Loki's Sword

by Malcolm Archibald

  Of the three, Astrid appeared the least concerned. “Cats have never bothered me,” she said.

  “What now?” Bradan asked.

  “Now we continue,” Melcorka said. “We go on to Dun Dreggan.”

  Bradan shuddered. Even the name sounded ominous.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Melcorka saw Dun Dreggan from across the flat landscape. It stood on an isolated rock stack, 100 yards off the grim coastal cliffs with the sea frothing and boiling around its base. Flocks of seagulls circled, screaming, with skuas competing with herring gulls to see who could make the most noise. Between the edge of the mainland cliff and the castle, a slender rope bridge swung crazily above the sea.

  “That is a hard place to visit unless the owner invites you,” Bradan said.

  “That is Dun Dreggan,” Astrid said soberly. “Once I have guided you there, you are on your own.”

  The castle was unlike any Melcorka had seen. The base rose sheer, nearly like a continuation of the rock stack, with a profusion of turrets that soared skyward. The single entrance that faced the mainland was barely the height of a tall man, although sufficiently wide to accommodate four men abreast. From the base of the castle to 20 feet up, Melcorka could not see a single window, while arrow-slits punctuated the upper storeys.

  “It would be a hard task to take that castle without a battery of catapults,” Melcorka said.

  “We are not here to capture the castle,” Bradan reminded. “We are here to gain access. We are here to gain information about the Book of Black Earth.”

  “That may also be a hard task.” Melcorka pointed upward, where the two ravens that had been their constant companions circled, watching them. “I suspect the Lord of Dun Dreggan is already aware of our presence.”

  “He will be. Look.” Astrid nodded forward as the castle gate opened and a man wearing a catskin hat stepped out, carrying a box under one arm. As he crossed the swaying bridge, two others followed, one with a small, square table and the second with a pair of straight-backed chairs. Both were lithe, active men, with cat-skins over their heads and the legs of cats draped over their shoulders.

  “I remember that the ancient Fenians fought a tribe of cat-heads,” Melcorka said. “Perhaps these are the descendants.”

  “There are too many cats in this province of the cats.” Bradan watched the men on the swaying bridge. “Cat-creatures, Great Men of the Cats and now men wearing cat skin.”

  “What is this?” Melcorka asked as the servants set up the table in the centre of the narrow bridge and withdrew. The man in the cat-skin hat sat on one of the chairs, facing the mainland, and set out a chessboard. Pointing to Melcorka, he gestured her forward.

  “I think he is challenging you to a game of chess,” Bradan said. “Have you ever played the game?”

  Melcorka shook her head. “Never.”

  “Then I shall take your place.” Lifting a hand, Bradan stepped on to the bridge. He had taken a dozen steps when the man in the cat-skin hat clapped his hands and a dozen skuas rose from the castle walls and dived toward Bradan. As the Arctic skua is a fast, furious and aggressive bird, known to attack anybody who came near their nest, Bradan raised his staff in defence. The man in the cat-skin hat clapped again, and the birds changed tactics, with two swooping at Bradan's head and the others at his body.

  Fending off the two highest birds, Bradan gasped as one of the others dug its beak into his hand. He swung his staff at it, missed, and swore as two more pecked at his eyes.

  “Bradan!” Melcorka ran on to the bridge, drawing Defender. “I'm coming.”

  Three of the birds altered direction to attack Melcorka, as the man in the catskin hat began to rock the bridge, left and right, further unbalancing Bradan, until the man in catskin lifted his hand and the birds withdrew, leaving Bradan and Melcorka on the bridge. The man in catskin gestured Bradan back.

  “Only the woman.” His voice hissed.

  Bradan stood up, holding the rope parapet for balance. “Melcorka cannot play chess.”

  “Only Melcorka, or nobody,” the reply came.

  Putting her hand on Bradan's shoulder, Melcorka nodded. “I will come. Bradan; return to the mainland.”

  Looking down at the boiling sea hundreds of feet below, Bradan hesitated, until Melcorka hardened her voice.

  “Go, Bradan. We have no choice.”

  “Melcorka is correct,” Astrid said softly. “She is fulfilling her destiny.”

