Loki's Sword

by Malcolm Archibald

  Owen passed over a brimming horn and slapped Bradan on the shoulder while Melcorka smiled at him. “Go on, Brad.”

  Red-faced but fortified by horns of mead, Bradan stood up. Once he was over his initial shyness, he got into the rhythm of words. He regaled the company with tales of rivers so vast it was impossible to see the far side, of a waterfall so huge it made a noise like thunder and created a mist for hundreds of paces around, and of inland seas of fresh water.

  The warriors listened, with many openly sceptical of such wonders as floating islands of ice and great empires that worshipped a many-armed goddess.

  “You tell a good story, Bradan the Wanderer,” Owen said when things had quietened down a little. “What are you doing in our beleaguered little Alba?”

  “They are here to hunt down a rogue!” Mael Coluim shouted from the head of the table. “The Swordswoman is here to find and kill the Butcher who is causing such destruction in my realm.”

  “I could do that, your Grace,” MacBain said, mildly. “As can Finleac or Black Duncan. We are ready to hunt down this man.”

  “I need you, MacBain. As long as you are by my side, nobody will attempt to usurp my throne. No, this is a job for the Swordswoman.” Although Mael Coluim was drinking level with anybody in the tent, he was the soberest man there.

  Bradan eyed the High King. Yes, Bradan thought, you think it will not matter if the Butcher kills Melcorka. You are not as friendly as you appear, Mael Coluim.

  “I know of that man, the Butcher.” Owen was suddenly sober. “He is something of a mystery, Melcorka.”

  “Tell me all you know about him, Owen,” Melcorka asked. “I like to find out as much as I can about people before I fight them.”

  Owen lowered his voice. “There is a darkness there,” he said. “He is no ordinary warrior.” He stood up, swayed, and sat back down with a sudden crash. “I think that last horn of mead was very powerful,” he said. “I shall tell you all I know in the morning, but I will say this, Melcorka, watch for his familiar.”

  “His familiar?” Bradan echoed.

  “I will tell you tomorrow,” Owen said.

  “That would be best,” Bradan agreed, “when you are sober enough to talk, and we are sober enough to listen.”

  “I will tell you one thing.” Owen leaned closer to Bradan, smiling in drunken friendship. “The killer is not what he seems.” Owen gave an elaborate wink. “Not at all what he seems.”

  “Who is ever what he seems?” Melcorka reached forward to catch Owen as he slipped to the ground, dropping his horn. The mead spilt to the ground.

  “What a waste,” MacBain said, scooped up the horn and drained it, laughing.

  “Come on, Brad.” Melcorka dragged Owen to the side, pushed a slender servant aside and arranged Owen as comfortably as he could. The servant stood up and left without a sound.

  “Time for us to sleep as well,” Bradan said, smiling stupidly as the mead took hold of his senses.

  “Too late – I already am sleeping,” Melcorka slurred as she slid to the ground.

  Chapter Three

  “Owen!” Owen, the Bald of Strathclyde!” The words travelled through the slumbering camp, waking men and women and setting a score of dogs to bark. “Where is Owen the Bald?”

  “He's sleeping,” Melcorka muttered, turning over on the ground and holding her head. “So am I. Go away.”

  “I am Owen the Bald.” Owen stumbled up and peered from the royal tent, still dazed from sleep and wearing only his leine. Unshaven and with rain dripping from his bald head, he did not look like one of the best warriors in Alba.

  “I am the man you know as the Butcher.” The hooded warrior was still astride his garron, with the grey man standing featureless at his side.

  “We've been looking for you,” Owen said as half a dozen Strathclyde spearmen hurried out in various stages of dress and undress.

  “Will you fight me?” The hooded warrior asked as rain dripped from his cloak to add to the puddles on the ground.

  “I will fight you.” Owen put a hand to his head.

  “You're not fit to fight,” Melcorka said, emerging from the tent. “You're not sober yet.”

  “Drunk or sober, I can defeat this hooded butcher,” Owen said. “Wait here,” he shouted, wincing at the pain of his throbbing head. “I will fetch my sword.”

