Loki's Sword

by Malcolm Archibald

  Before she had time to shout, Melcorka felt a great force drag her down. She tried to turn to face downwards, but the thing was faster than she believed possible, taking her down and down until her lungs screamed for oxygen.

  At last able to twist to peer beneath her, Melcorka realised that she was near the bed of the loch. What felt like a hundred tentacles were writhing and wriggling around her, from her feet up to her waist. Some were coiling around her legs, others exploring further up, their touch clammy and terrifying. Bending down, she slashed left and right with Defender, seeing bits fly from the tentacles. When the pressure on her legs eased, Melcorka kicked for the surface, with a score of the long arms following.

  Melcorka looked again, slicing one of the tentacles in half. With her chest feeling as if a heavy weight was compressing it, she saw that what she had thought were the arms of some massive monster was a mass of individual creatures. Eels, of every size from finger-length to longer than a full-grown man, covered the bed of the loch. Melcorka had seen eels before, but had never seen so many, or seen them so agitated – something must have disturbed them. Taking a final slash at them, Melcorka pushed upwards, breaking the surface with a loud splash as she sucked in lungfuls of air.

  “Any monsters?” Thyra asked fearfully as she paddled frantically for the north-western shore.

  “Not even one,” Melcorka took the sheepskin float that Bradan held for her and sheathed her sword. “Only eels.” She did not say how many there were, or that something must have disturbed them. That could wait until they were safe. “Come on.” She pushed her tired muscles towards the northern shore, now within striking distance. “Get rid of the floats – they're slowing us down.” Melcorka curled her toes in anticipation of another eel attack.

  “Mel,” Bradan said as he thankfully released the sheepskin float. “Down the loch,” he nodded to the south and west. “Can you see it?”

  Separate from the descent of night, an area of greater darkness spread across the lower section of the loch. It floated above the water, not quite touching the waves, yet Melcorka sensed the malignity within. She realised that she was looking at the real monster of Loch Ness, the force that had disturbed the eels and terrified shoals of fish into flight.

  “That's no monster,” Bradan said.

  “No,” Melcorka reached for the hilt of Defender, although she knew the sword could not help her here. “It's something far worse.”

  “What can be worse than a monster?” Thyra's voice was high-pitched.

  “I can fight and kill a monster,” Melcorka said. “Steel can't fight a dark cloud or an evil spirit.”

  “You promised I would be safe.” Thyra looked fearfully down the loch.

  “So you will if you stop talking and get swimming.” Bradan pushed her on. “We're nearly there, and that thing is still some distance away. Swim as if your life depended on it.”

  “Or your soul,” Melcorka said.

  “I'm scared.” Thyra's voice rose to a scream.

  “We'll look after you.” Bradan urged her on, looking over his shoulder.

  The cloud crept closer, a silent thing that blocked the light of the setting sun and spread gloom along the narrow strip of water. The hills on either side darkened as the cloud slid over them, while the water assumed a glassy calm as if somebody had spread oil across the surface. Melcorka had to force herself to continue as a strange lassitude entered her body.

  “I can't breathe,” Thyra gasped.

  “The air is very heavy,” Bradan agreed, “like the feeling before a thunderstorm.”

  “Swim,” Melcorka urged, fighting the apathy. “Don't look back, just swim!”

  The shore seemed to be further away than ever as they pushed toward it, forcing themselves through the bitingly cold loch as the darkness eased toward them. Crying, Thyra began to splash at the water. “I can't go any further. Just leave me here.”

  “No,” Melcorka knew her apathy was part of the attack. Taking hold of Thyra, she dragged the young woman behind her, urgently aware they had to escape from the cloud. “Keep going, Thyra. Don't give up.”

  They reached the shore five yards in front of the dark cloud. Thyra lay on the beach, sobbing and gasping until Melcorka grabbed her shoulder and pulled her roughly to her feet.

  “Run,” Melcorka said, pushing Thyra in front of her. “Get inland quickly!”

  “I can't,” Thyra said.

  “You must,” Bradan insisted. “Look behind you.”

  The dark cloud had covered the surface of the loch and was creeping inland, flattening the grass and heather as it had levelled the surface of the waves. “If you stay here,” Bradan said, “that thing will reach you. It will crush your soul, erode your spirit and leave you an empty shell.”

