The Sword of Sighs (The Age of the Flame: Book One) (20 page)

He was facing the Iron God alone.

"Ossen!"

Jedda gripped her arm, stopping her from running back. “It can barely support the weight of one alone, you think it will hold if you run to him now?”

“And what about when that thing comes through?”

Jedda’s face became tight. “He is doing what he knows to be best.”

“But he’ll be killed.”

“And we all will be if the Iron God crosses the abyss. It could do so in a single stride.”

There was a great crash, and it was there. Standing at the far side of the bridge, burning and smoking, its eyes upon them—its prey.

“You shall go no further, Kaomos,” Ossen intoned, barely audible over the roaring of flames, smoke, and steam. “I know you. I know your name, and I tell you to turn back. Your Path ends here. Go back to the Deep Forges. Sleep under the mountain until the last days of this World.”

Kaomos stopped, rumbling. The nuclear fury of his eyes considered the old man on the bridge before him. The fire within him flickered a moment and seemed to die down.

Then he spat out a torrent of magma, sending it searing towards Ossen.

The Wayfarer threw up his staff, sweeping it through the air, striking at the molten fire and scattering it as ashes into the waters of the abyss. Clouds of steam rose up from the black depths and Sarah flinched as she saw the white, pulpy things that swam there thrashing and writhing in pain from the sudden heat. Kaomos rumbled again, deep and long. Then he heaved one wrought, taloned foot onto the bridge, not yet putting his full weight upon it. Ossen struggled to keep a footing. The bridge was cracking beneath him, sending a fine rain of dust and sand into the deep waters beneath. Kaomos bellowed a peal of thunder that Sarah realised was laughter. Kaomos and the Wayfarer then glared at one another for what seemed like an age. It knew his kind and remembered, she could see that. It remembered the First Wayfarer who had sealed the Deep Forges and damped the flames in the breasts of the Iron Gods.

Was it me?
Sarah wondered,
the Flame in me passing by that fanned the furnace of his black metal heart into life again?

“We must help him,” Sarah shouted as she watched Kaomos continue to rock the crumbling bridge under Ossen’s feet.

“What can we do, Sarah? Can you control the Flame enough to bring that beast down?”

“I can try.”

Like breathing deep
, she thought.
In then out. Out then in. Let it flow through me from the heart.
She tried. She concentrated. She wrung her hands. She gritted her teeth.
Nothing came. The Flame escaped her. She opened her eyes and couldn’t meet Jedda’s. “It’s not there. It won’t come to me.”

At that moment, Kaomos raised his taloned foot and brought it down onto the bridge with a snarl, shattering the stone.

"No!"
Sarah screamed.

Ossen raised his staff at that same moment. A cord of light lashed out from it, whipping around the throat of Kaomos to lasso the Iron God, making him scream rather than roar. Smelted fingers clattered and clanged against the straining metal of his throat, trying to tear away the tightening noose. His iron feet stumbled with the lightness and dexterity of a mountain falling in on itself. Kaomos was on the brink, over the abyss, and leaning at a great angle. Amid the cacophony of shattering stone and the furious roars of Kaomos, she heard Ossen call out,
“If I must fall for the wrongs I have done, for the innocent life that I have taken, then you fall with me, O Forged One!”

Kaomos and Ossen fell.

Jedda pulled Sarah away as the mountain shook to its roots.

Everything was blurry. Her ears rang with the howls of Kaomos.

“Help me, Sarah.
Now!
”

And they were pushing against the gates to the outside, straining and sweating as the old metal fought them every inch of the way. A crack of light, the slightest breeze, a taste of the fresh, outside air.

They were out, racing down an incline, half-falling and half-running into rocks and outcrops until they came to a halt in a shallow curve. They looked back up at the gates and at the darkness that could be glimpsed through them. They looked through it all, at the place where Ossen had fallen into that black river, saving their lives. Drowning himself, dragged down by the incredible weight of Kaomos.