  “Owen, your Grace,” Melcorka warned. “I could fight him now. I drank less than you last night.”

  “This man challenged me.” Owen's voice rose to a roar. “This is my word! This warrior has challenged me! We shall fight, and if he bests me, he will be allowed to leave unmolested. That is my word and my oath. That is the word of the King of Strathclyde!”

  As his spearmen stepped back, Owen returned to the tent. “Fetch me water! A bucket of water!”

  When a servant scurried up a moment later, Owen emptied the water over his head, shook the droplets around the tent and grabbed a hunk of cold pork from the table. “There,” he said as the water ran down his chest and dripped on to the ground. “Now, I am fit to fight the devil himself.”

  “Perhaps you are,” Bradan said.

  “Then may God have pity on the devil,” MacBain said, “for in practice bouts, that shiny-headed rogue has even bested me.”

  “Aye,” Melcorka said, “when he was sober.”

  Five minutes after he entered the tent, Owen emerged again in a coat of mail, sword in hand. He jammed a metal helmet on his head, stamped his feet in a muddy puddle and shouted: “Come then, hooded man.”

  When the Butcher dismounted, the onlookers saw he was slightly taller than Owen, and armed in the Norse fashion, with a longsword in his right hand and a circular shield on his left arm. The shield was of undifferentiated grey, except for the two black ravens, one on either side of the central steel boss.

  “That man is vaguely familiar,” Melcorka studied the Butcher with professional curiosity. “I believe I have seen him before.”

  “It is difficult to tell when we can't see his face,” Bradan said.

  “It's his stance and shape,” Melcorka said. “I am sure I have seen him before, although not recently. Years ago, although I don't know when.”

  “You'll see his face soon enough,” MacBain said. “Owen will cut off his hood and head at the same time.”

  “I wish Owen were more sober,” Melcorka said.

  The warriors of Alba and Strathclyde formed a ring, with MacBain and Finleac watching. Black Duncan shook his head and walked away.

  “Are you not going to watch?” Melcorka asked.

  “I am not. Killing and dying is a serious business, not a sport for people to gawp at.” That was the longest speech that Melcorka had ever heard Black Duncan make.

  “He has a point,” Bradan said. “It is a ghoulish business, watching one man kill another.”

  “It is a method of admiring skill, courage and technique,” Melcorka said. “We will disagree there, Bradan.”

  Bradan nodded. “That is what we will do.”

  Owen had a shorter sword than the Butcher, with a leaf-shaped blade, and an oval shield with an ornate swirling pattern around the boss. “Come on then, Butcher,” he said, with the rain running off his round metal helmet and on to his shoulders.

  “You watch the Butcher,” Bradan murmured to Melcorka as the two men circled each other. “I will watch that creature in grey.” Almost unnoticed in the crowd, the Butcher's servant held the garron, his eyes like pits descending into unyielding darkness.

  “He is only a servant.” Melcorka dismissed the grey man with a glance.

  “Aye, but whose servant is he?” Bradan asked.

  Owen was first to attack, shoving his shield into the Butcher's face, twisting to the side and thrusting upwards with his sword. The Butcher fell back slightly, parried the sword stroke and stepped away.

  “You see? He's not so good,” Finleac said cheerfully. “Owen is his master. We won't have to worry about the Butcher again.”

  “
Perhaps.” MacBain was not so easily convinced. “I think he is testing Owen out to see how skilled he is.”

  “It will be a short test, then,” Finleac said. “Owen will destroy him.”

  “Perhaps,” MacBain said again.

  Melcorka said nothing, watching the footwork of the hooded man with a frown on her face. “I am sure I know this Butcher,” she said to Bradan. “There is something about the way he moves.”

  “You've seen many warriors,” Bradan said. “Perhaps we fought alongside him, or against him, some time in the past.”

  “That could be the answer,” Melcorka said.

  The crowd cheered as Owen attacked again, feinting left and right, then high and low before advancing with a slow, deliberate pace that left his footprints deeply impressed in the trampled grass. The storm was directly overhead now, thunder grumbling and crashing simultaneously with blinding flashes of lightning. The rain grew heavier, hammering down on the fighting men, bouncing from the battered canvas of the tents, forming puddles on the already muddy ground.

