbling and joining its dead partner on the forest floor.

  Plunging the blade into the ground, Lann hurried over to his aunt, dropping to his knees by her side. Tears fell from his eyes at the thought that she might be dead, but he hurriedly cuffed them away and forced himself to think straight. With shaking hands he sought out a pulse.

  ‘Please be alive. Please be …’

  His heart soared from the depths it had been in seconds before and he let out a loud sob of relief. He silently thanked the gods: she was unconscious but still breathing. Still fuelled by both his own adrenalin and the power provided him by the Dreadblade, he easily picked Fleya up. Pausing only to retrieve the sword, he carried her back to the cabin.

  Stromgard

  9

  The young queen was beautiful. Sitting atop the throne in the great longhouse, dressed in all her finery, she looked every inch a ruler, despite her sixteen summers. It was hard to imagine this was the shield maiden who had, until recently, been swinging axe and sword as leader of the kingdom’s most elite fighters.

  In truth, Astrid felt anything but a queen. It’s not for long, she told herself over and over. Just until Erik is freed. Remember that. Be strong. Be fierce if you need to, but most of all, make everyone remember you are Mirvar Rivengeld’s daughter and that you intend to rule as long as it takes to prove your brother’s innocence. She shifted on the great chair, adjusting her ridiculous clothing.

  Her father had always called her his little ‘svartrsvanr’ – black swan – and it was true that she possessed the grace and elegance of that animal. But that was not the reason Mirvar had given her the nickname. The sable-feathered birds that lived in the waters around Stromgard were also famed for their courage, and it was this quality above all others that the young queen knew she needed right now.

  Because Astrid was a warrior, not a ruler.

  Stromgard had suffered its fair share of raids from neighbouring kingdoms over the years, and because of this, all Volken people, regardless of status, were schooled in combat skills. Astrid Rivengeld was no exception to this rule. What had surprised many, however, including Astrid herself, was what an apt pupil she’d turned out to be. When her compulsory training was finished, she’d begged her father to allow her to try and enrol as a shield maiden. Mirvar had baulked at the idea at first, but eventually he’d given his consent.

  Astrid was no fool. She knew her father had only agreed because he thought she would fail, and that her disappointment would put an end to what he considered foolishness. After all, no king’s daughter had ever become a shield maiden. Only the fiercest women combatants were chosen for the role. So when the small, sable-haired princess turned up for the selection process, her fellow students had looked at her with thinly disguised contempt. Those looks were not worn for very long. Like the black swan, Astrid proved to be fearless when faced with opponents much bigger and stronger than she was. She quickly won the respect of those around her, who no longer addressed her as ‘Princess’ but as ‘Sister’, in the tradition of their kind. She was good with shield, axe and sword, but it was with the horn bow that she excelled, and she’d bested the kingdom’s finest archers in competition with the weapon. She had proven to everyone, including Mirvar himself, that she was a warrior every bit as good, if not better, than the male defenders of Stromgard.

  Her faith in her shield-maiden sisters was the reason a number of them, including her beloved friend Maarika, were stationed around the longhouse interior instead of the traditional guard her father had used. She thought the great Mirvar Rivengeld would have been proud that she’d inherited his famed caution when it came to matters of security: nobody could doubt the maidens’ commitment and fervour when it came to protecting one of their own.

  Thinking of him as she sat on his throne brought a terrible sadness, like a dark cloud, down on her. She would never again hear her father use her pet name, never walk into this place to find him poring over a map or sitting with his counsellors to peacefully resolve an argument between two of his jarls. He was gone. She’d watched him set out on his final journey, floating off into the harbour on a boat laden with firewood and oil, his body laid atop it as if he were merely sleeping. As the flaming arrows set it ablaze, Astrid found herself thinking how she would quite happily have gone on that last great trip with him. Instead, she was now sitting where he should be, dressed in these ridiculous clothes, listening to these boring men prattle on about things she struggled to understand, let alone
make decisions upon.

  ‘My Queen?’ The chancellor looked at the young ruler, a perplexed expression on his face. She had not been listening to him. ‘These matters? They need your approval.’