  Returning to the mainland, Bradan stood beside Astrid, leaning on his staff as Melcorka strode towards the table. The man in the cat-skin hat waited, gesturing for Melcorka to sit opposite him as the wind pushed the bridge this way and that and the skuas patrolled Dun Dreggan.

  “To enter Dun Dreggan,” the man in the cat-skin hat said, “you must first answer my riddles, then play me in three games and win two of them, or the gates will lock.”

  “I'll open them,” Melcorka said.

  “Once they are locked, no woman, no man and no magic will be able to prise them open. The only way in is by defeating me.”

  Looking over the side of the bridge, Melcorka could see only the white-frothed surge of the sea, where the grey-green breakers smashed on to the base of the stack and the cliff of the shore.

  “Who are you?” Melcorka asked.

  “I am Chattan,” the man said. Close to, his face was dark, with yellow eyes and a thin moustache. The cat-skin hat fitted on close-cropped hair.

  “All right, Chattan.” Melcorka sat on the hard chair with the bridge swaying beneath them and the birds screaming all around. “Riddle me your riddles, Man of Words.”

  Chattan smiled, showing rows of sharpened teeth. “Riddles you shall have, Woman of the Sword. The first is easy: what is higher than the king's house, and finer than silk?”

  Melcorka laughed. “Oh, Man of Words, that is an easy ask. We played such word games when I was a child. Smoke rises higher than the house of any king and is finer than the finest silk.”

  Chattan gave a mirthless smile. “You are correct, Woman of the Sword. You will not find the next so easy. Tell me how this can be possible: a man went to a tree where there were apples; he did not leave apples on it, and he didn't take apples off.”

  Melcorka looked past Chattan at the castle walls, counting the sentries she saw on the ramparts. “Oh, that man found a tree with only two apples, Man of Words. He took away one apple, leaving one on the tree.”

  Chattan frowned. “You've played this game before.”

  “Every child plays such games,” Melcorka said, studying the castle to find its weakness. “What can I defeat you at next, Chattan?”

  In return, Chattan indicated the chessboard he had set up before him. “This is an Eastern game,” he said, “popular with the Norse.”

  Melcorka snorted. “Show me how to play chess so I can defeat you.”

  “I hope you are a quick learner,” Chattan said, showing his teeth again, and gave Melcorka a brief lesson in the basics of chess.

  “That sounds easy enough,” Melcorka said. “You start.”

  Melcorka pondered the board as Chattan moved his king's pawn forward, then she followed his lead, copying his movements without any idea what she was trying to achieve. She looked up as Chattan said: “Checkmate.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that I have won,” Chattan said. “We have two more games to play.” He clapped his hands, and the servants rushed up to replace the chess set with a pack of playing cards.

  “I know what playing cards are,” Melcorka said.

  “Good.” Chattan expertly shuffled the pack. “We'll keep this simple. You draw a card, and I'll draw a card, with the highest winning.”

  Melcorka nodded. She could feel the wind rising, ruffling her hair and blowing her cloak against her legs. Chattan did not seem perturbed as the rope bridge swung madly back and forward. The ravens perched on the handrails, one on each side, their hard, intelligent eyes watching Melcorka. “You f
irst,” Melcorka invited. “I like to know what I have to beat.”

  “As you wish,” Chattan said, shuffled the pack again and pulled out a card which he placed, face down, on the table in front of him. “Now you.”

  Melcorka ran her hands across the pack, selected a card at random and placed it in front of her. “Now what?”

  “Now we turn it over,” Chattan turned his card. A queen stared up at the sky.

  “Not bad,” Melcorka turned her card. A king.

  “One game each,” Chattan said. “Everything hangs on the final game.”

  “It does,” Melcorka glanced at the sea, far below. Only the waves were there, beating unceasingly at the immovable rock. “What is the final game?”

  “You will like it,” Chattan said. “It is called catch the cat.”

  “Catch the cat?”

  “Yes,” Chattan rose suddenly, walking backwards along the swaying bridge. After he had taken a dozen steps, the castle gate swung open, and a horde of cats emerged. Ignoring Chattan, they bounded at Melcorka as she balanced on the bridge. “Catch them all, Swordswoman!”

