Loki's Sword

by Malcolm Archibald

  “I think Halfdan will find her more than he can manage,” Bradan said.

  “Are you not going to fight for her?”

  “I am no fighting man,” Bradan said. “And there is no need. Melcorka can handle him.”

  “The Norse believe that all men are warriors,” the woman said.

  “I am not Norse,” Bradan said and waited for the woman to give a scornful remark and leave.

  Placing her hand inside the crook of Bradan's elbow, the woman guided him away from the main table to a small bench far from the fire. “I know, Bradan. I am Astrid.”

  “It is a good name.” Bradan hid his surprise behind a sober face.

  “Sometimes, I am known as Revna, but I prefer Astrid. I have something to show you, Bradan the Wanderer.” A strange light seemed to come from Astrid's eyes. Attractive eyes, Bradan noticed without effort, they were blue and lively, with a rare depth of intelligence.

  Bradan smiled. “I am Melcorka's man,” he said. “Perhaps you had better invite her along as well?”

  “What I have to show you would not interest the Swordswoman,” Astrid said.

  Bradan shook his head. “I think you'd be better suited to a different man, Astrid. I am as ill-favoured with a woman as I am with a sword.”

  “No,” Astrid said. “It is you I wish to show, not any of these ranting fools.” She lowered her voice as if imparting a great secret. “It is a book.”

  “A book?” Bradan said. “I do apologise, Astrid. I had thought…”

  “You thought I was inviting you into my bed, Bradan,” Astrid said, smiling. “I am different from other women, as you are from other men.” She touched his arm. “I am still a woman, though, as you are still a man.”

  “What sort of book?” Bradan could not conceal his interest.

  “One of great beauty and intricate workmanship.” Astrid's grip tightened on Bradan”s arm. “Do you wish to see it?”

  “I do,” Bradan said.

  Taking him outside the great hall, Astrid led the way to a small timber building that the Norse used for storage. “I have to hide it in here,” she said, “for if Thorfinn or any other warrior found it, they'd burn it without thought.”

  Delving beneath a pile of kegs, Astrid pointed to what appeared to be a battered hunk of leather. “What do you think of that, Bradan?”

  Bending, Bradan brought out what had once been a very ornate book. The cover was of leather, sadly damaged where brutal hands had ripped off precious stones and gold thread, and the pages were hand-written with beautifully worked illustrations.

  Bradan held it reverently, shaking his head at the damage. “That's a religious book. It's the Christian Bible. It must have taken thousands of hours to transcribe. Where did you find it?”

  “Thorfinn's men looted a Pictish monastery. All the other manuscripts were destroyed.” Astrid sighed. “They piled the books together and set fire to them. I don't know how much knowledge was lost, what treasures of geography, history, philosophy and theology we've lost for ever.”

  Bradan examined the pages, admiring the exquisite workmanship. “What a waste; what a sin to destroy such beauty. How did you save this?”

  “By barter.” Astrid spoke quietly, then lifted her chin, as if in defiance.

  “Barter?” Bradan examined one page where the artwork was so delicate that it took away his breath. “What treasure did you have to part with to obtain this?”

  “What does a woman have that all men want?” Astrid looked away. “I could not let them destroy any more.”

  “You are a brave woman,” Bradan said. “And a good one. That was a high price to pay, and I thank you for showing me this book. Even to hold such artistry is a privilege.” He smiled. “Someday, the world will thank you for saving something priceless.”

  Astrid touched his arm. “I thought you would like it, Bradan.” Her smile wrapped around him. “Do you think it was worth the price?”

  Bradan held the book as though it was made of the most delicate crystal. “Some Pictish monk, or more likely many monks, have laboured over this, copying every word by hand. The value is beyond calculation but you gave the most precious thing you have. Only you know if it was worth the price.”

  Astrid stepped back. “Who are you, Bradan? From where do you come?”

  Bradan shook his head. “Alba, I think. I may be a Pict, I am not sure. As far back as I remember, I have been walking.” He smiled into her eyes. “I am Bradan the Wanderer, a man of the roads, a man with no home.”

