Loki's Sword

by Malcolm Archibald

  “Will we succeed in defeating this Butcher?” Bradan asked. “You know what will happen.”

  True Thomas shook his head. “I know what happened when you were not involved. I do not know what your futures might be.”

  Melcorka shuddered as the image came to her again. She lay broken on a waste of bloody sand, with a tall, hooded man standing over her while Bradan walked away with another woman. All around her, the land was in a yellow and grey haze, and defeat tasted bitter in her mouth.

  * * *

  Finleac was first to leave the camp. He made quick preparations before taking his leave of most of the Picts who had accompanied him south in the army. Melcorka watched as Finleac sharpened both his swords and dropped a silk handkerchief on each blade. He smiled as the swords sliced through the silk, called for his immediate followers and mounted his horse.

  “Ladies!” Finleac kissed three of the women who were weeping at his departure, while the fourth, the buxom red-head leapt on a horse in his train. “I must bid you goodbye. You have brightened my life, and I will never forget you.” Still laughing, he signalled to one of his men, who blew a long blast on his horn to announce his departure.

  “The Butcher awaits my swords!” Finleac said, and he trotted northward, waving to everybody he passed. The bull banner of Fidach fluttering above his head was the last Melcorka saw of the Pictish champion.

  Black Duncan was slower and more thorough in his preparations. He ordered a blacksmith to make him more darts, put an edge on his sword and gathered the leading nobles of Strathclyde and Lothian together. One by one, he questioned them about the geography of their lands, ensured they would feed him and his men and only then did he prepare to leave.

  “Give me your word you will send information to me of this Butcher,” Black Duncan said to each man in turn. When he was satisfied with the noblemen's promises, Duncan left the camp.

  Riding a heavy black horse, and with his black cloak hanging free from his shoulders, Black Duncan rode to the west, ponderous, silent, and grim. Two retainers rode behind him, with neither fanfare nor flag.

  “And that leaves us,” Melcorka said, chewing a cold leg of chicken as the sky cleared above them.

  That leaves us,” Bradan agreed. True Thomas had disappeared again, and the sky had cleared after the royal storm that had taken Owen of Strathclyde. Only the strange behaviour of the birds irritated Melcorka, as flocks of rooks continued to harass the Albans.

  “What's upsetting them?” Melcorka asked.

  “The same thing that's upsetting the beasts,” Bradan said. “I heard the wolves took a baby last night – they are far more bold than normal.”

  Melcorka nodded. “It must be all this bloodshed. They'll calm down once we bury the dead.”

  Bradan looked up as a lone crow swooped on a camp follower, scoring her face with its talons. “I wonder,” he said.

  Around them, the Alban camp was emptying as the majority of lords, chiefs and nobles led their men back home, with a few marching southward to plunder for cattle and slaves. With the Northumbrian army defeated and hundreds of their men killed, there would be little resistance from that quarter and no need to keep the army intact. Mael Coluim's victory at Carham had secured the southern border of Alba, allowing him to concentrate on the threat from the north.

  “So we have to find this mysterious Butcher and kill him,” Bradan said. “Have you not had your fill of fighting and killing, Mel?”

  “I have,” Melcorka said. “I feel it is time to hang Defender above the fire and allow her to rust in peace. At this moment, I'd like somebody else to take the burden and the honour of righting the wrongs of the world.”

  “You can still do that,” Bradan said. “Tell the High King you have reconsidered his offer as he has an abundance of valiant warriors. You could indeed hang up your sword, find a quiet place somewhere and settle down.”

  “The idea is very tempting,” Melcorka said. “But it seems that I am needed here, again. This adventure will be my last.”

  “And after this time?” Bradan asked. “Will there be another last adventure and another after that? And after that? Until you are an old, done, woman tottering along with a sword too heavy for you to carry?”

  “This will be my last,” Melcorka said. “I have come home.”

  Bradan nodded. “Good. If we have to do it, then let's get this thing done quickly. Where do we think this Butcher will head next?”

  “The High King thinks he lives somewhere in Lothian, south of Dunedin.”

