Chain of Iron

“Look,” Matthew said as they reached the path, and indicated a wooden post sunk deep into the earth. A rectangular sign had been nailed to it, proclaiming the path to be THE RIDGEWAY. “So this is the Ridgeway,” Matthew said, sounding subdued. “The oldest road in Britain. Not a Roman road—older than that.”

“I suppose it would be.” Cordelia’s excitement had faded; something more serious gripped her now. As if she were going to the Silent City, or the Hall of Accords. As if this were not a journey but a pilgrimage.

They passed in silence over the next hill, and there it was, unmistakable. A number of slabs of stone, framing the dark entrance to a barrow. The barrow itself seemed little more than a grass-covered swell in the ground, its entrance—a dark hole tunneling into the rise of earth—half the size of an ordinary door.

Cordelia removed her heavy coat. She drew Cortana from the scabbard on her back and laid it on the grass, then took a penny from her pocket and knelt to place it before the barrow’s entrance.

Matthew cleared his throat. “And now what?”

“I’m not sure. According to Lilian Highsmith, the myths say one must leave a penny by the barrow.”

“Perhaps there’s been inflation?” Matthew suggested. “I could lend you a sixpence.”

Cordelia shot him a dark look. “If you cannot stop joking, Matthew …”

He held up his hands innocently, backing away. “All right, all right. I’ll go keep an eye out. There’s a farmer coming over yonder hill, and woe if he finds us trying to catch the attention of ancient smiths on his land.”

He headed back the way they had come, keeping her within eyesight. She saw him stop at the summit of the hill and lean his back against a tree, reaching into his coat for his flask.

Cordelia returned her attention to the matter at hand, looking from the sword to the barrow; the entrance into the barrow’s underground space was black as night. She would have crawled into it anyway, but something told her that that was not what was being asked of her.

She reached out and drew Cortana toward her, laying it across her lap, the blade sparking in the sun.

“Wayland the Smith,” she whispered. “I am a chosen bearer of the sword Cortana. I have borne it always with faith, with courage. I have carried it into battle. I have spilled the blood of demons with it. Bearing it, I have slain even a Prince of Hell.”

“Daisy,” she heard Matthew call, and turned to see a man walking in their direction. It must be the farmer he had mentioned before, she thought, and was about to rise to her feet when she went cold all over.

The man was no farmer. He was a blacksmith.

He was plainly dressed in a rough cotton shirt with a soot-stained leather apron tied over it. He could have been any age—he had the young-old features Cordelia associated with warlocks. He resembled a slab of the barrow’s sarsen stone—broad-shouldered and thick-handed, with a short fair beard and close-cropped hair. Around his neck was a band of twisted metal, set with a deep blue stone.

“You summoned me, bearer of the blade Cortana?” said the man—Wayland the Smith; it could be no one else. “You cannot imagine I would not know a Prince of Hell cannot be truly slain, though your nerve in claiming such a deed is admirable.”

“I slew him in this world,” said Cordelia, raising her chin. “Wounded and weakened, he was driven from our realm.”

“And that wound still bleeds,” said Wayland the Smith, his teeth gleaming in a grin. “A great slash in his side, spilling his demon’s blood. It may be decades before he heals.”

Cordelia tilted her head back. “How do you know all this?”

“I know the actions of every sword I have ever forged. Ah, my children of steel and iron, how they cut pathways through this world.” His voice was a deep rumble. “Now, give me your blade.”

Cordelia swallowed hard and handed Cortana to Wayland. As he took it in his massive hands, the world around her seemed to change. Still kneeling, she looked around in amazement—the sky had darkened, the hills putting on a coat of blue-black ash. Matthew was gone. All around her were the noises of a smithy—the clang of hammer on steel, the crackle of fire. Copper-red sparks sprang to life inside the barrow, rising up like fireflies, claiming the dark.

“Ah, my child, my child,” Wayland crooned, holding Cortana up to the strange new light. “Long has it been since I forged the steel that made you and your brothers, Joyeuse and Durendal.” His gaze snapped back to Cordelia. “And long has your bloodline borne my blades. When you plunged this sword into the body of Belial, did you not think there might be consequences?”

“That’s why?” Cordelia thought back frantically; it was true she had not had cause to use Cortana since she had stabbed Belial. Not until the warehouse fight. “The contact with Belial—it harmed Cortana?”

“This blade was forged in heavenly fire and bears within its hilt the feather of an angel,” said Wayland. “When it touched the blood of Belial, it cried out. You did not hear it. You are only a mortal,” the smith relented. “And it has been a long age since mortals knew to see to the soul of their swords.”

“Tell me what to do,” Cordelia said fervently. “Whatever I need to do for Cortana, I will do it.”

Wayland turned the sword over in his hands. His eyes were coppery embers, and his fingers seemed to sing up and down the blade as he stroked it. The sword gave a single, ringing note—a sound Cordelia had never heard before—and Wayland smiled.

“It is done,” he said. Cordelia stared at him, astonished that it could be so simple. “Cortana is healed. I have granted back its seraphic essence. Keep it with that scabbard you wear on your back—whoever gave you such a gift clearly meant for you to be protected. There are strong spells upon it that will guard you and Cortana both.”

The only gift worthy of my daughter is the gift worthy of the sword that has chosen her.

It seemed her father had given her one true thing. Cordelia bit her lip. “I did not realize it would be so simple,” she said.

“It may be simple, but I shall ask for something in return. And it will not be a penny.”

Cordelia hugged Cortana to her. She could feel, already, the change in the sword—it fit in her hand as it always had, familiar and beloved. “Anything.”

Wayland seemed to smile. “You are familiar with Joyeuse and Durendal?”

“Yes—the sword of Charlemagne and the sword of Roland. The brothers of Cortana, as you said.”

“And do you know the sword Caliburn?” he asked, and when she shook her head, he sighed. “You may know it,” he said, “as Excalibur.”

“Yes,” Cordelia said, “of course—”

“Charlemagne, Arthur, and Roland were paladins,” said Wayland. “The blades I have crafted sing with their own souls. They must find matched souls among the gods and mortals of the world. But the strength of those swords, the power of the bond between the blade and bearer, can be made greater when the bearer has sworn fealty to a greater warrior, as Lancelot did to Arthur.”

“But Arthur had not sworn fealty to anyone,” said Cordelia. “He was king himself, as was Charlemagne.”