Loki's Sword

by Malcolm Archibald

  How many days had she been here? Was it 10? Or 12? Maybe 14? Melcorka did not know. She could not remember. Her life seemed to be a succession of breezy days staring at a choppy blue sea and cold nights peering into the darkness, hoping to see the sails of an invading fleet. She hoped that Bradan and Astrid were still alert, chewed on a hunk of cheese and settled down for another cold night.

  Although she had arranged the beacons in person, Melcorka was still surprised when the light flickered from the west, the pre-arranged signal from Astrid. After so many fruitless days, she found her mind nearly numbed. Melcorka counted the flashes, knowing that Astrid held a cover in front of the fire and flicked it away again to indicate the number of ships she had seen.

  When she counted 10, Melcorka frowned. When she reached 20, she scored the ground with her foot. A small Norse longboat would carry 25 men, a medium vessel up to 60 and the largest 100 men. Twenty ships indicated that Erik did not intend a mere raid. He had a minimum of 500 men, and as many as 2,000. Erik was bringing a full army.

  The lights continued to blink; another 10 times, and then another 10 after that. If Astrid was right, and the ships she saw belonged to Erik, there was a fleet of 40 ships sailing up the Moray Firth. Melcorka tightened the buckles on her sword belt. However skilled Defender made her, she could not defeat an entire army, particularly if Erik and Legbiter were there. She hoped that Mael Coluim and Thorfinn had both gathered their warriors, for the invaders could land anywhere on this coast with an army numbered in the thousands.

  When the fire-blink concluded, Melcorka lit the signal fire she had already prepared and transferred the same signal to the west, so that Bradan knew what was happening. She trusted Bradan to be alert for the warning and to send a messenger to Jarl Thorfinn at his base a few miles north and westward of his frontier with Alba.

  Running down the wooded slopes of the Bin, Melcorka stopped at the small encampment at the lower slope. Four men lay around the dying embers of a fire, one snoring loudly and the others quiet in their sleep.

  “Wake up!” Melcorka kicked the sleeping forms without mercy. “Get up, you lazy scoundrels!”

  The men stirred, turning sleep-hazed eyes on her. “What's happening?”

  “The Norse are happening!” Indifferent to their nakedness, Melcorka dragged them upright. “Forty ships!”

  “Forty?” The tallest of the men stared at her, unable to comprehend the number. “Cnut?”

  “I doubt it,” Melcorka said. “It will be Erik Egilsson.”

  “Forty ships?” Another of the men repeated the figure, goggling with the stupidity of sleep.

  “You!” Melcorka jabbed a hard finger into the tallest man”s ribs. “Go and warn the king. Tell him there is a fleet sailing up the Moray Firth. Go!” She pushed him away.

  “I'll get dressed first,” the man said.

  “By God, you should never have been undressed when danger threatens!” Melcorka kicked his backside with genuine anger. “Hurry, man!”

  As the man scrambled to dress, Melcorka addressed a ginger-haired, freckled youngster who was already pulling on his clothes. “You! Run to the farms near the coast and warn them the Norse are coming.”

  “All of the farms?”

  “As many as you can. The news will soon spread. Tell the men to get whatever arms they can and gather here, at the foot of Cullen Bin, and wait for the High King.”

  The freckled man scurried away, leaping over half-seen shrubbery in his haste.

  “You two, come with me!” Melcorka returned to the summit of the hill.

  In the time she had been away, the dawn had strengthened, with a sliver of silver light shining over the sea. Melcorka could see the sails of the fleet easing up the Firth, so beautiful yet so deadly, the feared Norse dragon ships with their crews of some of the most ferocious warriors in Europe. They sailed in formation, with one large vessel in front and the others following in a long vee, like a skein of geese flying south. The leading ship was huge, and highly decorated with gilded lions along the hull and a red-dragon head rearing from the prow, jaws open in threat.

  “I've never seen so many ships in one place,” one of Melcorka”s men, a stocky, black-bearded rogue, said.

  “Not many people have,” Melcorka thought of the fleets of the Chola Empire she had seen in Asia and wondered how they would fare against these Norsemen, so utterly reckless of life.

  “Where are they headed?” The black-bearded man asked.

  “I don't know,” Melcorka said. “As soon as I find out, I will send you to tell the king.”

  “And me?” Drostan, the second man, was eager. In his early twenties, he had the dark hair and high cheekbones of a Fidach Pict.

  “You will run to Bradan in the west and inform him.” Melcorka said, “when I tell you to.”

  The light strengthened every moment, revealing more details of the fleet. The leading ship was massive, with its oars pulling smoothly and a high prow rising proud, surmounted by the gaping jaws of the dragon figurehead that gave these vessels their name. Even from this distance, Melcorka could see the flash of sunlight on spear points, and the row of circular shields along the bulwarks. The following vessels were not so large, perhaps with 30 oars, and with smaller ships in the rear. As they travelled westward, the fleet eased closer to the shore, as if searching for a suitable landing spot.

