Loki's Sword

by Malcolm Archibald

They stood side by side, searching the open surface of the island, with Melcorka ready to draw Defender and gannets rising around them.

  “Where are you?” Melcorka called.

  “I am here.” The reply came a second later as a man emerged, seemingly from the ground. He stood amid a welter of birds, with a hood shading his face, a circular shield on his left arm and a longsword dangling from the left side of his belt. The twin black ravens against the grey background of the shield were identification enough: this was the Butcher.

  “You are a killer,” Melcorka said.

  “You are a killer,” the Butcher replied, his voice powerful.

  “You kill innocent people,” Melcorka said.

  “You kill to bolster the power of a king,” the Butcher responded. “We are no different, you and I, two sides of the same coin.”

  “I kill for the right.”

  “That is the excuse you use,” the Butcher replied. “You torment yourself, Melcorka the Swordswoman. You like to kill yet your conscience tells you it is wrong.” He stepped closer until he was in the centre of the sloping surface of the island, with moonlight shining on the hilt of his sword and seeming to put life into the ravens on his shield.

  “I do not like to kill,” Melcorka said.

  “Yet you have fought and killed across the world, Swordswoman, and you hope to kill me.”

  “You are a murderer,” Melcorka said.

  “Don't you know who I am?” the Butcher asked. “We were companions once.”

  Melcorka narrowed her eyes. “Who are you? Throw back your hood so I can see your face.”

  Using his left hand, the man flicked back his hood. Moonlight shone directly on his face, showing a broad-featured, high-cheekboned man with light blue eyes. “I am Erik,” he said, “son of Egil, who killed your mother. We explored the New World together.”

  Melcorka took a step back as the memories returned. Erik had accompanied her on an adventure from Greenland to Cahokia in the New World. She remembered him as a young, slightly impetuous warrior who had significantly matured on the journey. She had never expected to meet him again.

  “I know you Erik, and you know me. You know you cannot defeat me in battle.”

  “Let me try.” Erik drew his sword. “I call my sword Legbiter.”

  As moonlight ran the length of the blade, Melcorka saw the exquisite workmanship in Legbiter, with the double-edged sword as long as a man's leg, tapering to a sharp point. The Norse made superb weapons, and Legbiter was one of the best she had seen, except the blade was a dull black, unable to reflect the light.

  “I do not wish to kill you,” Melcorka said. “We were friends, you and I.”

  “And now we are enemies,” Erik said easily. “Are you afraid to fight me since I defeated Owen the Bald?”

  “I am not. Come then, Erik.” Melcorka unsheathed Defender and felt the expected thrill of power running from her hand, up her arm and into her body as all the skill and knowledge of the sword's previous carriers transferred itself to her.

  “My man will keep Bradan company,” Erik said. “We can't have him interfering with his little stick, can we?”

  The lithe grey man appeared as mysteriously as Erik had, to stand 10 paces from Bradan.

  “You're the man who was in the king's tent,” Bradan said.

  The man's face was as grey and featureless as his clothes. He said nothing, and when he looked at Bradan, his eyes were dull and dark. A grey bag hung from his shoulders to sit below his waist.

  “We'll let them fight in peace,” Bradan fought the chill this man gave him. “And when my woman kills your man, we will see who you are.”

  The grey man did not acknowledge Bradan's presence by word or movement.

  Melcorka waited as Erik walked towards her, smiling, with his sword loose in his right hand. He had attached a long spike to the boss of his shield, while the two ravens seemed to turn their heads to watch Melcorka.

  “It was a pleasure to kill Owen,” Erik said. “It will be a greater pleasure to kill you, Swordswoman.” Still smiling, he broke into a run, holding the shield before him.

  Melcorka waited, stepping aside an instant before Erik reached her. She swung Defender, aiming at the shield, and gasped as Erik parried her stroke with his black-bladed sword. The ravens on Erik's shield mocked her with their eyes.

  Erik's smile broadened as he stopped, turned and pushed with the metal rim of his shield, sending Melcorka staggering back. Surprised, she swung Defender, only for Erik to parry without effort, thrusting with Legbiter, forcing Melcorka to block. “What's the matter, Melcorka? Is Defender not as powerful as you remember?”