  “You are more than Bradan the Wanderer,” Astrid said. “You are Bradan the scholar, Bradan the Curious, Bradan the Seeker, Bradan the Faithful, Bradan the Peaceful, Bradan the Lost.”

  “Bradan the Lost, Astrid?” Bradan asked. “That title jarred after all the others.”

  “It was meant to.” Astrid smiled. “Please return the book. It's safe there.” Astrid watched as Bradan replaced the Bible beneath the kegs. “Sometime, I will find that book a home, with a man who appreciates more than the swing of a sword and the sound of a drunken song.” She turned around, raising her eyebrows. “Were you watching me bend over there?”

  “I was not,” Bradan denied.

  “No? Pity.” Astrid smiled again, teasing him with her eyes. “You are lost, although I doubt if you even know it. What are you seeking, Bradan? What is the purpose of your wanderings?”

  Bradan smiled. “That question has been in my head for some time, Astrid.”

  “Tell me more,” Astrid said. “Not here. We can find somewhere more comfortable than a woodshed.” Putting out her hand as if by right, she led Bradan to a smaller log-built house that stood in splendid isolation at the fringes of the settlement. Clapping her hands, Astrid cleared away a gaggle of dogs, children and slaves. “There, that's better, isn't it?”

  The interior was warm, with a high fire providing both light and heat, and several low benches and cushions scattered over the floor as furniture. The long couch attracted Bradan's attention, as did the exotic artwork that hung on the wall. “I've never seen a Norse house with such furniture, or with a picture on the wall,” he remarked.

  Draping herself on the couch, Astrid smiled. “I am as different from most Norse as you are from most Albans, Bradan. We are of a race apart, you and I, which has little to do with nationality. This couch,” she said, passing a small hand across the silk covers, “was stolen in a raid somewhere east of Miklagard. The picture came from the east side of the Caspian Sea, also stolen in a raid, and unappreciated by the uncouth men who stole them.”

  “How did you come by them?” Bradan asked.

  “I have my methods,” Astrid said. “Do you like it here?”

  “I do,” Bradan said. “It is extremely comfortable.”

  “Then stay the night,” Astrid said.

  “I have Melcorka,” Bradan reminded, gently. “I thank you for the offer.”

  “Melcorka.” Astrid smiled and flapped her hand in the air. “Melcorka will not even notice you are gone. Melcorka will be boasting and drinking with the best of them, or perhaps the beast of them.” Astrid laughed at her joke.

  Bradan remembered the drunken scenes he had witnessed in Norse and Alban halls, where even the bards and skalds praised the actions of fighting men, relishing the often-gory details. He knew that Melcorka could join in with song and story in a manner he could not emulate, and while she roistered the night away, he sought only a quiet space and the solace of the stars, or a civilised conversation. Or, he realised, the company of an intelligent man or woman such as Astrid.

  “Let me show you what your Melcorka is doing,” Astrid said.

  They heard the noise from the great hall from 100 paces away. Men were roaring in song, with rough laughter and the sound of horns or fists hammering on the table, dogs were barking, and a woman was screaming abuse. “Just stand at the door and look in,” Astrid said.

  Melcorka was standing beside Jarl Thorfinn with her hair loose around her shoulders, beating time with the hil
t of a dirk as the men bellowed out a song about the battle of Clontarf.

  “I was where men fought;

  A sword rang in Ireland;

  Many, where shields clashed,

  Weapons crashed in the helm-din

  I heard of their keen assault;

  Sigurd fell in the spear-din.”

  Two warriors sprawled drunk under the table, one in a pool of vomit, while another wrestled with a less-than-willing slave girl. Three dogs were competing for a bone with much snarling and showing of teeth, ignoring the large rat that was drinking from a spilt horn of mead.

  “You see?” Astrid said quietly. “Do you think Melcorka will miss you tonight?”

  “It does not look like it.” Bradan felt something lurch inside him. “She looks happy with the Norsemen.”

  Astrid patted his shoulder. “I am sorry if the sight causes you pain.”