  Astrid glanced about her at the other nobles present in the longhouse. Men who’d sworn allegiance to Mirvar Rivengeld, not just because of his leadership in battle, but because he made Stromgard the place it was today: a jewel in the Volken kingdoms. One look at them told her how many of these same men doubted her ability to reign. She couldn’t blame them; she felt the same way. But she had no choice. Abdication wasn’t an option. Relinquishing the crown would also mean relinquishing the ability to protect her brother, and Astrid would die before she did that.

  She did not believe for one second that her brother was capable of the terrible deed he was accused of, despite the evidence against him. And on the face of it, the weight of that evidence was damning.

  Erik had been seen in the market buying the ingredients necessary to poison Mirvar, and signs of potion-making were found in his private rooms. Her brother had denied this furiously, swearing to Astrid on everything he held sacred that he was not the murderer. His defence, however, was not helped by the fact that he had no recollection of anything in the build-up to the murder. She believed him. Something smelt bad about the whole affair, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Kelewulf was nowhere to be found. Her cousin, on hearing of Mirvar’s illness, had set off on an expedition to find a cure and not returned. To top things off, an expert in poisons she had sent for, from the kingdom of Nesh, also seemed to have disappeared.

  The chancellor coughed, the sound bringing Astrid from her reverie for a second time. She looked across at the man still waiting patiently for her response.

  ‘My apologies, Jarl Glaeverssun,’ she said, offering him a small smile. ‘But these matters you and your fellow jarls have brought before me seem small in comparison to other things weighing on my mind right now.’

  ‘If you would rather we come back, we could do so. Maybe in an hour?’

  Astrid felt a terrible sinking feeling. She wanted nothing more than to throw off the crown and the stupid furs she’d been made to wear, and ride out into the forests to fish and hunt.

  ‘An hour would be fine,’ she said in a small voice.

  Glaeverssun nodded and began to leave, stopping after a few steps. He turned to his queen, giving her a sad smile. ‘I wonder … If I may be so bold as to make a suggestion?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You are surrounded by your father’s men. Jarls and elders whom Mirvar Rivengeld hand-picked for their advice and counsel. At a time such as this, maybe it would be an idea to use their knowledge and expertise?’ He looked around at the others gathered in the room. ‘Why not allow us, on your behalf, to make decisions on some of these more wearisome matters?’ When Astrid shot a sceptical look back at the jarl, he continued, ‘We all swore oaths to the Volken king. Blood oaths that bound us to him. We swore to defend his realm and do everything we could to keep law and order in this kingdom. Let us take some of this burden from your shoulders, as we did for your father.’

  The sudden wave of emotion Astrid felt at hearing this offer took the young queen by surprise, and it was all she could do to hold back the tears that began to well up. She imagined what her father would have said at hearing that the ruler of his kingdom had openly cried while sat upon the ancient River Throne, and she forced herself to sit up straight, lifting her chin and fixing Jarl Glaeverssun in the eye.

  ‘Let it be so. You and the other jarls here will pass judgement on those matters you deem fit. You will, of course, include me in anything that represents a threat to the people of Stromgard or the Volken lands that fall under this city’s protection.’ She studied the faces of the men around her. These men were loyal to Mirvar, and she believed they would prove to be the same to her. ‘Most importantly, you will ensure all of our efforts are directed towards finding the Neshian expert on poisons. He alone might be the key to proving my brother’s innocence.’

  ‘Of course, my Queen.’

  ‘Good. That will be all.’

  As he turned away, Astrid thought she saw a look of triumph cross Glaeverssun’s face. She dismissed it, though; since her father’s murder she’d had trouble sleeping and she must be seeing things. Only that morning she’d woken to the vision of an old woman, a snake draped around her shoulders, standing at the bottom of her bed; a mere blink of Astrid’s eyes had made the old crone disappear. She watched the men file out until only she and her shield maidens were left.

  A cough a short distance from the throne made her turn in that direction. ‘Was that wise?’ Maarika said, stepping forward. Astrid and the girl were the closest of friends. They had grown up together, cried and laughed and stuck together through the best and worst of times. Astrid had been overjoyed when Maarika had become a shield maiden at almost the same time as her. ‘Jarl Glaeverssun is already a powerful man. You have just made him more so.’