  “We can sail up the coast in Catriona,” Bradan said. “It's not far.”

  “The Butcher might be inland,” Melcorka said. “Come on.” She hitched Defender higher on her back, with the cross-guard protruding above her left shoulder.

  Putting his small bag of provisions across his back, Bradan grasped his staff and strode at Melcorka's side. They headed north across a borderland that invading tribes of savage Angles had once grabbed from the indigenous British but which King Mael Coluim had now confirmed as Alban. This area was flat and fertile, with spreading farms and prosperous farmers who looked warily at Melcorka's sword, for female warriors were a rarity. At night, Melcorka rested at cottages where old men told her the wolves were so bad this season they had to bring the livestock in early.

  “Aye,” Bradan said. “We noticed that further south.”

  “It's the end of times,” a grey-bearded farmer said. “You mark my words – it's the end of times.”

  “Let's hope not,” Melcorka said, ensuring that Defender was secure on her back.

  As they headed north, the land altered, rising to an area of bleak heather moors where whaups called in the lonely sky and herds of deer roamed free.

  “They call this the Lammer Moor,” Bradan said. “I've been here before, many years ago.”

  Although it was bleak, the walking was easy with heather springy underfoot and the cool wind caressing their faces. Twice they heard the howl of a wolf, but the only animal they saw was a cautious dog-fox that snarled at them from a distance before deciding that discretion defeated valour when dealing with a woman carrying a sword.

  They found the dead body that evening. He had been a young man, strong and handsome, until somebody had cut deep rents in his legs and sliced him in two from the top of his head downward. Now flies, insects and crows feasted on the two halves of his body.

  “He looks like a farmer, not a warrior.” Melcorka viewed the body dispassionately.

  “The warriors are with the king's army,” Bradan said.

  “This was not part of the war with Northumbria then,” Melcorka said. “It could be a stray killing, or it could be the Butcher.”

  “Look,” Bradan pointed upward, where a lone bird circled high above them. “That's a raven, the bird of ill omen.”

  “Aye,” Melcorka said. “It is foretelling the end of the man we hunt.” She pointed to a second raven that joined the first. “And that bird is doing the same.”

  “Rooks attacking men and wolves growing ever bolder,” Bradan said. “Something has disturbed the nature of this land.”

  Melcorka tapped the hilt of Defender. “Then we'll try to rectify matters.”

  They moved on, faster now, searching for signs of human activity in the bleakness of their surroundings. Twice they found lonely farms hidden in a fold of the moor, and each time the occupants were dead; the men with their legs sliced open and the women violated before being decapitated.

  “Truly, this man, if it is only one man, is evil,” Bradan said. “He had his servant, remember.”

  “His servant was a nothing,” Melcorka decided. “Killing the Butcher will rid the world of great evil.”

  “This blood is still warm,” Bradan knelt beside the body of an elderly woman. “It has not yet had time to congeal.” He looked up. “The killer was here within the last hour.”

  “Then we have him.” Melcorka glanced at the low grey clouds above the dullness of the moor. “We can finish this by
nightfall.”

  “That will be your last killing,” Bradan said.

  “This will be my last killing,” Melcorka gestured at the two ravens circled above. “They are waiting for a death.”

  “If that is so,” Bradan tapped his staff on the ground, “they could find it here, or on the last ravaged farm we found, or on the battlefield at Carham. Ravens can smell blood many miles away.”

  Melcorka nodded. “They have another reason for following us, then.”

  “They are messengers,” Bradan said. “Messengers of death. They are hunting us, Melcorka, guiding the Valkyries, the choosers of the slain to us.”

  “I am no Norsewoman to believe such things,” Melcorka said.

  “No.” Bradan tapped his staff on the ground. “You are not, but the ravens might be. Or they may be guiding us along a trail of death to the Butcher.” He tapped his staff on the ground again. “All this killing might be for our benefit, a scent luring us to a trap.”

  When Melcorka looked at him, said nothing and stepped on, Bradan knew that she was worried.