  “Dear God, there are hundreds of them,” Melcorka shook her head. “I hope the king gets here soon.” She nudged the bearded man. “The High King is 40 miles to the south, camped on a bend of the Spey. Run and tell him the Norse fleet is west of Cullen. Inform him that Melcorka advises him to hurry with all the force he can muster.”

  Nodding, the bearded man set off at once, jumping over obstacles with an agility that belied his stocky build.

  “Stay with me,” Melcorka said to Drostan. “We'll follow the Norse until we see where they're going to land.”

  Running down to the shore, and keeping level with the Norse fleet, Melcorka trotted westward. The ships were so close that Melcorka could see every detail, from the designs of the shields to the individual strakes of the hull. She could hear the Norsemen singing, their words helping the oarsmen keep time as the ships surged through the swell of the Moray Firth. The sails were furled, and sunlight glinted on shields, spear points and the metal of iron pot-helmets.

  “Are they going to land in Alba?” Melcorka wondered, “or is Erik going to strike at Thorfinn's jarldom?”

  “Melcorka,” Drostan had kept pace with her, step for step. “I know this coast. I am from Fidach.”

  “Where would you land, if you were the Norse?”

  “Findhorn Bay,” Drostan said. “It has a dangerous entrance but a sheltered anchorage beside a broad beach. The fleet will be safe from offshore storms, and there is space to gather the men together.”

  Melcorka nodded. “That sounds suitable, Drostan. You will make a good captain in Mael Coluim's army.”

  “No, Melcorka, I am no warrior.”

  “You may have to be, when the Norse land,” Melcorka said. “I think we will all have to be warriors.” She glanced at Drostan. “Take me to Findhorn Bay, Drostan.”

  Increasing their speed, they were still only a few moments ahead of the fleet as they reached the shallow basin of Findhorn Bay.

  “These oarsmen are putting muscle into their work.” Melcorka said.

  Drostan had been right, for the giant dragon ship edged slowly past the narrow entrance and into the sea-loch at Findhorn, where it slid on to the beach.

  “Oh, dear God, deliver us from the fury of the Northmen,” Melcorka voiced a centuries-old prayer, even as she fingered the hilt of Defender.

  Erik was first to leave the ship, with his head up, Legbiter hanging at his waist and his grey, raven-bedecked shield on his left arm. A few seconds behind him came the grey man, with his grey bag suspended over his shoulder. Melcorka grunted, acutely aware of the evil that these grey men represented.

  “Run to Bradan
, Drostan.” Melcorka said. “Tell him to warn Thorfinn that the landing has taken place.” She tried to keep calm, although she felt the tension build inside her. “Tell him there are 40 ships full of the worst kind of men imaginable.” She gave him a little push. “Go!”

  Melcorka watched Erik giving orders as his crew jumped ashore. All were mature bearded men with the confident swagger of veterans and the well-kept weapons of mercenaries.

  “These boys know what they're about,” Melcorka said.

  Some of the warriors carried old scars, or souvenirs of adventures overseas, with exotic clothing or weapons. All treated Erik with the casual respect of fighting men for the first among equals.

  As Erik stood on the shore, the grey man remained 10 paces away, ignored by everybody. Melcorka eyed him, trying to work out who, or what, he was.

  “I cannot make you out, grey man,” Melcorka said. “I only know that you are the fount of the evil that is in Erik.” She mused for a few moments. “The fount, or perhaps the tap that runs from the source.” Melcorka looked away as more of the Norse fleet eased into the shallow bay. “You have a formidable crew, Erik,” she said. “I wonder what the other ships hold.”

  As ship after ship disgorged their men, Melcorka nodded in mixed respect and worry. While most ships held more veterans, others carried crews of eager youths, dangerous in their lust to prove themselves. A few carried men who must have infested the worst areas of the most pestilent towns of Europe, terrible people who fought each other, roared with harsh laughter and treated even their commanders with disrespect.

  “God save Alba from things like that,” Melcorka said.

  The veterans moved inland at once, establishing defensive posts to enable the fleet to disembark without molestation.

  “These men know their business.” Melcorka continued to watch, taking note of the composition of every crew, the bearing of every captain and their attitude to Erik.

  “Are you the Swordswoman?” The speaker shouted the words from a distance as he crashed through the shrubbery from inland.

  “Yes. Keep your voice down!” Melcorka hissed. Three young men pushed towards her, with the oldest perhaps 17 years old.

  “We've come to fight the Vikings,” the tallest youth said. “I'm Fergus, and these are my brothers.”

  “Well, Fergus,” Melcorka pushed the youths down to the ground. “If you don't keep quiet, the Norse will kill you before you see another hour. Can you fight?”