  Unsure whether the cats were friendly or not, Melcorka drew Defender as she walked forward. Her uncertainty ended when the first animal leapt at her face with fully extended claws. She flicked it aside, ducked the next and saw Chattan retreat inside the gate. He remained there, watching as Melcorka stood alone on the bridge except for a tangle of cats.

  Rather than retreat, Melcorka ran forward, using Defender as a shield rather than a weapon as she strove to reach the rock stack. The cats leapt on her, scratching, biting, and raking at her face, arms and legs. One jumped on her shoulders and chewed the back of her neck.

  “Melcorka! I'm coming!” Bradan raced on to the bridge, with his weight making it sway more violently than ever. “Hold on!”

  Tearing the first of the cats from her, Melcorka threw it aside as she strove to reach the far side of the bridge. Chattan remained where he was, his yellow eyes slanting slightly. As Melcorka battled though the mass of cats, Chattan gave a signal and two of the servants appeared, both wearing cat-skin coats.

  “Be careful, Bradan,” Melcorka urged, slicing her way through an increasing number of clawing cats. As she lunged forward, Chattan made a chopping motion with his hand, and the servants produced axes and began to cut through the posts that held the bridge.

  “Bradan!” Melcorka yelled. “Get back! Get off the bridge!”

  More cats came, and more, piling on to the bridge, blocking Melcorka's progress.

  “Get back, Mel!” Bradan shouted desperately.

  Smiling, Chattan lifted a hand in farewell as the servants chopped through the final inch of the timber stanchions. The rope bridge recoiled at once, jerking away from the stack, spilling a score of cats and taking Melcorka with it as it sprang towards the mainland.

  Hastily thrusting Defender back in her scabbard, Melcorka grabbed the rough parapet and hung on desperately. She felt herself falling back above that savagely churning sea, until the remains of the bridge slammed against the cliff, knocking the breath from her so she could only gasp. The bridge swayed under her, with the waves smashing at her feet and spindrift rising 30 feet above her head.

  “Bradan!” Staring over her shoulder, Melcorka saw him fall. “Bradan!” She stretched out a hand, watching in hopeless despair. It was an image Melcorka would always remember – the sight of Bradan losing his grip on the rope parapet of the bridge and tumbling, spiralling with his hands and legs splayed apart and his staff beside him, down and down for ever. He landed with scarcely a splash in the frothing, green-and-white savagery that was the sea.

  “Bradan!” Letting go of the ladder, Melcorka dived in. Avoiding the rocks by a hand's breadth, she plunged under the water, searching for Bradan. The sea was disturbed, full of sand, with virtually no visibility. She groped blindly, surfaced, took another breath and tried again, and again, without success. The sea had taken Bradan as if he had never been there. Staring at the maelstrom of white water, Melcorka hoped for something, Bradan's cloak, his bobbing head, anything. There was nothing; the sea did not give Bradan up. She dived, again and again, each time feeling herself weaker than the last.

  Eventually, gasping for breath, Melcorka returned to the bottom of the ladder where it flogged against the cliff.

  “Bradan.”

  There was no sign of Bradan. No head above the turbulent waves, not even his body floating on the tide. He was gone.

  When she regained her strength, Melcorka began the laborious climb back up to the top of the ladder. Pulling herself on to the cliff, she stood there, with the death of Bradan a sickening pain in her heart.

  “I will avenge you, Bradan,” she said through tears she thought she had forgotten how to shed. “I will destroy that castle and all inside it, whatever it takes.” Yet even as she spoke, Melcorka knew that the power within Defender would refuse to help in a simple case of revenge.

  Melcorka recalled her mother telling her about Defender's powers and limitations when she was an immature young woman.

  Melcorka touched the hilt of her sword. “I chose the sword,” she said, “but I cannot use it, and I still do not know what is happening.”

  Bearnas smiled. “You do know. You were born with the way of the sword. Let Defender guide you.”

  “I named it that! How do you know its name?”

