Episode 1: For the Thief's Chalice, chapter 3

Ezekiel Jones looked out at the lake. Its placid waters stretched out, sparkling in the autumnal sunlight, denying the presence of the Swedish capital not too far off to the east. The water levels had changed in the millenium-and-change since the dragon had built its lair here, and the entrance to the cave was below the water level now. Not that that was a problem of course: SCUBA diving was just one of many strings he had added to his bow growing up. It was amazing what you could find on those underwater dig sites. He was used to diving without a buddy too. No, the thing he hated was the dry suit. It was clumpy. It was cumbersome. It was heavy. It was horrible. Sure, it was his own, and that at least meant it fitted. Learning to dive in cold water he had encountered the curse of the short people yet again, with enough air pooling in the overlong legs of his training suit to make ankle weights a necessary evil if he wanted his feet to sink. Dry suit dives had two, and only two, as far as he was concerned, benefits: first, they meant you could wear your own clothes underneath the suit, as long as you were careful with your wrist and neck seals; second, they meant you didn't freeze to death in water that quite frequently froze itself. He dragged the zip of the neoprene suit shut and picked up his hood. At least being able to afford the best made it slightly easier to move around in.

The descent to the cave entrance was easy enough, although visibility was poor and even torch light made little difference to how far ahead he could see. He moved slowly, his half-foot fins propelling him forward steadily through the black water. Slight changes in pressure told him when the tunnel dipped or rose, forcing him to carefully adjust his buoyancy. Cave dives were never easy, even when you knew how far you would have to travel before you could come up for air. That was why every cave diver carried not one but two tanks on their back, and a third, smaller, handheld one attached to the front of their buoyancy control jacket for emergencies.

A phosphorescent glow heralded the end of the tunnel. In the slowly improving visibility, Jones swam on faster, reaching the rapidly widening beginnings of a cavern lit by the sickly green light of fungi and micro-organisms. He pushed upwards once, then let his increasing buoyancy bring him carefully to the surface. The cavern was tall and broad. Far more so than the light of his torch would have shown him on its own. There was a ledge off to one side, where centuries of gentle washing had worn away at the rock below it. He swam over to it and hauled himself up. Without the support of the water, the buoyancy jacket with its two tanks attached behind and one in front weighed him down. He made a note in his dive computer and slipped the jacket and his fins off. Exploring would be much easier without them. He hadn't seen any sparkles of gold or precious stones so far, so maybe this part of the lair had already been cleared out by Beowulf's men long ago. He edged along the side wall of the cavern, scrutinising as much as his torch, and the bioluminescent inhabitants, allowed him to. If the route to the inner part of the lair was also underwater, he could use up a whole tank looking for it before he would have to return, but there was no sense doing so if he didn't have to.

He was, he reckoned, two thirds of the way along the side of the cavern before something caught his eye. It was nothing more than a line, a break in the phosphorescence, but it was something. He edged towards it. A thin crack opened in the wall of the cavern. At its widest point it was barely wide enough for him to fit through sideways. At its narrowing base the crack continued downward into the water, the harder rock stratum he had been walking on making an insignificantly small ledge. Jones crawled through, dragging himself along on his side with hands, knees and feet. Slowly, gradually, little by little, the corridor of rock widened. So did the gap beneath him. He looked down, shining the light of his torch on dark water, and swore. Turning his head to shine the torch forwards, he caught a sparkle of something in the gloom. He was on the right track then. He sighed. Sometimes, he really hated being lucky!

Bracing hands and back on one wall, and feet and knees on the other, he moved onwards, unfolding as the chasm widened. He hoped and prayed it would get too much broader, or else he would have to figure out a way to get proper climbing tools through that narrow gap at the start. He nearly lost his grip when his foot missed the edge of the wall and flailed in mid-air. So he'd reached the edge, he thought, shining the torch ahead into the darkness beyond. Gold and jewels glittered back in answer, beckoning the thief onward. But Ezekiel Jones, world class thief, had played this game before. No mad rush for the prize filled him. No gluttonous glee for the great heap of gold awaiting him addled his brain. Instead, he breathed deeply, turned his head slowly, and took in all that his torch could show him.

The walls above the ledge expanded outward to form a second cavern, the furthest extent of which he could not see. The ledge itself continued on its current trajectory, allowing the chasm below him to continue widening, but not at the same rate as the walls. All around this broadening shelf were piles of gold, silver, and many other metals he could not yet identify. Jewels studded or filled spaces between the metals. Rubies, amber, citrine, emeralds, turquoise, sapphire and amethyst, and a hundred others, gleamed, sparkled and glistened in the darkness like the richest galaxy never found on Earth. The piles came to a stop before the walls closed in onto his position, but not by much. Turning and positioning himself carefully, Jones found enough of a handhold at the edge of the cavern and pushed himself towards the opposite wall. Uncoiling his legs like a spring, he jumped. His grip on the edge of the rock was enough to drag him round, and he let go in time to avoid being dragged back. He landed on the shelf with a thump that made a shimmering rain fall down the edge of the nearest pile of treasure.