  A track led from the farm northwards into the heart of the moor, fording two slow-running rivers, then down a steep heather-clad hill to a plain of sweet farmland. Melcorka halted at the rim of the slope, ignoring the circling ravens as she examined the land ahead.

  “The Lothian plain,” Melcorka said. “The killer may be heading for Dunedin.” She shuddered at the thought of the Butcher loose in the tightly packed town with its hundreds of unarmed citizens.

  “He”s not,” Bradan said. “Look. He is still luring us onward.”

  Rather than head northeast to Dunedin, the trail led directly north. Even as they watched, Melcorka and Bradan saw a column of smoke rising from a farmstead a mile in front of them.

  “The ravens have informed him we are coming,” Bradan said. “He's marking his passage. Be careful, Mel – I feel that this is no ordinary man.”

  “I have seen him fight, remember, Bradan. He is a man. He bleeds, and anything that bleeds can die.” Melcorka stared across the Lothian plain. “To leave such an obvious trail means one of two things – he is a fool, or he is very confident in his ability.”

  “Let's hope he is a fool,” Bradan said.

  “He has not met Defender yet,” Melcorka said.

  “No, and you have not met him, yet.” Bradan reminded her. “He killed Owen with some skill.”

  “He has not met Defender yet,” Melcorka repeated. She lifted her voice. “Halloa down there!” The words bounced from the low clouds to carry far in the still air. “I am Melcorka, the Swordswoman and I am going to stop your murdering spree.”

  They listened for a long minute before deep laughter came in reply. As the sound rose from the low ground in front, the ravens joined in with harsh calls that upset all the birds in the area, so they rose in unison, each one calling and flapping until they filled the air with their cries. When the birds eventually returned to their trees and the noise ended, two feathers drifted down from above. Bradan lifted them.

  “Raven feathers,” he said, “and look at this.”

  On the tip of each, a drop of blood gleamed ruby-red.

  “Aye,” Melcorka said. “You are right, Bradan. This Butcher is no ordinary man.” Hitching up Defender, she peered across the darkening plain. “We are coming for you!” she shouted.

  This time there was no reply, only silence so deep that Melcorka felt it pressing on her.

  “Come on, Bradan, we're wasting time.”

  Descending from the plateau of the moor, they entered the fertile plain. “Where are all the people?” Bradan asked. “This place should have 100 small farms. Instead, it is empty.”

  Even although the autumn air was brisk, there was no friendly tang of smoke in the air, no bright firelight to welcome weary travellers. Each farm was empty, the fields bare of livestock and the crops ungathered, open to the darkening sky. Only the birds remained, rising with an angry clamour as Melcorka and Bradan strode past them.

  “The people have fled,” Melcorka said, “but look!” The fire flared like a beacon, brightening up the sky to the north. “You are right, Bradan. The Butcher is beckoning us onward.”

  They increased their speed, guided by the acrid stink of burning and the gleam of fire. After a mile, a second fire flared ahead, bright in the darkening sky. They reached the first, to find three bodies waiting for them, each with its legs sliced open and the right hand pointing to the north, where the next fire awaited.

  “The Butcher is taunting us.” Bradan rubbed his thumb on top of his staff.

  “I'll do the taunting soon,” Melcorka said grimly.

  As they ran onwards, they heard the screaming, high pitched and hopeless. “The Butcher's killing somebody else,” Melcorka said.

  Bradan touched Melcorka's arm. “He”s luring us into a trap, Mel. Be careful.”

  “He doesn't know Defender.” Melcorka tapped the hilt of her sword.

  The fire was 30 feet high when they reached the farm, with two corpses waiting for them, each pointing northward, towards the coast. One had its left leg cut off, the other was twisted, charred and blackened by the fire.

  “Run,” Melcorka said. “I want this man.”

  “Don't fight in anger, Melcorka,” Bradan advised.

  By now they were running fast, leaping over walls and the small streams that crossed the countryside, until they came to a cliff, with the thud of sea surf far below. Seagulls wheeled and called around their heads, some swooping so close that the wind of their passage ruffled Melcorka's long dark hair.