  “How do you know?” Thyra said. “It might just pass over us.”

  “I know because I saw what that darkness did to Melcorka.”

  Thyra looked, shuddered and rose reluctantly to her feet. Taking her hand, Bradan pulled her behind him, ignoring her pleas to stop, with Melcorka in the rear, watching the dark cloud creep the length of the loch.

  They ran for a full five minutes before Bradan stopped to look behind him. “It's not following,” he said, panting. “It's stopping on the periphery of the water.” He took a deep breath to calm his racing heart. “So that's the monster of the loch, is it? I prefer something with scales and fire.”

  “So do I,” Melcorka said. “Has it always been here, Thyra?”

  “When we arrived here, the old folk talked about it,” Thyra said, “but as a memory, not something that still existed. It came back about a year ago.”

  “About a year ago.” Melcorka gave Bradan a meaningful look. “As we thought, Brad, about the same time as that other dark spirit was revived.”

  “The Book of Black Earth?” Bradan said.

  “The Book of Black Earth,” Melcorka said. “We have to find that thing and destroy it.”

  “At the minute,” Bradan said, “we have something else to worry about.”

  Melcorka looked up. A score of Norsemen surrounded them, spears and swords pointing at them and with a score of arrows aimed ready.

  “Oh, dear God.” Melcorka said. “Is there no peace in this land?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Albans?” The speaker was tall, with long blond hair and a beard that descended nearly to his chest.

  “Albans,” Bradan agreed. “I am Bradan the Wanderer, and this is Melcorka Nic Bearnas of the Cenel Bearnas.”

  “And you? The speaker addressed Thyra.

  “I am Thyra, daughter of Frida, daughter of Estrid,” Thyra answered with some pride.

  “You're Norse. What are you doing with these Albans?”

  “These Albans rescued me.” Thyra stood very erect, unafraid despite the arrows and spears pointing at her. “Take me to my father.”

  The bearded man laughed. “Of course, your ladyship. And who is your father? Odin himself?”

  “You may have heard of him,” Thyra said. “Jarl Thorfinn.”

  The laughter stopped. The men who pointed spears at Thyra lowered them at once, while the archers directed their missiles towards Bradan and Melcorka.

  “We'll take you to the Jarl,” the bearded man said. “If you are who you say you are.”

  “Who are you?” Thyra accepted the Norsemen”s respect as if it were her due.

  “I am Arne Ironarm,” the bearded man said.

  “These two Albans saved me,” Thyra said. “They are my friends and are not to be harmed, Arne Ironarm.”

  “You heard the lady,” Arne said. Reluctantly, the Norsemen lowered their spears and arrows, although there was suspicion rather than friendliness in their faces. “We”ll take you all to the Jarl,” Arne said, “and he will decide.”

  * * *

  Jarl Thorfinn welcomed his daughter with open arms and a surprisingly wide smile.

  “Thyra! I thought we had lost you!”

  Thorfinn was a large man,
broad-chested and bearded, who proved as generous with his hospitality as he appeared.

  “Come in, Melcorka and Bradan!” He bellowed the welcome. “Your name is known, Melcorka, and your deeds travel before you. I have heard of you killing three Danes at the Battle of Carham in the south of Alba, and how, long ago when you cannot have been more than a child, you repelled us at the battle of the River Tummel near Pitlochry.” He laughed again. “I was at that fight! A glorious day, although the wrong side won!”

  “And now you are back in Alba, Thorfinn,” Melcorka was not yet prepared to like a Norseman.

  “And here to stay,” Thorfinn said. “This is our land, now.”

  “Perhaps.” Melcorka embraced the Jarl as an equal as Bradan watched, leaning on his rowan-wood staff.

  “Join us,” Thorfinn led them into his large timber hall, where food and drink stood on a long table, and men and women looked up at their arrival. “This is Melcorka Nic Bearnas, and Bradan the Wanderer,” Thorfinn announced. “They saved my daughter Thyra from death and are my guests. Treat them well.”