The land that lay before them was like that of another world. Great craters were hammered into the earth, turning it into a forbidding moonscape. Sickly white foliage hung limply here and there, diseased and dying. Everything was failing, hurrying on to extinction. There, at the horizon was the lone mountain they sought: the Fellhorn. They trod on through grey days and dismal nights. They drank water that collected in hollows and gnawed on the insects that seemed to be the sole inhabitants of this wasted land. They scavenged for scraps of wood and flotsam in the evenings to fuel weak fires that produced lots of smoke but little heat. They huddled together under starless skies to keep the ever-present cold at bay. The Fellhorn seemed to come no closer. They seemed to get no nearer to their goal. And when the rain fell upon them in the evenings, they thought of Ossen and they wept.

Chapter Thirty

Jedda stared into the flames while Sarah slept. It was cold and lonesome in these wastes, and she could feel no hope kindling in her breast at the sight of the Fellhorn. The Fallen One had spoken to her through E’blis when she was imprisoned. He had told her there would come a time to choose, and she knew that time was closing in on her. To trust in the words of the dead Wayfarer or in The Darkness That Was Not Darkness. Which would it be? This child from another world who slept before her, or herself? Would this child honour the trust placed in her once she had drawn the Sword of Sighs from the stone of the mountain?

Jedda was born to Seythe and was the daughter of a king. She loved this World and no other. She would fight for it. She would die for it. Would Sarah do the same? Did she feel the same? Jedda doubted it, even though Sarah carried the Flame.

Jedda had listened to the names Sarah spoke in her dreams
: Momma. Dadda. Kiley. Malarkey. Woran.
Only one of those names was born of this World; was that enough?

Jedda felt her eyes prickling as she thought on it. Storm clouds gathered at the horizon. Jedda did not have to see them; she could feel them. The Fallen-born were almost here, and E’blis would be at their heels. Her words were her bond to Him, ever since that night in her cell when she had called out to the Fallen One.

Was I blinded by pain? Has rage left me undone?

“What am I to do?”

Darkness gave her no answer.

~ ~ ~

The storm descended with the darkness of evening and showed no signs of abating. The earth about them thickened into a sucking mud under the pounding rain. Brutal winds lashed them like cat-o’nine-tails. Sarah shook violently from the cold and could tell Jedda was doing the same. The mud was growing too deep, and the storm too fierce, for them to go on. Shouts were turned to silence by Nature’s roaring. Sarah fell and Jedda sagged, exhausted, feeling near to death. The rain streamed down their faces until they were walking blind, and every breath made them swallow bitter water. But still they trudged on, filthy, bent, and blind as they were, into the dark heart of the storm.

The Fellhorn was out there.

They had to keep going.

No matter what.

Sarah clutched at Jedda’s hand, but soon her fingers became so numb she could no longer feel what she was holding. Out of the thunder, she was sure she was able to discern a voice at one point, but it was not speaking to her. At that moment, she felt something change. Something went away. The storm died down a little and Sarah saw that Jedda was no longer with her.

The storm’s voice,
she thought,
it must have been Him.

He has taken her.

But she was too tired to do anything about it, too tired even to cry as she had cried for Ossen.

Sarah went on to the mountain alone.

Chapter Thirty-One

The night winds droned low and bitter, just as they had in the dream where it began, all those years ago. Only this time, Sarah knew she would not awaken on the school bus as she had done before. This time, she was running through real snow, clawing and dragging herself up the path ahead. Her teeth chattered as she tried to see more clearly what lay ahead—to no avail. Streaming currents of snow and high-altitude fog swam in, obscuring everything. At the sonorous notes of the hunting horns in her ears, she knew, as before, that the Fallen-born were coming.

This is my Path and I must follow it to the end.

The bitter end.

They were close. She could hear them over the repeated blasts  from their horns. The beat of hooves. The scraping of welded iron. Her heart hurt in her chest as it tried to pump harder. The air she breathed was thinning, and she knew what that meant. She could see something rising out of the rocks.

The night cleared, the moon shone, and it was there before her.

The Sword of Sighs.

Sarah dropped to her knees at the sight of it and wept.

All for this. It’s all been for this.