  “Defender is only one name people have called her. She was named long before your great-great-grandmother was born and she will exist long after you have taken the warrior's path.,”

  Melcorka laughed. “I am no warrior.,”

  “What do you think you are, if not a warrior?” Bearnas raised her eyebrows. “It is in you.”

  “But what do I do? How do I fight?”

  “That is a simple question to answer.” Bearnas put her hands on Melcorka's shoulders. “Look at me, girl!”

  “Yes, Mother,.” Melcorka fixed her gaze on her mother's eyes. They were steady and bright, wise with years.

  “You must never draw your blade unless in righteousness. You must defend the weak and the righteous and you must never kill or wound for sport or fun. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mother. I understand.”

  “Good,” Bearnas said. “You must never take pleasure in killing, or kill for revenge or cruelty. Fate has granted you a gift, and you must use it responsibly, or the power will drain and turn against you. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” Melcorka said.

  Melcorka sighed with the memory. Yes, she could still fight evil, but she could not avenge Bradan's death for the sake of vengeance. Glaring at Dun Dreggan, she thought of Bradan falling into that churning sea.

  No, although she could not use Defender to avenge Bradan, she did not intend that Chattan would escape. Surely, after years of fighting, Melcorka told herself, she had sufficient skills even without Defender to defeat a man who hid behind a cat-skin cloak? She would use Defender when she could and any other weapon when Defender refused to fight.

  “I will destroy this evil, Bradan, and if Defender does not help, then I will fight with my hands, my feet and even my teeth. I swear that by God or by every god that does or does not exist.”

  Squatting on the edge of the cliff, Melcorka fought the grief that threatened to weaken her. She was a warrior; there was no place for mourning. Later, when she had avenged Bradan, and Chattan was dead, she would mourn. Later. As the memories of all they had done together returned, Melcorka felt her anger rise. Bradan had travelled the world with only his staff for a weapon. He had braved oceans and plains, ice and storms, strange warriors in the New World and the old, only to die after returning home.

  “Fare ye well, Bradan, quiet man of the roads, seeker after wisdom. I will never see your like again.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I will never see you again.”

  As grief and anger merged, Melcorka stood erect opposite Dun Dreggan. Drawing Defender, she raised it high in the air.

&nbs
p; “I am coming for you, Chattan and all that you stand for! I am Melcorka Nic Bearnas. I am Melcorka the Swordswoman, and I swear that I will destroy you, and yours!”

  The wind took Melcorka's words and whipped them away, so she stood, a single woman of grief and valour, alone against the world.

  On Dun Dreggan, small lights showed through the upper arrow-slits, proving there was life inside, and Melcorka saw movement on the topmost towers as sentries took their positions. Knowing they were watching her, Melcorka sheathed Defender and stood still, observing the castle and its occupants.

  “You know I am here,” Melcorka said, “but you don't know what I am going to do. If I were you, I'd send a force to dispose of me. Come to me!”

  The ravens circled Melcorka, their calls sounding like the mockery of old gods. Melcorka looked up. “Your time is coming. Take my message to whomever sent you, omens of death. Tell her that Melcorka the Swordswoman is here.”

  The ravens continued to circle as night drew in, and the surge of the sea increased. Remaining where she was, Melcorka waited for star-shine before she scanned the stack on which Dun Dreggan stood. When she was a child, growing up on a small Hebridean island, Melcorka had to augment the food supplies of her family by climbing down the cliff for birds' eggs. A rock face above the sea was not insurmountable to a woman of her skill. As the silver light ghosted across the surface of the stack, Melcorka picked out her route to the top, searching for hand and foot-holds, ledges and any vegetation that could support her weight. After committing the route to memory, she stood up, to pace the edge of the cliff.

  “But first I have to get there,” she said. “The best time would be when the tide is out, so there is less water to cross. That is also the time the garrison should send across a party to kill me. Let them come.”

  Remaining in full view of Dun Dreggan, Melcorka dug a small hole for her hip and stretched out as if asleep. Used to the sounds of nature, she discarded the whisper of the wind and thud of the waves, so the scuffle of feet was quite distinct. She waited until they were close before rolling over, with Defender already naked in her hand.