As coins and gems rolled and dropped, splashing softly, into the shadowy depths, there came a noise, like an echo, from the dark end of the cavern. Silence crept in again, seeping into the cracks in the walls like blood into fabric. Ezekiel held his position, his noiseless breathing slow and steady. The sound came again. This time it reminded him of the drip of water from stalactites into an underground pool or river, but there were no stalactites here. Whether because of the type of rock, or the lack of water oozing through it, he had not heard any such drips before. And he had been listening for them.

He changed position slightly, edging himself more securely onto the ledge, stepping silently as only a thief can. There was nothing else for it: he would have to move through the cavern one way or another. He swung his head slowly around the cavern, letting the light from his torch illuminate the piles of treasure. The noise came again. A high pitched jingle this time. Coins rolling down a heap of gold. Ezekiel's hand went to the dive knife at his hip. It might not be much use against a dragon, but he couldn't run. He had no easy hand hold to get back into the tunnel. With ears and eyes wide open, he scanned the nearest pile. No obvious sign of the chalice. That didn't mean it wasn't buried underneath. He couldn't afford the attention, though. Not with something else in the cave. Something he still couldn't see. Yet.

The second pile afforded no more than the first. The third followed suit. He reached the fourth. A noise to his left made him turn. Nothing. Whatever had been there was gone. But what way? Was it behind him now? Or before him? Was it even there at all? Was it merely some reaction of the rock to his presence? Was it all in his mind?

Coins scattered. He turned. Again they fell. Again he turned. First this way. Then that way. The noise sounded closer. Behind him. He spun round. His knife flashed out, slicing into the gloom. It hit something.

Something hissed.

Something hit him.

He fell.

Before he reached the ground it was on him, clawing at the dive mask over his eyes. Ragged nails raked his cheek. He stabbed upward. The thing howled in pain and rage. He pushed it off him, his hand still holding the knife. Staggering as he stood, Ezekiel turned the light of his torch on the wounded creature. The sight before him almost knocked him over again. The creature was a woman. She looked only a few years older than him. Her hair was long and matted. Her nails cracked and broken. Her skin and rough woollen tunic were coated in years of grime. Her body was skeletal. Her eyes were glazed. As he watched, the fleshless chest rose and fell for the last time. A grey pallor spread over the corpse. Ezekiel frowned. He stretched out a hand to touch the ashen skin. It disintegrated at his touch, leaving nothing but a pile of dust at his feet. A thought struck him.

Racing through the piles of precious jewels and metals, Jones made his way to the back of the cavern. There, in a corner, was a pile of gold coins spread out like a bed. Carved into the rock wall beside it was an alcove. In the alcove there sat a gold cup, studded with precious gems. Beside it was a vial, carefully stoppered. He tucked the vial into a pocket on one side of his belt, and the cup into a net hanging from the other. They had buried the chalice with the thief. And the thief had known how to use it.

The trickiest part of the journey back was getting back into the tunnel. There, at least, the dragon's hoard was of use. Gold was too soft a metal to rely on for support, but a tall shield fitted well enough across the tiny ledges on either side of the chasm. It didn't hold his weight for long, but it didn't have to: just long enough for him to swing round and up into the tunnel, bracing feet and shoulders on either wall once more.

The sun was dipping as the thief left the lair with his prize. He considered driving back to his accommodation at the dig site. Not that the dig would be needed now, of course. It was paid for, though, and there was no telling what other enchanted objects the dragon had managed to gather, that might turn up in the barrow. He dragged himself out of his dry suit, packed away his gear in the car, and called Jenkins. The nearest door would be at a village nearby. Maybe the lighthouse there would work. The phone answered. He relayed his success and door suggestions, and hung up. It would take time to get a door ready. He was exhausted. He locked the doors, let his head fall back and closed his eyes.

XXXX

"Talk to me," said the voice by the top of stairs.

Jacob Stone turned in his chair and held out an arm, drawing Cassandra close to him. "I will," he murmured.

"But not yet?"

"Not yet."

"You need to sleep," Cassandra told him, folding into his arms and resting her head on his shoulder. "You're exhausted."

"I can't," Stone replied. "I tried."

"I saw Jenkins up and about," she persisted. "Maybe he's got something that'll help."

"I am not taking some magical sleeping draught or something," Jacob grimaced. "I'll probably wake up in a hundred years surrounded by thorn bushes!"

"Hardly," Cassie chided him. "Baird's the princess, remember."

That brought a fleeting smile to his face at least, but it vanished soon enough.

"What?" Cassandra asked.

"I spoke to him, you know."

"When?"

"When we were there before. Just you and me. He gave me directions. Told me I had a beautiful wife."

"Oh?" Cassandra kept her face studiously impassive.

"I told him we weren't married. You know what he said?"

"What?"

"He called me an idiot," Jacob half laughed, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

"It is part of your charm," smiled Cassandra sadly. She kissed his cheek and held him while the weight of the day's losses finally broke through and the tears fell. There would be more losses tomorrow, and the next day, and for many days to come, but with grief came healing and now, at last, that healing could begin.