It was driven into the snow-crusted summit before her, shining like a fallen star—just as she remembered it—and Sarah went to it. She could hear its whispers and sighs. And this time, she understood them for what they were.

The secret language of A’aron and E’blis before they fell.

Sarah smiled as she listened to it.

But the tone of the hunting horns rang victorious. She heard the sounds of the Fallen-born dismounting and unsheathing their ebony swords. Sarah no longer looked upon the strange sword before her with fear, as she once had when she dreamt of it. That was a long time ago; she had been just a child in a world without magic or wonder. She had grown since then, changed, discovered something unique about herself, something special and powerful. She had also lived through nightmare, horror and pain. This time, she was ready. This time, she would have the power. She grasped the hilt with both hands. The howls of the Fallen-born and their hunting horns stilled into silence. The voice of the storm shook the mountain. E’blis was out there, watching and waiting; she could feel him in her bones. Shaking violently, Sarah braced herself against the ground. With every muscle cold and screaming, she hauled at the Sword of Sighs.

It slid free of the mountain into her hands.

She turned to face them with a cry upon her lips.

“I carry the Flame! And I will burn away His Shadow!”

One of the Fallen-born let out a feral howl, which was joined by another, and another and another, until the chorus they made was one ear-splitting screech. Each of the Fallen-born stood with its sword raised high. Across plains, through swamps, over mountains and wasteland they had pursued her. Now, she was before them, and she stood alone. Sarah held the sword aloft, the metal of its blade flickering white before catching alight with a crawling fire. It drew strikes of lightning to it out of the sky, each burst more brilliant and scalding than the last. Then, as she lowered it, she saw the blade was gone—burned away by the lightning. But there was still something there, a shifting in the space above the hilt.

It had become the Sword Without a Blade. It sang and sighed with the flow of the Flame as she raised it against her enemies. The Fallen-born screamed as their empty eyes were seared by the light. Then Sarah was amongst them. The sword in her hands seemed to guide her, thrusting, cutting, parrying, and fencing with the half-blinded scions of the Fallen One. The heights of the Fellhorn rang with the clash of metal upon metal, and with her cries and their shrieks. The sword cut down one and then another. The remaining two separated, coming at her from opposite angles, forcing her to face them individually. Again, the sword appeared to be aiding her, driving her parries, twisting her about on her numb, aching feet as blows rained down from the Fallen-born warriors. She gasped as their blades swept close enough for her to feel the sharp wind of their passage. One of the remaining swords shattered, and it fell back before her. Sarah swept the Sword of Sighs down in a screaming arc that ended in the Fallen-born’s throat. Its head fell, streaming smoke and fumes, into the snow. Then it was Sarah’s turn to scream. A cold that was not cold pierced through her. Her right side was burning with a frost more bitter than a winter storm and, as in her dream long ago, she heard laughter and thunder competing with one another. She turned to face the last of their number, counting the ones that had already fallen.

Five!

Then, who was this sixth Shade?

The creature flung back its hood and Sarah cried out at what she saw.

It was Jedda, pale and wan.

“I thought you were lost.”

“No, Sarah, I serve Him. The Creator of Men is my Master now, and His will is my own. A’aron’s sword will be His to command. I shall wield it, not you.”

“No, Jedda. You don’t serve Him. You can’t take the sword to Him.”

They stood facing one another, darkness and light, one burning and flickering, the other smouldering and rotting. Jedda’s eyes met Sarah’s. Their limbs hardened and loosened, tensed and relaxed. Then, they clashed, coming together like thunderheads. Lightning smote the mountain as their blades struck and struck again. Pacing around, eyes locked, they parried, feinted, stabbed, and swung as they sought for a weakness in each other’s defences. Their swords ground against one another; one night-forged, the other singing with fire and light.

“I do this because I have to, Sarah. Venna. My baby sister. For my blood and kin, I will serve Him forever. I will sit upon Highmount’s throne and spill Ianna’s blood down its steps.”

“You will be His puppet for the rest of your days. Never dying, living on and on in His Shadow.”

The storm screamed around them. Sarah stared at Jedda and at the crossed swords between them.