  “Where is he?” Melcorka asked. She raised her voice to a shout. “Show yourself!”

  The sea responded with a suck and surge, followed by the screaming of a hundred seabirds rising in a white-feathered flock.

  “Fight me!” Melcorka yelled. “Fight me!”

  The wind carried the echo of her voice. “Fight me!” it said. “Fight me!”

  The seagulls calmed down to subdued muttering as the last of the light died, and only the phosphorescence of the surf provided illumination. Bradan saw the boat first, its single sail white through the dark.

  “There he is,” Bradan said. “He's sailing away.”

  “I wish we had Catriona,” Melcorka said.

  “So do I – but there are lights down there.” Bradan indicated a spot to their right, where something yellow flickered on the surface of the sea. “And that means houses, probably a fishing village, with boats.”

  “We can follow the Butcher's sail.” Melcorka was moving on her last word. They slithered down a slippery path towards the lights, to stumble into a village, where four or five low cottages huddled between the cliff and the sea. Two open, clinker-built boats sat on a shingly beach, barely out of reach of the waves.

  “This one.” Ignoring the protests of the bearded fishermen, Melcorka shoved the boat into the sea.

  “We'll bring it back soon!” Bradan promised.

  “I just have to kill somebody first!” Melcorka added as the fisherman put a despairing hand on the gunwale.

  With Bradan at the oars, they pushed off in pursuit of the only sail they could see.

  “Let's hope he's not going far,” Bradan said.

  “He's not,” Melcorka said. “He's heading for that island there. He knows we will follow.”

  About a mile offshore, the island loomed up before them, a massive chunk of rock with sheer sides stained white with the droppings of countless generations of sea-birds. “It's known as the Bass Rock,” Bradan said. “I've never visited, although I believe that some Celtic saints made their homes there before the Norsemen, or the Angles, murdered them.”

  Melcorka crouched in the bow, peering at the rock. “That's as good a place to fight as any.”

  “I can't see anywhere to land,” Bradan said, glancing over his shoulder.

  The island seemed to be all cliff, with the waves breaking in white-frothed fury, throwing spindrift 20 feet into the air before recedin
g to gather their strength for another assault.

  “There!” Melcorka saw the white sail vanish. “There's something there. To starboard, Bradan!”

  Skilfully handling the oars, Bradan followed the sail on to a tiny landing place, too small to be called a beach, on the east side of a protruding finger of rock. Melcorka jumped out first and together they hauled the boat up a natural, seaweed-slimed slipway to a piece of nearly level ground. Beside them, a larger vessel with a furled sail lay on its side.

  “Where did he go?” Melcorka had to speak loudly against the crash and suck of the surf. “Where are you?”

  Only the birds replied as a thousand gannets rose from the rock on which they stood.

  “Up there,” Bradan indicated a series of wooden pegs that some daring hand had hammered into the cliff face. He looked upward where the white-streaked rock climbed into the night.

  “Come on, Bradan!”

  It was apparent that the pegs had been in the cliff for some time. While most were sound, a few had rotted through, so Melcorka and Bradan tested each one before trusting it with their weight. They ascended slowly, one peg at a time, with the cliff stretching seemingly for ever above and the batter of the waves and screaming of seabirds filling their ears. Once Melcorka”s handhold slipped, and she pressed herself against the surface of the cliff, balancing with her foot alone until she stretched for the next peg.

  “Be careful here,” Melcorka warned, pulling herself up.

  A few yards on and the birds became interested in their passage, swooping past them, beating with their wings and prodding at them with long beaks.

  “I didn't know gannets were aggressive,” Melcorka said.

  “They're not, normally.” Bradan ducked away from a screaming male. “Everything is aggressive this season.”

  The moon had risen before they reached the top, illuminating a steeply sloping surface of wind cropped grass, with a hundred gannets watching. Melcorka was first, hauling herself upright as she looked around for her quarry.

  “He's not here,” she said.

  Bradan nodded, gasping for breath. “Sensible man,” he said.