Loki's Sword

by Malcolm Archibald

  “He was the best of men.” Maelona spoke with infinite sadness.

  “Was?” Melcorka struggled to sit up. “What happened to him? Where is he now?”

  “He is dead,” Maelona said, “in common with many of the good men of Alba. There is an evil stalking the realm, Melcorka, something that will only get worse, infinitely worse.”

  “How did he die?” Melcorka asked, though she already guessed the answer.

  “Erik Egilsson, the Butcher.” Maelona said. “Erik and his companions are a plague.”

  Melcorka had seen too many good men and women killed to be shocked by the death of one more. All the same, she had liked Aharn, and his death saddened her, despite her muddled mind. “Did you come here when you lost Aharn?”

  “I did,” Maelona said. “Alba is no longer the place for me. Aharn was a fine warrior, yet Erik Egilsson killed him casually, without any difficulty.”

  Bradan leaned closer to Melcorka. “Maelona and the People of Peace saved your life, Mel. You were near death, and they brought you back.”

  Melcorka remembered the sublime peace of the place she had left. “Thank you, Maelona.” She glanced at her legs again. “I don't know how Erik overpowered me so easily. He knew my movements before I made them. It was as if I had an ordinary sword rather than Defender.”

  Maelona sighed. “I am not sure advantage what Erik has,” she said. “All we know is he possesses the power of evil. Nobody, no champion or hero, can stand against him. His sword, Legbiter, senses their moves and counters them. Once he has their measure, Legbiter cuts them, and the poison of evil on the blade kills slowly.”

  Melcorka touched her legs; although both still throbbed, she knew the worst had passed. “You cured me.”

  “The People of Peace only cured the physical, not what evil was planted within you. It was difficult, even for the People of Peace,” Maelona said. “You were at the pit of death, Melcorka.” She glanced at Bradan. “If Bradan had not brought you here, you would have died.”

  Melcorka touched her swollen legs. “Can I get up?”

  “You will have to learn to walk again,” Bradan said, “and then you must regain your strength.” Although he smiled, Melcorka saw the shadows in Bradan's eyes and knew he was worried about her.

  “I can do that,” Melcorka spoke with more optimism than she felt.

  In Elfhame, time passed differently from elsewhere, so Melcorka did not know how many days, or weeks, elapsed before she could even stand. As Melcorka's health slowly improved, she was aware of the presence of the People of Peace. Sometimes they were as solid as any human, at other times they were ethereal beings, nearly transparent as they flitted at the edge of Melcorka's consciousness to her side and away again.

  “Walk,” Bradan encouraged. Standing a few paces in front of Melcorka, he held out his hands. “Come to me.”

  Gritting her teeth, Melcorka took a single step, gasped, rode the pain and took another. Her legs felt like heavy weights, although both were skeletal, merely bones with a thin covering of flesh. The scars left by Erik's sword were pale red, still weeping a colourless liquid. Melcorka's first step was painful; the second was agony, and she fell, with Bradan rushing to help her.

  “I've got you,” Bradan's arms were around her. “You're all right.”

  “No,” Melcorka tried to struggle free. “I must conquer this.”

  Standing alone, reeling on unsteady legs, Melcorka stretched her arms in front of her and tried again, wincing each time her feet made contact with the ground.

  After the first day, Melcorka lay on her bed, wondering what had happened. Beating the physical pain was hard; fighting the mental and emotional battle was worse. Used to constant victory, she found defeat nearly impossible to accept.

  “Welcome to the real world,” Bradan sat at her bedside, smiling down at her. “Once you can walk, we'll have you running about like a young deer.”

  “My legs are aching,” Melcorka said.

  “Good,” Bradan said. “The muscles are beginning to work again.”

  Melcorka forced a smile. “I'd like to meet Loki, face to face,” she said. “On my terms, not his.”

  Maelona joined them, perching on the opposite side of the bed to Bradan. “Whatever power is in Erik's sword, Melcorka, it does not come from Loki.”

  “Erik told me it did,” Melcorka said.