  “It is what it is,” Bradan said. “There is no need for anybody to apologise for speaking or revealing the truth.” He watched as a hirsute Norseman placed a massive arm around Melcorka, drew her close and planted a smacking kiss on her cheek. Shaking her hair, Melcorka only laughed, lifted another horn of mead and drank it back, to the cries of encouragement of the assembly. Yellow mead ran down her chin to drip on to her cloak.

  “I don't need this,” Melcorka said, unfastening the clasp at her throat and throwing the cloak to a slave. “Keep that safe,” she shouted, “or it will be the worse for you!”

  The Norsemen roared louder with some demanding Melcorka removed more of her clothing. “Maybe later!” Melcorka laughed, pushed the hirsute man away as he pawed at her breasts. “And I want somebody younger than you, old man!”

  The warriors were still laughing when Bradan pulled away. “Let's return to your house,” he said. “Melcorka seems happy enough.”

  It is the tension of the past few weeks, he told himself. Melcorka needs to release some of the strain. She has not been herself since she came back to Alba. Yet a small voice within him denied that explanation. That is a warrior among warriors, the voice said, and a woman with her peers. I am too quiet a man for such a woman. Melcorka has been in worse danger than we faced here, without resorting to such a drunken debauch.

  Astrid's house seemed a welcome haven, with the fire bright and a quiet servant greeting them with a smile. The sheepskin rugs on the floor gave an aura of comfort and the picture on the wall an atmosphere of civilisation that Bradan had not seen since he left the East.

  “Are you all right, Bradan?” Astrid asked.

  “I am all right,” Bradan said. He tried to fight off his hurt. Although he had travelled with Melcorka for years, they had never made any formal bond of exclusivity; she was always her own woman, and he was his own man.

  “Sit down,” Astrid indicated the couch.

  “That is your seat,” Bradan said.

  Astrid smiled. “Now that marks the difference between you and other men, who would have taken that seat by right and not given me a second thought.” She perched on one end of the couch. “There is room for two,” she said solemnly, patting the space beside her.

  The servant crept around the room, adjusting the rugs, setting out fruit and a flagon on a small table, keeping herself unobtrusive.

  “Thank you, Ingrid. You may go now.” Astrid said. “There is no need for you to return.”

  Curtseying, the servant withdrew, closing the door behind her.

  “We won't be disturbed here,” Astrid gave a little smile. “There will be no drunken man crashing in, and no drunken women, either.” She stood up smoothly, with her pale green dress flowing around her as she stepped to the door. “Just to make sure,” she slid a heavy wooden beam across two brackets, holding the door secure. “I rather like my privacy.”

  “You are not private if I am here,” Bradan pointed out.

  “I rather like our privacy, too.” Astrid poured liquid from the flagon into two delicate glasses. “The wine is from southern Europe,” she said, “and the glasses, I do not know. They may be the result of legitimate trade or booty.” Astrid shrugged. “Either way, they are safer with me, with us, than with the ranting, roaring men in the great hall.”

  The wine was comforting to Bradan's confused emotions. “Thank you, Astrid.” He stretched out his legs, relaxing a little.

  “Now,” Astrid curled up on a rug in front of the fire. “Tell me of your adventures, Bradan the Wanderer. Tell me where you have wandered and what you have seen.” She smiled into his eyes. “You are such an interesting man that I want to know everything about you.” She filled up his glass. “Everything. How you met Melcorka, where you have been, what mysteries you have uncovered, who you have seen, what your philosophy is, how Melcorka got her sword, what you think about the stars; everything.”

  “That is a lot to tell,” Bradan said.

  “We have all night,” Astrid said. “And as our drunken companions will not wake up until late, and then with raging hangovers that will keep them quiet all day, we have tomorrow as well.”

  “Where shall I begin?”

  Astrid placed a hand on Bradan's leg. “At the beginning,” she said. “And continue to the end.” She patted his thigh and withdrew. “We can talk the night away, Bradan, and learn all about each other.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The warriors sat in near silence, broken only by an occasional groan or a sudden lurch outside to be sick.