  Erik advanced slowly, slashing, thrusting and probing, with Melcorka parrying each attack as Erik avoided her assaults with troubling ease.

  Melcorka frowned. She felt the usual thrill with Defender, she fought with the same skill, using the moves and manoeuvres that had served her so well in a score of fights in the past. There was nothing wrong with her sword or her tactics. Erik was just faster and more skilful.

  Erik came forward, holding his shield high, with only his eyes visible above the rim, while his sword-hand was waist high with the point upwards, toward Melcorka's throat. He jabbed with the shield's central spike, forcing Melcorka to block, angled the shield, rammed upward into Melcorka's chest, and thrust with Legbiter.

  Blocking and parrying, Melcorka withdrew, step after step. She was aware that Bradan was watching anxiously, conscious that the grey man was standing as a silent observer with one hand in his grey bag, and aware that the gannets were wheeling around her, white against the star-speckled black of the night sky. Even using all the skill inherent in Defender, Melcorka could make no impression on Erik. He countered every move, blocked every attack and drove her gradually backwards.

  Holding Defender two-handed, Melcorka stood on the edge of the cliff, with the sea frothing hundreds of feet below and the moon glinting from Erik's shield boss. She took a deep breath, knowing Erik outmatched her. “You fight well, Erik.”

  “Melcorka!” Bradan took a step forward.

  “No, Bradan!” Melcorka shouted. “Stay there!”

  “Yes, Melcorka.” Erik said. “Keep your dog under control. He need not die as well.”

  Bradan felt his heartbeat increase. He was aware of the grey man sliding a hand deeper inside his bag; he was mindful of the wind that plucked at Melcorka's cloak as she stood with her back to the drop, but mostly he was aware of the way her chin thrust forward and her refusal to accept her fear. Bradan was never more proud of Melcorka than he was at that moment.

  Melcorka glanced at the void behind her. “You have a good sword,” she said calmly.

  “It was Loki's blade,” Erik said. “Loki, the wicked jester of Asgard. He had Hel make this sword for him, from all the evil in the realm of death. It counters yours, does it not? Legbiter is Defender's antithesis, whatever good your sword pretends to have, Legbiter counters.”

  “Did he give it to you in person?” Melcorka tensed her muscles.

  “Yes.” Erik said. “He swapped the blade of my sword for his.”

  Erik smiled again as Melcorka began a furious attack that forced him back half a dozen steps. “Well done, Swordswoman! You fight well when your life is at stake.”

  “And your life, Erik!” Melcorka parried a lunge at her head, gasped as the spike on Erik's shield nicked her arm and tried a sweep at Erik's legs. He blocked with ease, with the shock of Legbiter on Defender sending a wave of pain through Melcorka's arms.

  “That's my move, Swordswoman,” Erik said. “I am the leg biter here.” Twisting his sword free of Defender, he threw his shield at Melcorka's face, ducked low and drew his blade across her left thigh.

  Melcorka gasped at the sudden pain, swept Defender to the right and pushed Legbiter away.

  “Legbiter has bitten,” Erik crowed, stepping back. “You'll die now, Melcorka. You will die in slow agony. Nobody survives Legbiter's caress.”

  “No!
” When Melcorka attempted to step forward, her left leg collapsed under her and she lay on the harsh grass. Unable to stand, she tried to swing Defender at Erik, as he remained out of reach, smiling.

  “As you die, think of me, Melcorka. Think of me in my victory.” Stepping forward, Erik took his sword and sliced high up on Melcorka's right leg, opening another long gash. “Goodbye, Swordswoman – you will die slowly up here. Your story ends in defeat, as your mother's did.”

  “Mel!” Ignoring the grey man, Bradan lunged at Erik with his staff. Erik laughed.

  “You never were a fighting man, Bradan.” Erik blocked Bradan's clumsy swing with ease, tripped him with an outstretched leg and smashed him over the head with the flat of his sword. He stood, smiling, as Bradan lay dazed on the ground. “I could kill you, Bradan, but instead, I will let you live. You can watch Melcorka bleed to death and then remain here, to go mad with loneliness beside the rotting copse of your woman.”