  “Erik is either lying or mistaken.” Maelona spoke quietly. “Loki is the name of the Norse spirit of mischief, if he exists at all. He will play pranks, he will cause upset and humiliation, nothing more. He cannot produce sufficient evil to counter the power inherent in Defender.”

  “What then?” Melcorka tried to order her cudgelled brain. “What can counter Defender?”

  “Something infinitely worse than Loki,” Maelona said. “The People of Peace think it is something even older than them, an evil so old it was here before life came to this world.”

  “Can I defeat it?” Melcorka asked.

  Maelona considered before she replied. “I do not know,” she said. “It is not from our time. You will need to find the man who awoke this evil and ask from where it came.”

  “Where is he? Was it Erik Egilsson?”

  Maelona shook her head. “At present, you are too emotionally weak to seek the man who unleashed the old forbidden entity.”

  “Where will I find this man?” Melcorka lifted her chin as some of her old spirit returned. “From where does this forbidden entity come?”

  “We do not know,” Maelona said. “It is knowledge that only the remaining Druids might have.”

  “The Druids?” Melcorka said. “I thought that order was extinct!”

  “Driven into hiding, perhaps,” Maelona said. “Some of the oldest families in the land still have a personal Druid. They are gatherers and holders of knowledge, as Bradan knows.”

  “I know it,” Bradan agreed.

  “Each Druid has his or her store of knowledge and wisdom,” Maelona said, “and once every year, they gather to share that knowledge.”

  Melcorka listened, trying to get her dazed mind to function.

  “Nobody except the chiefs knows who the Druids are, and only the Druids know where the gathering place might be.”

  “Carry on,” Melcorka invited, knowing that Bradan was absorbing every word.

  “Even the People of Peace only have one obscure clue,” Maelona said, “and we cannot work out the time or place.”

  “Tell me,” Bradan said. “I am a wanderer. I have wandered the paths and trackless places of Alba, Erin and Cymru, as well as the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms, all my days. I may know of this gathering place.”

  “Tell us your clue, Maelona.” Melcorka said.

  Maelona glanced around as if afraid of being overheard before she spoke in her low, musical voice. “One within three beside the mirror of the moon, with the wisdom of the old drawing from sacred blood.”

  There was silence as Melcorka and Bradan pondered the words. “Why are these things always in riddles?” Bradan asked eventually.

  “It is the way of the world,” Maelona said.

  “Does that mean anything to you, Bradan?” Melcorka asked.

  “Not a thing,” Bradan said. “I'll have to think about it.”

  “Oh.” Melcorka fought her disappointment. She had hoped that Bradan could immediately unravel the mystery. “You do that, Bradan.”

  Day followed day, with Melcorka gradually regaining her physical strength, although she brooded over her defeat and was worried how she would cope in any future encounter. Leaning Defender against the wall, she barely glanced at the sword as the days smoothed past. Bradan watched her, shielding his concern behind cheerful conversation.

  They remained within Elfhame, not sure about the passage of time, uncertain if they would ever be allowed back to their own realm, ignorant what was happening in the world outside as Melcorka progressed from a single tottering step to a full day on her feet. Eventually, after what might have been a year or th
ree months, Melcorka declared herself fit once more.

  “You are only partially healed,” Maelona said. “Although physically you are better, your mind is still damaged.”

  “I cannot remain here any longer,” Melcorka said. “I cannot continue to take the People's hospitality.”

  “Are you ready to leave Elfhame?” Maelona asked.

  “We are ready,” Melcorka touched Defender for the first time in weeks. “We will seek this mysterious place beside the mirror of the moon.”

  “The People of Peace wish you well,” Maelona said. “Fighting this darkness benefits us as well as humanity.”

  “How do we leave?” Bradan was desperate to be on his way.

  “You already have,” Maelona said.

  When Bradan looked around, a soft wind dissipated the green mist, and they stood on the upper slopes of the Eildon Hills, with half of Alba revealed before them.

  Melcorka stood, round-shouldered, holding Defender as if she had never seen her sword before. “I want to go back,” she said.

  Chapter Nine

  Erik sat on a rounded boulder within the ramparts of the ancient hill fort, with the ravens circling him in ever-widening spirals. He sharpened Legbiter on a smooth stone, using long, even strokes up the length of the sword. With each stroke, the dark blade thrummed, creating sombre music. Ten paces from Erik, the man in grey stood, unsmiling, his face unemotional, and the grey bag slung over his shoulder.