  The audience greeted each of Owen's blows with a cheer, and each of the Butcher's parries with whistles and insults, with Finleac shouting with the best of them, although MacBain and Melcorka tried to analyse the movements of both men.

  The Butcher had held three of Owen's attacks and now began a counter-attack. Using the metal edge of his shield as a weapon, he stepped sideways, thrust the shield against Owen's and pushed hard. Owen staggered, ducked and sliced at the Butcher's ankles with his sword. The Butcher leapt back, limping, with blood flowing from his ankle. Sensing victory, Owen moved forward with his shield up and sword ready.

  “Owen's got him now,” MacBain said.

  Melcorka could only nod agreement. With the Butcher wounded and retreating, the experienced king of Strathclyde was favourite to end the struggle.

  “Two minutes and it's done,” MacBain said.

  Perhaps it was the influence of the mead in his blood, but Owen moved forward with too much confidence, raised his shield to chin height and the Butcher roared in. Crashing against Owen's shield, he forced it high, then stabbed his point on to Owen's foot. As Owen instinctively hopped back, the Butcher hooked his shield behind that of the Strathclyde man and jerked it back. Unbalanced, Owen momentarily exposed his right leg. That moment was all the Butcher needed; he shifted his stance and slashed his sword down the outside of Owen's thigh, opening a deep wound that immediately gushed out blood.

  Owen fell, still slashing with his sword, and the Butcher parried with his shield and cut downward, opening a parallel wound on the inside of Owen's left thigh. As Owen gasped, the Butcher stepped back, cleaned his sword on the bottom of his cloak and walked back to his horse.

  “The fight is over,” the Butcher said. “I have defeated your champion.”

  “Owen,” Finleac was first to reach Owen.

  “I'm dead,” Owen indicated his legs, from which the blood was draining to join the rain-puddles on the ground.

  “I'll avenge you.” Finleac drew both his swords and stepped toward the Butcher.

  “No!” Owen spoke strongly for a man who knew he was dying. “I gave my word. The word of a king!”

  “The last word of a king,” the Butcher said as he mounted his garron, pulled at the reins and kicked in his heels. The horse walked towards the angry, shocked crowd. The grey man looked directly at Owen as the audience reluctantly parted to allow him passage.

  “So that is the Butcher,” Melcorka said. “He managed to defeat a half-sober man.”

  “Aye,” MacBain said. “Owen was also a superb warrior. One of the best. The Butcher is a man to watch.” He touched the crystal in his sword hilt. “It will take a good man to defeat him.”

  “Or a good woman,” Melcorka said.

  MacBain looked at her. “Let us hope it does not come to that. I would not like a woman to do my fighting for me.”

  * * *

  They sat around the table, with Mael Coluim at the head, tapping powerful fingers on the arm of his elaborately carved chair. “I would have killed the Butcher,” Mael Coluim said. “He is too dangerous to live. You should have killed him, MacBain. You should have ordered the archers shoot him.”

  “Owen gave his word,” MacBain said.

  “Owen is dead.”

  “It was the word of a king,” MacBain said. “The last promise of Owen of Strathclyde.”

  Mael Coluim grunted. “Why did the Butcher pick Owen to fight? He could have chosen MacBain, or Black Duncan, me even, or Melcorka. Why choose Owen?”

  “I may have the answer.” Bradan spoke reluctantly, not wishing to draw attention to himself.

  “Tell me,” Mael Coluim ordered.

  “Before he fell asleep, Owen said he was going to tell us something about this warrior who is killing people across Alba,” Bradan said. “When he told us, I swear that the man in grey was listening.”

  “The man in grey?”

  “A man dressed in grey came into the tent last night,” Bradan said. “And the Butcher had a man in grey as a servant.”

  “Was it the same man?” Mael Coluim asked.

  “I am not sure,” Bradan said. “I could not describe either of them.” He tried to remember, shaking his head. “I saw them both clearly, yet they were so featureless I could not pick them out of a crowd of two.”

  “I saw them too,” MacBain said quietly. “I would not recognise them if they stood next to me right now.”

