It was cold and frosty on Mount Sabankos, but neither cold nor hunger troubled Slungandi, master of wiles. At first light he arose from his perch above the caves where the Gyûgri lay asleep. He found himself a level place, secluded among the scented pines, and took once more the covering of the drum Brandubur, wrought of fine dragonhide. He spoke to it thus:
O my sound maker and my skin coverer
And my flight feathers: for a fourth labour
Serve me safely. A swimming feat
I undertake and an open theft
Of the giant’s sword. See me through it!
Then as before he breathed on the dragonhide and marked it with Sporni the wandkey. Next he took off his clothes and hid them and his other possessions under a pinetree. He drew on the dragonhide, which became like a second skin with a mask that covered his face. He girded himself with his long belt and secured Sporni on it. He climbed down the rocky hillside and, leaving the falls of Marípei behind him, descended the road, which wound its way towards the lake below.
The name of the lake was Fleswent Ailim, the broad mere of the east. Its waters were wide and dark, and troubled at the western end by the inrushing of Marípei, the great falls, streaming down from their source high up on Sabankos. Slungandi stood on the opposite shore surveying that place with care, measuring in his mind the distance across the water in armstrokes and estimating the depth needed to pass under the falls and up into the cavern. Not in vain was he called Drumster of the Deep, for he had swum many deep waters in the dark underlands.
Almost silently he dived from the shore into the lake. He broke surface to get the exact direction and then with strong swift strokes swam downwards. The morning sunlight penetrated some way in but he soon reached the darker regions. After exactly the length of time he had reckoned, he could sense the mighty beating of the cataract from the heights of Sabankos and felt himself caught up in the turmoil of the waters. But he struck out the more strongly, the roar and swirl passed behind him, and his hands struck rock. His aim had been good. Above him there was a round space in the cliff. It was indeed the gap in the cavern floor. He bounced up to the surface like a cork, and found himself breathing freely again and looking into a large cavern. He pulled himself from the water on to the rough hard floor.
Hardly had Slungandi stood up, pleased with himself for gaining his goal so easily, than he heard behind him a voice. It was the voice of Furgumal, the youngest Gyúga.
‘So, you are the so-called messenger! You, the trickster who contrived the death of Fúdrofûr my father and of the Frostgiant. It was only to gain the Coldsword for yourself!’
He turned and saw Furgumal the Gyúga standing a short distance away, holding the hilts of Gantzor with both hands. Even for a Gyúga the huge weapon was heavy to lift, but she had it ready to strike a blow at Slungandi.
‘You are mistaken, O Lady of the Gyúgri. No one can strike a blow with that sword unscathed but Dreygan, and Fúdrofûr has been his bane.’
‘You lie, renegade Entelláwa! You think you can hinder me from using this sword to avenge my kin upon you. But you cannot!’
And she swung the great blade down upon Slungandi. He could not step aside, but in desperation swept up the blade Sporni, short though it was, to protect himself. There came a great jolt and a blinding flash of blue coldfire. Slungandi fell to his knees, almost stunned. But immediately he found that he was unscathed. He looked up and saw Furgumal the Gyûga, lying on the rocky floor. She was unconscious, but cold-death had not seized her. Between them lay the mighty coldsword Gantzor. Slungandi said to himself:
‘It is as I heard. Dreygan set on his Coldsword a curse that anyone but he who smote with Gantzor should himself be smitten, like blow for like, cold-death for cold-death, stun for stun. But the greater wonder is that the slender Sporni warded off the blow of mighty Gantzor. It is without doubt because Sporni is the Talyoran’s child. A happy fate it was that caused Dreygan’s forging to send that shard flying at me!’
Slungandi guessed that if he dived back into the lake with the weight of mighty Gantzor on his back he would sink to the lake bed and remain there for ever. He resolved to depart by way of the opening on the mountain path, and hazard the danger of the other two Gyúgri, and the chance that the spell of impenetrability would stop him passing through the outer door. He took up Gantzor and bound him upon his back with loops of his belt. He easily found his way to the top cavern, for the lamps set by the Gyúgri still burned. There lay the sleeping Gyúgri, breathing loudly. They did not stir as he stepped lightly through the cavern. He reached the door, and holding Sporni before him, stepped through. No spell hindered him. He climbed up the rockwall to the pinewood and reclothed himself. Then he sat and made plans for his next journey.
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