  The Norsemen roared approval, with one jovial scoundrel passing over a horn of mead. Melcorka wondered who gave him the scar that disfigured his face from the corner of his ruined left eye to his jaw.

  “Sit and join us, fellow warriors!” the scarred man invited.

  “I am no warrior,” Bradan said. “I carry neither sword nor spear.”

  “No.” Thorfinn looked deeply into Bradan's eyes. “You battle demons in your own way, seeker after truth.”

  Bradan nodded. There was more to Thorfinn than just a jovial fighting man. “Thank you for your welcome, Jarl Thorfinn.”

  “Make way at the head of the table!” Thorfinn cleared spaces on the long bench with his voice and a simple sweep of his arm. “Sit ye down, Melcorka and Bradan! Slaves! Bring food and ale for my guests!”

  Melcorka found that she was hungry, while Bradan observed the faces of the Norse invaders who seemed little different from the Alban warriors in attitude and bearing.

  “You come in bad times,” Thorfinn said openly. “Evil is abroad in my Jarldom, as it is in Alba. You must have noticed the black cloud over the loch.”

  Melcorka nodded. “That is why we are here,” she said. “We hope to quell that evil, and the worse one that caused it.”

  There was no laughter in Thorfinn's eyes as he spoke. “Wars between nations are normal, Melcorka. It allows warriors to win renown, and men the chance to capture slaves and booty. That is life as it always will be. It is the same in this realm as it is in Asgard.”

  Melcorka listened without comment.

  “But this new evil…” Thorfinn shook his head. “It is beyond my understanding, Melcorka. All across my lands, there is disturbance, murders and unrest.”

  “It is the same in Alba,” Melcorka said. “Wherever we travelled, we met with evilness. Even the wild animals and birds are aggressive. I have never known the like.”

  “Nor have I,” Thorfinn said. “I am sure this man they call Butcher is the cause. I have sent my finest warriors to combat him, and none have come back. Every week, my men compete for the honour of seeking and fighting this man. I have suspended my war with Alba to defeat the evil.”

  Bradan looked up from behind his horn of ale. “You are sending men to their deaths,” he said. “No single warrior or combination of warriors can defeat the Butcher.”

  “He is like a hero of olden times,” Thorfinn said. “Except he is no hero. He has no honour and no purpose except to rape, kill and destroy. When he appeared, I thought he was an Alban champion, until I learned he was killing in Alba as much as in my jarldom. He has a servant, a man in grey, and now I hear there is a second killer in my jarldom.”

  “We have met the man in grey.” Melcorka said. “And the grey woman. I will deal with them, by and by.” Her hand hovered over the hilt of Defender.

  “Another killer?” Bradan put down the horn. “We had not heard that there was another. The disease of evil is surely spreading.”

  Thorfinn drained a horn of mead in a single swallow. “There is a second killer who calls himself the Headhunter.”

  Melcorka glanced at Bradan before she spoke. “Is he part of this evil? Or is he exploiting the disturbed state of the land?”

  Thorfinn shook his head. “I do not know, Melcorka.” He gestured to the crowded table. “My men are here to decide who will fight him next.”

  Bradan frowned. “Is this Headhunter a good warrior?”

  “He has killed some of my best.”

  “Then why fight him in single combat? Why not send a war party after him and ensure he is killed?”

  “You are bloodthirsty for a man who carries no weapon,” Thorfinn said. “Where is the glory in that? Where is the honour? My men wish to leave a reputation after their death. Valhalla welcomes warriors, not 10-to-one murderers.”

  Bradan nodded. “Aye, but where is the sense in allowing a killer to continue his murders when you have the means to stop him?”

  “We follow the same path, Bradan, but with different ideas,” Thorfinn said. “My men are getting ready to decide. Watch.” He raised his voice to a roar. “Bring torches!”

  Followed by a crowd of women, children, dogs and slaves, the warriors stood up from the table and filed outside the great hall to form a circle.

  “The Norse have a unique conception of honour,” Bradan said, leaning on his staff.

  “Erik kills honourable Norse warriors as easily as bold Albans,” Melcorka said. “These men are merely competing to die.” She sighed as Thyra joined them, freshly dressed in a white smock embroidered with silver.