  Mael Coluim grunted. “I do not like that. I don't like that at all.” He stood up, took a few paces left and right and shook his head. “I do not like it when murderers can come into my camp, kill my kings and walk away unchallenged. I do not like it when featureless men can drift in and out of my tent, listening to conversations at my table. I am not happy with the situation in my realm when I can defeat Norse attacks in the north and quell the English in the south, yet an unknown warrior can butcher with impunity.”

  Melcorka waited, knowing that the High King was about to make an announcement that would concern her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw True Thomas standing, nodding his head, and wondered where he came into things.

  Mael Coluim stopped pacing as he came to a decision. “This situation will end. MacBain, I want you to arrange mobile patrols to quarter my kingdom and search for this Butcher, part mounted and part on foot with at least two gallowglass and two archers in each. If they find this Butcher, kill him without trial. Black Duncan the Grim, I charge you with hunting down the Butcher in the south of my kingdom, the lands of Lothian and Strathclyde. Finleac, I give you the same charge for the northern half, the lands between the Forth and the Moray Firth.”

  Finleac nodded, smiling, while Black Duncan's expression did not alter.

  Mael Coluim paced again while True Thomas stood, unseen, watching. Bradan ran his thumb across the carved cross on his staff. Melcorka felt her heartbeat increase and knew the High King was considering what mission to give her. Eventually, Mael Coluim faced her, with his quiet words unable to hide the force of his personality.

  “I charge you, Melcorka Nic Bearnas of the Cenel Bearnas, and you, Bradan the Wanderer, of unknown family, to supplement my champions Black Duncan and Finleac the Pict. You will search my entire realm of Alba, find and destroy this warrior known as the Butcher, and all who may be associated with him. If you succeed, then you may ask one boon of me, and I will grant it. On this, you have my royal word.”

  “And if we fail?” Bradan asked. “If this Butcher defeats us?”

  “We are not interested in the possibility of defeat,” Melcorka said. “It does not exist.”

  The thunder sounded again, a single last peal that seemed to split the heavens apart, while lightning tore open the horizon all around. For one instant, the entire camp was lit up, giving Melcorka an image she knew would stay with her for ever.

  The High King stood at the head of the table, with one hand on the back of his carved chair, his clean-shaven face long and serious as
he finished his proclamations. Beside him, MacBain curled a hand over the crystal pommel of his sword, where the Stone of Victory reflected the lightning flash. Slightly further down, Black Duncan was half rising, reaching for the mead, with his black cloak gaping open and an angry scowl on his face. Opposite Black Duncan, Finleac the Pict looked thoughtful, eyeing Bradan as though wondering how a man of peace came to that table of warriors. Bradan looked directly at Melcorka, still rubbing the cross on his staff.

  But Melcorka did not know the identity of the man in grey who stood on the other side of the king, with no expression on his face and no recognisable features. Only his eyes were memorable, and they were dark pits of oblivion.

  After the lightning, there was darkness, and Melcorka knew with a sickening certainty that the men at that table would never all gather in one place again. She could sense the graves gaping open to receive them and the ravens pecking at their heads.

  Chapter Four

  “Now you know the reason I summoned you from the sea,” True Thomas said as they stood beneath the wind-twisted rowan tree on the south bank of the River Tweed. “Now, you know your purpose in life. All else that you have done has to prepare you for this mission.”

  “All else?” Bradan asked.

  “I have watched you from the moment you took your first step on the road, Bradan, and you, Melcorka, from the instant of your birth. You must succeed.”

  “If we don't?”

  “If you don't,” True Thomas said, “this world will be condemned to more horror than you can ever imagine.”

  “Aye,” Melcorka said. “It is a rare gift you have, Thomas, seeing backwards through time. “Can you alter anything you wish?”

  “I have never tried before,” True Thomas said. “I have only one thing to alter, the time that the world twisted toward darkness.”

  “When was it twisted?” Bradan asked.

  “That you must find out yourselves,” True Thomas said. “You have free will, you see. I am only able to point you in the right direction. I cannot tell you what to do. You must make your own decisions and fight the temptations that you will find in your paths.”