A picture came into his head, but he pushed it aside. Never mind: where there was one such passage there must be others. He blackened the stone with the stub of his old torch to mark it, and went on. He leaped the gap at the lake's outlet, circled back to his starting point. His fire was gray ash and embers. He built it up again, then began to climb the terraces that sloped away behind. The rock wall here was full of promising oval hollows, but every one turned out to be no more than a niche in the rock. He made the whole circuit of the cavern once more before he was sure: there was no other exit from the cavern.
Into his mind came the image of the sword, dim yellow under the water. If he could only get it back, that would be his lever. But it was impossible.
He prowled aimlessly around the heap of boulders awhile, then went down to the water's edge and stared out over the black surface.
Even to find the sword in the water was out of the question. If he could fly in the air, then the thing would be easier. He saw the lake as if spread out below him, with the sword gleaming in its depths; and on the shore he put two white stones for markers, pointing the direction. Well, there were no white stones, and even if there were, they could not be seen in the dim light of his torch. Then he saw how it could be done. After a moment he turned and walked toward the cataract, gathering dead fungus as he went. When the white mountains of spray showed in the light of his torch, he turned aside and began to climb.
At the place where the sword gleamed up at him from the bottom of the lake, he made a fire on the flat top of a boulder. He climbed up the slope a few ells, and made another fire; then he climbed again to verify that the two fires, one behind another, pointed toward the sword. He climbed down the slope and stood looking at the lake. The water was as shallow here as on the other side, but it shelved away rapidly until within a few ells the light of his torch could no longer reach the bottom.
Thorinn took off his shoes and breeks, then his belt and wallet, and laid them on a stone. The air was cool on his bare skin. He hopped into the water, wincing. The stone was slippery. Crouching to support himself with one hand, he moved forward another step and was ankle-deep; another, calf-deep; another, cautiously, and his leg went in to the knee.
He staggered back, trying to turn; his bad foot went out from under him and the cold water choked off his yell.
Smothered, gasping, he floundered up to shore again. He had tried to hold the torch above water as he fell, but the splash had put it out. He was wet all over, as wet as he had been before. Some while later, hugging his misery, he sat staring out over the dark water. The sword lay on the bottom, not more than fifteen ells from where he sat. But the lake was too deep for wading; he could not swim; there was no boat, or anything to build one. If only the lake were solid rock... Thorinn sat up. In his mind he saw a level road of stones under the water, straight to where the sword lay. His heart bounded; he turned, scanning the slope in the dim firelight for stones of a proper size. There were plenty of them, slabs level on top and bottom, about half an ell in thickness. The first three went easily enough; he laid them in a straight line out into the water. The fourth was harder to carry; the fifth, though it was no bigger than the others, he could not even lift higher than his shanks. He staggered out with it nevertheless, dropped it in place, lurched back to shore. He rested, built up his two fires above on the slope, and went back to work. As the causeway lengthened, instead of one stone he must put down two, one atop the other, to bring the topmost to the surface. His first stones he had laid a hand-span apart, but since he had begun to pile them one on another, each column must lean against the one before it, lest it fall. Even so, more than once the second stone slid off the first.
Then the bottom grew deeper still, and three stones in each column were needed. Three times he tried to build a column of three stones, and three times it collapsed. Thorinn splashed back to the shore cursing, and flung himself down on the cold stone trembling with weariness. But he got up again, and laid two stones side by side for a foundation, then one above, and a fourth stone on that. In this way he built another column, and another.
Time passed. The fires burnt low and he built them up again. Looking down from the height, he could see his stone path straggling out into the water, less than halfway toward its goal. He lay down again to rest, dropped into exhausted sleep, and woke from dreams of eyeless goblins to find himself cold and in the dark. His fires had gone out. He collected fungus to build them again, drank a little water from the lake, eased himself behind a boulder.
The columns now must be four stones talclass="underline" two stones, then two more above, then one, then one more. When he had built one such column of six stones, his arms were like lead, his breath burning his chest. It was impossible to go on. He lay cursing himself feebly, then got up and began another column. Now time had stopped, and there was only the pain of his labor. He counted the columns and there were nineteen. The twentieth must be five stones high: he built it in courses of three stones, then two, then two, then one, and one. So with the next, and the next. Each time he climbed the slope for more stones, he could look down at the causeway and judge whether it was holding to the right direction or not. He slept and ate again.
The twenty-sixth column was six courses tall—four stones, then three, three, two, two, and one: fifteen stones, to advance his causeway the width of one stone. After another dazed interval, he counted the columns again, and there were twenty-nine.
Thorinn pulled his torch out of a crevice, waded back out across the tops of the columns. He held the torch trembling over his head, peered down. There it was, deep down, straight ahead, glimmering golden under the water.
He went back, wedged the torch into its crevice again, climbed the slope for more stones. He built his last column carefully—four stones, then four more, then three, three, three, two and two. The final course came above the surface of the water. He went back for a torch, wedged it in between the two topmost stones.
The sword gleamed up at him out of darkness, looking near enough to touch. He could see the wooden handle carved for a close grip, the dull place where the tang went into the hand-guard, the bright double edge. It lay on the smooth rock bottom among a few pebbles, waiting.
Thorinn tied one end of his thong around one of the topmost stones, the other around his waist. His hands were like wood. He climbed gingerly down and around the last column, groping for footholds. The cold water stung his wounds. The water surged, lifted at his body, trying to upend and drown him. He clung to the end of the causeway, pressed his cheek hard against the stone. What remained was such a little thing—to climb down another ell or so, take the sword, climb up again into the air. Thorinn filled his lungs, squeezed his eyes shut, lowered himself into the water. Water was in his eyes, his ears, blinding and deafening; the water lifted him, swung him helplessly while he struggled for his life. His hands found the thong; he pulled, came up choking and gasping.
The trouble was, perhaps, that he had tried to climb down the wall of stones as if it were in air; but the unfamiliar lift of the water had tricked him, thrown him off balance. Caution, then, was his enemy. He must plunge boldly into the water, let himself sink to the bottom, take the sword, and pull himself back to safety.
It was harder to do it than to think of it. Twice he tried to throw himself off, twice his muscles refused him. At last he climbed down until the water was up to his chest, then closed his eyes as before and lunged forward.