  “It is a hard price to pay,” Erik said, looking up from his task.

  “It is the bargain you agreed,” the grey man spoke without moving his lips, the thoughts transferred from his mind to Erik's in an instant.

  “It is a harder bargain than I wished.”

  “It is the bargain you agreed,” the grey man reiterated.

  Erik continued to sharpen Legbiter, keeping his head down to hide the tears in his eyes. “I do not wish to continue with the bargain. I want my freedom from Loki.”

  “It is the bargain you agreed,” the grey man repeated once more.

  “I wish to end it.” Erik said.

  The grey man put a hand on top of his bag and his laughter was painful as it ripped through Erik's head. He cringed, dropping the sword and holding both hands to his ears, which only trapped the laughter within his mind. “No,” he said, “no,” as the noise increased, expanding until it reached every part of him. “No!”

  The grey man did not move. There was no expression on his face as Erik writhed and kicked, clutching his head until the laughter ended as abruptly as it began.

  Lying on the ground, exhausted, Erik felt the sweat soaking him from scalp to feet. The grey man stood as unemotional as before.

  “It is the bargain you agreed.”

  Erik dragged himself to his feet. “It is the bargain I agreed,” he said miserably. Lifting Legbiter, Erik returned to the task of sharpening it, using the same long, even strokes that rang around the interior of the fort. As he worked, the two ravens hopped closer, until one stood on each shoulder. A soft wind whispered through the tumbled stones of the ancient hill-fort, a reminder that all things come to an end, and even the most powerful of empires fade away.

  Erik looked up as the idea came to him. Standing, he tested the edge of his blade, drawing a bright bead of blood from his thumb.

  “He is here.” The words formed in his mind. “You are a Norseman, Erik Egilsson; fight. Kill him now.”

  The ravens continued to fly in ever-increasing circles from the hill fort, their eyes seeing everything below them.

  Standing on the highest point of the once-formidable ramparts, Erik saw the small group of men approach, their horses appearing to crawl across the bright green of the countryside. Even from this distance, Erik could see that one man rode slightly in advance of the others, with his black cloak flowing from his shoulders.

  “Black Duncan the Grim,” Erik said. “Come to kill, or be killed.”

  Stepping back from the lichen-smeared stones, Erik stripped off his clothes and lay on a depression in the ground, drawing energy from the soil. The power eased into him, increasing his strength, sharpening his mind, augmenting the force of Legbiter, so when Erik rose, he was ready to fight. Knowing that Black Duncan would find him, Erik took pains to smear the mud over his body from neck to upper thighs before he dressed. The grey man watched, saying nothing.

  Only when he was dressed did Erik pull up his hood and return to the boundary stones of the fort. He watched the horsemen mount the slope, carefully avoiding the lines of sharp rocks that long-dead hands had placed there to deter attackers. Black Duncan halted his horse a spear's throw from Erik, studying him carefully before he spoke.

  “Are you the man they call the Butcher?”

  “That is one name that men call me,” Erik replied.

  “Then I am here to kill you.”

  “I know that, Black Duncan the Grim.” Erik felt the power of the earth enter his body and the surge of evil from Legbiter. “We shall fight, and one of us shall die this day.”

  “Yes. A fair fight, warrior to warrior, and neither your servant nor my men shall be hurt, whoever is the victor,” Black Duncan said.

  “You have my word,” Erik promised.

  “And you have mine,” Duncan said.

  Dismounting, Black Duncan walked the final 50 paces to the boundary wall. He looked inside the fort, where Erik had withdrawn to the muddy depression in the centre and waited for him, shield on left arm and sword in his right hand. No longer in the sky, the two ravens had returned to Erik's shield, looking out balefully from either side of the central spike. The grey man stood beside the tallest remaining part of the boundary wall, nearly invisible against the grey stones.

  Please kill me. Erik thought and winced at the waves of pain that attacked him. “You stand well, dead man!” He said, and the pain receded. “You will die today.”