  Perhaps it was the lack of sleep and the stress she’d been under, but her friend’s comment lit an angry spark in Astrid that made her snap back at Maarika. ‘Are you the Queen of Stromgard? Are you? No. It is I who must carry that burden, I who must try to investigate my father’s murder and exonerate my brother, all the while ruling my people and keeping them safe. So allow me to find help where I can!’

  ‘I’m sorry Astr—’ The shield maiden stopped and corrected herself. ‘I’m sorry, my Queen.’ She began to step back, but the hurt was clear to see on her face.

  What am I doing? Astrid asked herself. This is Maarika. If I cannot trust her to tell me the truth, then who?

  ‘Wait,’ she said, halting her friend’s retreat and reaching out a hand in Maarika’s direction. ‘Please. It is I who should be sorry.’ She sighed. ‘You are my most beloved friend, and you have always done your best to give me good advice.’ She tapped the arm of the great throne with a ringed finger, the sound punctuating her thoughts. ‘But right now, I am unable to concentrate on farmers’ land disputes or the theft of a pig. My father trusted these men to think for him, and I don’t see why I should not do the same. For now, at least.’ She gave a sly smile. ‘Besides, I am not as trusting as you think. It’s like the Fool’s Guard we learned in sword-play: you allow yourself to look weak and vulnerable, inviting the attack, when all the time you are the one in control. This will show me who is truly loyal and who is not.’

  ‘That sounds like something your father would have said.’

  Her friend’s words made her pause for a moment. It was true. She’d clearly learned more listening to the old king than she allowed herself to admit.

  ‘I miss him so very much.’

  ‘We all do.’

  Astrid gave her friend a sad nod. Then, forcing a smile on to her face, she pushed herself upright in that damnable chair. ‘I would like to go hunting, Maarika. I feel the need to ride and shoot. Perhaps bag one of those troublesome wild boars we saw in the southern forests last month?’

  ‘Brant Skifrmunn is hoping for an audience with you. He’s waiting outside.’

  Astrid sagged back down, a groan of despair escaping her at the same time. Brant had been good enough to leave her be for a short time following the death of her father. Now, having decided her mourning was at an end, the great warrior was pursuing her hand in marriage even more fervently than he had before. The man seemed incapable of taking the many hints she’d given to him that she was not interested. ‘I could go out the back way.’

  When her friend began to protest, the queen interrupted. ‘Please, Sister, I need to get away from this place for a few hours or I truly will go mad.’

  ‘Are you issuing a royal order, my Queen?’ Maarika looked back at her with a blank expression for a moment before the spell broke and a broad smile lit up the blonde shield maiden’s face.

  ‘Yes, if that’s what it takes, I am ordering you.’

  ‘Then I have no choice but to obey. Th
e queen might want to think about changing her clothes, though. That fine coat might get caught up in one of the boars’ tusks!’

  Astrid was already on her feet. ‘Give me an hour. I will see Erik, then meet you at the Four Mounds by the edge of the Western Woods.’

  Faun Forest

  10

  It took Fleya two days to recover from the attack; it would have been longer were it not for the healing potions Lann prepared for her, using the very skills she’d taught him.

  It was odd being able to see, rather than merely smell and touch, the herbs he collected. Everything he knew about herblore and medicines had been learned in the darkness of the period he’d been blind, when he’d had to rely on his other senses to identify the oils, salves and lotions his aunt kept on the shelves. Oddly, he found his restored vision was more of a hindrance than a help when it came to the task. A red-knot mushroom looked almost identical to the blastcap toadstool, and his aunt had already taught him how they often grew next to each other. One was used as a means of quickly bringing down a fever; the other was deadly if ingested, killing in a matter of hours. When he came across a group of almost identical-looking fungi growing beneath an old log at the back of the house, he’d been forced to close his eyes and smell them. Like that, it had been easy to separate the red-knot from the blastcap.

  He made a poultice that he applied to Fleya’s neck and throat, both of which were a livid purple colour where the creature had held her in its deadly embrace. Having done this, he bade her drink a strong tonic that would help her to sleep and heal.

  At the end of the second day, she was shushing his orders to stay in bed, insisting she was strong enough to get up. He built up the fire so the heat from it poured into the room and they sat in their old familiar positions, Fleya sipping on grudnflower chae while he read to her from a book. The irony of the situation was lost on neither of them.