  “Odin save me.” A warrior lifted his head briefly, groaned and replaced it on the table. He looked sideways at the hall, seeing that only embers remained of the fire, while slaves moved in fear of quick blows from suffering men. Two slave girls lay under the table, one intertwined with an unconscious young warrior, the other as naked as a new-born baby, coiled around a shaggy deerhound. Nobody looked at them – the warriors were suffering from the debauchery of the previous day and night.

  Outside, the rush of the nearby river was the loudest sound, save for the crowing of a cock, until a black-bearded man threw an axe at the bird and it flapped off, protesting. Once it considered itself safe, it began to call again.

  Melcorka adjusted her cloak, frowned at the new stains and resolved to wash it as soon as she could, although she wondered if the many patches could stand the strain of a vigorous pummelling in cold water. Trying to ignore the dull ache at the back of her head, she concentrated on the conversation around the table. Bradan was watching her, his eyes calmer than they had been for some time, although she sensed some inner turmoil she did not like. She would find out about that later, once they were back on the road.

  “I know more of the evil we fight,” Thorfinn said. “I spoke to our wise women this morning when you and the other warriors were raising the roof with your snoring.” Alone of the Norse, he seemed unaffected by the long drinking session. He chewed on a chicken leg, waiting for a response.

  “Indeed?” Melcorka managed to croak out the word from a mouth that tasted fouler than anything she could imagine.

  “The wise women reminded me of stories I heard while raiding in Sutherland.” Thorfinn bit another hunk of chicken. “There was evilness that haunted the moors over there. The locals call it the Cu-saeng – I do not know if there is a translation, and nor do I seek one.”

  “The Cu-saeng?” Melcorka repeated, trying to concentrate on the conversation while a hundred demons banged hammers on her skull. “A Druid told me that same name. Do you know what it is like?”

  “I do not,” Thorfinn said, “and nor does anybody else.” He gave a small smile. “The men of Sutherland told me that it controls the moors and lonely places, and people disappear. It is an evil that nobody sees and survives, but at night even the staunchest, strongest of warriors lock their doors and have their spears to hand, in case the Cu-saeng comes.”

  “Is it powerful?” Bradan joined in the conversation as he tried to avoid Astrid's intense gaze. He knew that Melcorka was looking at him, her eyes shrewd, despite the drink.

  “It is said to be
more powerful than any god,” Thorfinn said. “Although as nobody has seen it, I don't know how they can judge.” He took another bite of chicken, examined the remaining meat and threw the bone to a dog. When he looked at Melcorka, there were dark shadows in his eyes. “I am not scared of men, gods, devils or anything that walks on two legs or four,” he said, “but when I heard of the Cu-saeng, I felt a chill in my bones. Some things are best left alone, Swordswoman, however skilled you may be.”

  “That may be the evil I fight,” Melcorka said. “Thank you, Thorfinn. At least I now have confirmation of my enemy's name. And thank you for the warning. I will not take this thing lightly.” She glanced at Bradan. “We will not take the Cu-saeng lightly, and we have faced many evils across the world.”

  “If you see it,” Thorfinn said. “Try to survive long enough to let me know what it is like. I will be curious to know what sort of creature kills you!”

  Melcorka joined in the laughter of the reviving Norsemen. She looked at Bradan, whose smile was a little crooked, and at Astrid, who returned her gaze with an open stare that hid some secret thoughts. Melcorka nodded, leaned over to Bradan and touched his shoulder.

  “We'll be on our way soon,” she said. “I hope you had a restful night. You can tell me later.”

  “You have a test or two ahead,” Thorfinn said. “The Headhunter may be only a man, but he is formidable, and the Cu-saeng sounds infinitely worse.” He shook his head. “I do not like to send you away unprepared and alone. I could furnish a band of men; after all, you saved my daughter.”

  “Halfdan is with us,” Bradan said. “He knows this land better than we do. Once he has defeated the Headhunter, he can guide us northward.”

  “And that I shall do, by Odin's beard!” Halfdan was not a man to hide his feelings. He looked up from the table on which he had been supporting his head. “Once the hounds of Loki stop hammering at my skull I will join you both.”