  Saying nothing, Black Duncan nodded to his four followers, who moved towards the grey man, without approaching too closely.

  Erik clashed the blade of his sword against his shield, the sound reverberating around the fort. Both ravens departed and circled above, eyes busy. They could see the empty countryside for miles around, and the corpses of men, women and children that Erik had killed or left to bleed to death. Each body had one arm outstretched, pointing towards the hill-fort, easy markers for Black Duncan to follow.

  After checking that no other warriors followed Duncan, the ravens returned to Erik's shield. Erik clashed his sword again, stepping forward.

  Saying nothing, Black Duncan undid his cloak, letting it fall to the ground. Now his dark padded leather could be seen, and the dozen darts he wore at his belt. Without a word, he drew a dart in his right hand, aimed and threw it at Erik, who stepped aside. The dart missed, but Black Duncan followed with two more. Erik caught the second on his shield and gasped as the third nicked the outside of his right arm, drawing blood that slowly descended to his bent elbow and dripped in scarlet drops to the grass below.

  The grey man watched impassively, as ever.

  Black Duncan circled, lifted another dart, feinted left, feinted right and threw it in a high arc. When Erik lifted his shield to catch the dart, Duncan ran forward, drawing his sword, holding it low on his right side with the point uppermost.

  The grey man placed his right hand inside his bag.

  Dropping the shield, Erik swooped left and right, avoided Duncan's twisting thrust by a fingers-breadth and slashed at Duncan's left thigh. Drawing Legbiter across Duncan's muscle, he withdrew, caught his shield before it hit the ground and stood waiting as Duncan's forward rush faltered. Duncan looked down at his injured leg, shook his head and plucked two more darts from his belt. With the blood already running down his thigh to his foot, he stepped forward, aimed and threw. Erik caught both on his shield, laughed and ran towards the quickly weakening Duncan.

  Leaping into the air, Erik dodged Duncan's next attempted throw and sliced sideways, opening a wound in Duncan's right arm. Dunc
an lifted a dart with his left hand and thrust, catching Erik on the side of his neck and forcing him back a step. Following his momentary advantage, Duncan swung his sword at Erik.

  The grey man pushed his hand deeper into his bag as Erik parried Duncan's weak sword stroke and slashed down the length of his right thigh, opening the flesh to the bone. Deprived of the use of both legs, Duncan fell at once. He was still conscious as Erik ran towards his shocked entourage and hacked them to pieces before they could even draw a sword.

  “They were not part of this.” Duncan could hardly hear his voice as he protested.

  Erik stood over him, using Duncan's black cloak to clean the blood, flesh and brains off Legbiter. “No,” he said and added curiously. “What's it like to know you are dying?”

  Lying in a pool of his blood and with his men butchered before him, Black Duncan reached for one of his darts, until Erik casually stepped on his hand.

  “You are a murderer and an oath breaker.” Duncan's voice weakened with every breath he took.

  “Yes.” Erik crouched at Duncan's side and dropped his voice to a whisper. “You are a lucky man, Duncan, luckier than you will ever know.”

  Although Duncan recognised the pain in Erik's eyes, he was more concerned with the two ravens that hopped towards him. When they began to tear at his eyes, he was glad that death released him from his torment.

  Chapter Ten

  The woman sat beside the hazel tree, as she had done for the past three days and three nights. Cross-legged, she ignored the intermittent rain that dampened her clothes and the wind that tangled her long blonde hair. At night, she heard the barking of a fox and once the spine-chilling howl of a pack of wolves. She remained still, becoming so much part of the landscape that a herd of deer passed her without hesitation and hopeful bees explored her bare arms. Feeling neither hunger nor thirst, she waited with the infinite patience of a child brought up in nature.

  At last, on the fourth day, she heard a whisper from the ground at the foot of the tree. It was only a small sound that most people would not notice, but the woman was aware of everything. She remained still when the snake slithered out, the distinctive marks on its back proclaiming it was a venomous viper. The snake crawled over her legs and away into the long grass at her side. The woman remained still as a second viper followed the first, and then a third followed the second. Only when six snakes had passed over her legs did the woman move, for it was the seventh snake she desired.