  Face down on the rough grass, Bradan could only watch as Erik sheathed his sword and walked toward Melcorka. Swooping, Erik reached for Defender, swore as he touched the hilt and jerked his hand back. He tried a second time, swore louder, shook his hand as if in pain and landed a solid kick on Melcorka's ribs, as if in revenge. When he tried and failed to lift Defender a third time, he kicked Melcorka again and stalked away.

  Lying stunned on the turf, Bradan saw the grey man remove his hand from his bag and follow Erik until both vanished into the dark. Bradan reached for Melcorka, touched her outstretched hand, and drifted into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Five

  “I am Erik Egilsson!” Erik lifted his sword high as he shouted out his name. The darkness around welcomed him, protecting him from all harm. Kissing Legbiter”s black blade, Erik replaced it in its scabbard. “Loki! I am here, Loki! I have done your bidding!”

  He stood in a depression in the ground, with his bare feet deep in the soil and the grey man 10 paces from him. “I am Erik Egilsson! Can you hear me, Loki?”

  Shapeless in the night, the being emerged from the ground around. “Did you kill the woman?” His voice was deep, his breath hot as he enveloped the depression, forming all around Erik.

  “Yes, Loki.” Erik sunk to one knee. “I killed the woman.”

  “Good. Give me her sword.” Loki thrust out an arm that looked like smoke, with a slender hand that dripped deeper darkness into the night. Loki's fingers were long and rough.

  “I do not have her sword,” Loki said.

  The hand withdrew, and a blast of pure heat knocked Erik on to his back. “You do not have the sword?”

  “No, Master,” Erik said.

  “Where is it?” The words formed in Erik's head, burning deep into his mind.

  “I left it on the Rock of Bass.”

  “Fool!” The words seared into Erik, cutting like the lash of a fiery whip. “I want that sword.”

  “My sword, the sword you gave me, is more powerful.” Erik tried to excuse his failure.

  “Fool!” The lash of words again, slicing through Erik's mind, made him fall to the ground and writhe in agony as the soil seemed to reach all around him, holding him close. “That sword has a blade of pure goodness. Up on this world, it is still a powerful defender. If I have it, my power is increased.”

  “Yes, Loki.” Erik said. “It burned me.”

  The being reared around Erik, enveloping him in earthy blackness. “Then accept the burn, Erik Egilsson. I gave you the most powerful sword in the world and still you fail me.” The thing recoiled, leaving Erik shaking in the depression in the ground. “Bring me Defender. I can neutralise its power and have no rivals!”

  Erik stepped back as Loki eased forward, a formless mass, only partially visible in the dark.

  “I gave you a sword to match Defender and augmented your power with all the written forces of evil. You could be the most powerful warrior ever known. All I ask in return is you defeat the Swordswoman and bring me her sword. You failed me, Erik Egilsson!”

  The agony returned, tearing into Erik's mind, sending him writhing on the shifting ground with both hands to his head as the darkness overwhelmed him, bringing him down to the stifling depths.

  “Get me that blade, Erik Egilsson.”

  “Yes, Master.” Erik cowered before the voice.

  He was alone. Loki had gone, and only the sounds of nature filled the night. Erik stood up, shaking, brushed off the layers of harsh dirt that covered him and set off for the Rock of Bass where he had left Melcorka. Ten paces away, the grey man watched without a hint of expression on his face.

  “I won't let you down, Lord,” Erik promised. “I'll bring you Defender.” Coming to a farmhouse, he butchered all the occupants, grabbed a horse and spurred it cruelly towards the coast.

  Chapter Six

  When she opened her eyes, Melcorka could see the silver-blue steel of Defender glittering in the cold moonlight. Reaching out, she found she could not quite touch it. “I failed you,” she said as she felt her strength draining away with her blood. “I failed you, Defender.”

  “You failed nobody.” Bradan inched closer, bleeding from the wound in his head and stunned at witnessing Melcorka's defeat. “Erik had a sword that matched yours; that's all. He took you by surprise.” He pushed Defender into Melcorka's hand. “Let's see your wounds.”

  Both cuts were deep, stretching the full length of Melcorka's thighs, with her blood surging red against the dull grey-green of the grass. Rapidly removing his leine, the linen shirt he wore, Bradan tore a long strip and tied it above the wound on the left leg to act as a tourniquet. The blood flow eased, without ceasing entirely.