  “I like to watch the men fight.” Thyra spoke like a princess rather than the scared child she had been that morning. Lifting a finger to one of the slaves, she demanded a chair and perched herself on it, leaning forward as the contestants appeared.

  The slaves bustled in with flaming torches to create a ring of fire 20 feet in diameter, with the entire population of the settlement gathering to watch. The women and children seemed as interested as the warriors, while dogs snarled at each other as their masters kicked them, and mothers cuffed their children with casual unconcern.

  Of the first two warriors to enter the ring, one was very young, scarcely more than a boy, while the other was a bearded man. They fought with sword and shield until the older man was the clear winner.

  “Erik would rend either of these without breaking sweat,” Melcorka said. “I do not know how good this Headhunter might be.”

  “Who is Erik?” Thorfinn had been listening.

  “Erik Egilsson,” Melcorka said. “He is the Butcher. Or rather, that is the name of the man who has become the Butcher.”

  “I knew Egil. I do not know his son.” Thorfinn grunted. “Egil was a fine warrior.”

  “He killed my mother.” Melcorka kept any emotion from her voice.

  “Your mother was a Bearnas, a noted warrior.” Thorfinn surprised Melcorka with his knowledge. “Egil killed her in battle – it was an honourable death. Bearnas will be in Valhalla, feasting with the heroes.”

  Melcorka looked around the ring, where the Norse roared their approval. There was no condemnation of the losers. If they fought bravely, their companions treated them with honour. Thorfinn's words made her think again about her mother's death. The Norse considered Bearnas's death to have been honourable and thought she was in Valhalla. Perhaps she was. Melcorka sighed. Should she allow the past to die now and stop seeking vengeance for something she could not alter?

  Two more warriors entered the ring, like gladiators of old. They fought until one was clearly the victor, with blood spilt, yet without serious injury as the crowd cheered their favourites. Arne Ironarm lost to a young, agile man, and laughed his way back to a horn of mead as the young man lost to the scarred-face man he had noted earlier.

  Bradan watched, shaking his head at the display of controlled violence, studying Melcorka's thoughtful expression. What are you th
inking, Swordswoman, surrounded by these men whose blood killed your mother? Are you plotting revenge? Or are you enjoying the company of men whose culture is so like your own?

  When all the men had participated, the victors fought each other until only two men remained. One was the warrior with the scarred face and the other a lithe young champion with eyes of stone.

  “Halfdan against Gorm,” Thorfinn explained for the benefit of Melcorka and Bradan. “Halfdan is the scarred man, Gorm the youngster and a faster man I have never seen.” He nodded. “This could be a fascinating contest.”

  More agile and lighter than the scarred man, Gorm nearly ran around the inside of the ring, launching swift attacks on Halfdan, who repelled them with skill brought on by years of experience. When Gorm eventually learned his method was not working, he tried to entice Halfdan forward, to tire him out. Halfdan seemed to take the bait and walked forward, but rather than tiring, pushed Gorm against the crowd, where the youngster's speed was of no avail. Forced to fight on Halfdan's terms, Gorm lost heavily.

  “You fight well, Gorm,” Halfdan said. “You have the makings of a warrior in you if you live to learn.”

  Melcorka joined in the cheering of the crowd, while Bradan watched in silence. Aware of the woman who was studying him from beneath a fringe of blonde hair, he paid her little heed. Used to bold warriors, no Norse woman would be interested in a tall, morose-faced man who wore a brown cloak and carried no sword.

  “Halfdan,” Thorfinn roared. “You have the right to face the Headhunter.”

  “I will bring you back his head,” Halfdan said. “Or he will take mine, and the heroes of Valhalla will welcome me.”

  “We will accompany you.” Melcorka spoke without looking at Bradan. “I would like to see this Headhunter.”

  “You will be at my side, Swordswoman,” Halfdan said. “But we do not leave for two days. That gives us plenty of time to feast, drink and tell lies about our prowess in battle.” Putting a brawny arm around Melcorka, he escorted her into the hall to the roars of the crowd.

  “Halfdan one-eye has taken your Melcorka.” the blonde woman was taller than Bradan had realised and even more shapely. She stepped close to him, clean-scented of fresh birch-bark perfume.