  “Other leg,” Bradan said, ripping off another strip of the leine. He repeated the procedure on Melcorka's right thigh, with her blood soon soaking through the linen to drip slowly on to the grass.

  “That's slowed it,” Bradan said quietly. “I'll look for some sphagnum moss. That's the best thing.”

  “No. Get Defender,” Melcorka heard the weakness in her voice. “Push the blade against the wound.”

  “What?” About to argue, Bradan saw the weakness in Melcorka's face. “You know Defender best.” Lifting the sword, Bradan pressed the steel against Melcorka's left thigh, outside the bandage.

  “I can feel the blood flow easing,” Melcorka said. “The magic of the blade is working.”

  When the blood ceased to drip, Bradan did the same to Melcorka's right thigh.

  “Are you cured?” Bradan asked.

  “No.” Melcorka shook her head. “Defender can only staunch the blood for a while.” She looked up. “There is something inside me, Bradan. I can feel it.”

  Bradan did not see True Thomas appear until he stood over Melcorka. “You lost your fight, then.” True Thomas shook his head. “Sometimes, it is better to lose and learn than win and know nothing.”

  Melcorka grimaced in pain as she tried to stand. “I'll defeat him next time,” she said.

  “You may,” True Thomas said. “That will be a day you will not see.”

  “I'll see it,” Melcorka said. “I'll recover from these wounds, hunt Erik down and defeat him.” She looked down at her legs. “Or I will die, and Black Duncan or Finleac will finish the job.”

  “You will live.” Bradan tried to hide his worry behind a false smile.

  True Thomas only glanced at Melcorka's wounds. “Did you learn anything from this fight, Melcorka? Anything that will increase your chance of victory if you face Erik again?”

  Melcorka pulled Defender closer, shaking her head. “No.”

  “I did,” Bradan said. “I learned two things. I learned that the grey man is not only Erik's servant, but he also helps him fight as well.”

  Thomas nodded. “And the second thing?”

  “Erik cannot lift Defender. He tried three times, and the sword repelled him each time.”

  “The hilt,” Melcorka said, twisting as the pain increased inside her. “The priests at St Cuthbert's in Carham blessed Defender's h
ilt.”

  “That worked, then,” Bradan said.

  “Erik still defeated me,” Melcorka gasped, writhing on the ground.

  Bradan pressed sphagnum moss into the wound on her left leg. “You were not only fighting Erik,” he said. “You were fighting the grey man as well.”

  “He was not involved,” Melcorka said.

  “He was,” Bradan contradicted her, pressing a pad on to Melcorka's right leg. “Every time you gained an advantage, the grey man put his hand inside his bag and Erik countered you.”

  “The bag?” Melcorka tried to rise, gasped, shook her head and sank back down. “How did that help?”

  “I do not know,” Bradan said. “There must be something inside the bag.”

  True Thomas nodded. “Remember, Bradan, evil's smiling arrogance will reveal the light.”

  “What does that mean?” Bradan asked, but Thomas did not answer as he spoke to Melcorka. “Erik has the power of evil with him. True evil.”

  “He told me about Loki's sword.” Melcorka forced herself to stand, holding on to Bradan for support. “Loki has given him the power.”

  “There is worse than Loki,” True Thomas said. “You cannot defeat all evil on your own. You need help. You must journey to rebuild your strength, and fight Erik only when you have the spiritual strength and the words to win.”

  Melcorka pulled herself to her feet. “To where must I journey to find the words and win this fight? I can hardly stand, let alone walk.”

  “Follow the oystercatchers.” Thomas pointed upward. Melcorka looked, saw nothing, returned her gaze and Thomas was gone.

  “Where the devil is he?” Melcorka asked, but the only reply came from the raucous screams of seabirds until, half-hidden by a flock of gannets, the oystercatchers landed in front of them.

  “Has True Thomas sent you?” Bradan asked the birds.

  The birds looked at him, orange beaks seeming to nod assent.

  “Are you here to guide us?” Bradan waited for the next nod. “Go slowly then, for Melcorka is wounded.”

  Rising gracefully, the oystercatchers circled before heading to the peak of the Bass, the white on their wings flashing through the night.