  “Yes.” Fergus showed the flail he carried, while one of his brothers held a pointed stick and the other a bow that was far too powerful for him.

  “Where did you get that?” Melcorka indicated the bow.

  “It was my father's.” The boy looked about 10, an undersized runt with huge eyes and a dirty smudge under his nose.

  “Where is he?”

  “A man killed him,” Fergus said.

  “Which man?”

  “That man there,” Fergus pointed to Erik. “Father was ploughing. I want to kill that man.”

  “You keep well away from that man,” Melcorka said. “He would kill all three of you without a thought. You should be safe at home with your mother.”

  “She's dead.” Fergus spoke without grief or anger. “That man raped her and cut her legs till she died.”

  Melcorka nodded. Wars were not about champions making reputations for themselves. They were about simple folk suffering so kings could conquer, while men such as Erik could have their fun.

  Most of the Norse ships were in the loch, with their crews disembarked. Melcorka tried to estimate the numbers of men, guessing around two and a half thousand, mostly Danes and Norsemen, but with some Angles and others she did not recognise. “That is a terrible army,” she said.

  “Are we going to fight them now?” Fergus lifted his flail. “Everybody knows that you are gathering men to fight.”

  “Do they?” Melcorka asked. The Norse were spreading from the anchorage, moving inland, towards where she lay. “Come on lads, it's time we were away.”

  “Are we not going to fight?” Fergus revealed his dismay with a frown.

  “Not yet,” Melcorka said. “We'll wait until we have more warriors. So far, there are only four of us.” She pulled them away from the beach to the shelter of a patch of woodland. “Now, Fergus, you stay with me. I might need you.”

  Fergus nodded. “Yes, Swordswoman.”

  “My name is Melcorka. You other two lads, I have an essential job for you.”

  The two younger boys nodded, eager to be useful.

  “I want you to run inland as far as you can and find a farm. Warn them that the Norse are here and ask them to look after you until the fighting is over. That is very important. Tell them that Melcorka the Swordswoman sent you. Go now.” That should keep them out of harm's way, Melcorka thought, at least for a while. “I'll take the bow – it will slow you down.”

  “Yes, Melcorka.” The boy handed it over.

  Melcorka waited until they were clear. “Right then, Fergus; do you want to learn to fight?” She expected his fervent nod. “Well, come with me, do as I tell you and don't make a noise.”

  Fergus grinned. “Yes, Melcorka.”

  “Come on, then.” Holding the bow and its quiver of 10 home-made arrows, Melcorka slid back towards the Norse landing site. Finding a thicket of mixed elm and beech trees, she sheltered behind a beech and strung the bow. “Now you lie there,” she said to Fergus, and tell me if anybody comes up behind us. You are my lookout.”

  Fergus nodded and turned obediently around.

  Selecting the straightest of the arrows, Melcorka notched it, drew the bow and waited for a suitable target. She wanted a lone man or a small group that she could dispose of without alerting the rest. The Norse were moving around, laughing, boasting of the deeds they would perform. Melcorka nodded when three youths swaggered closer, one swinging a longsword in the air.

  “You'll do.” Melcorka breathed, adjusted her aim and loosed. The arrow took the farthest-away youth in the chest, killing him instantly. Before the others had a chance to react, Melcorka had taken a second arrow and fired, piercing the stomach of the next in line, who also fell, too shocked to scream. The third man shouted something, lifted his sword high and ran forward. Melcorka waited until he was close to the thicket, drew Defender and killed him.

  Leaving the wounded man to writhe on the ground, Melcorka dragged Fergus away. “Come on, Fergus. Time to go.”

  Twice more that day, Melcorka stopped, shot a couple of Norsemen and moved on quickly.

  “We're beating them,” Fergus exulted.

  “We're not,” Melcorka said. “It's only the fools we are killing, the raw, inexperienced men who won't be much good in battle, but we are thinning them out a little, and they'll know they won't have things all their own way.” She grinned without humour. “We may unsettle them.”

  In the evening, Melcorka saw Erik gathering his army on the west side of the bay, in an area known as the Sands of Culbin. Melcorka shuddered as the image returned to her. Once again, she saw herself lying on that sandy ground, with a tall man standing over her and Bradan walking away with another woman. As she looked over the waste of the Sands of Culbin, she knew that this was the place. Closing her eyes, Melcorka shook the image away. Whatever happened, she must fight Erik and the Cu-Saeng.

  “Are you all right, Melcorka?” Fergus asked curiously.

  “Of course,” Melcorka said. “Come with me.” She led him to the western side of the bay, where Erik mustered his men by their ship's companies, more in groups than in battalions, a seething mass of warriors with Erik in front and the grey man a few steps away.

  “I want to kill the man who killed my father,” Fergus said.

  “I know.” Melcorka nodded as the idea came to her. If she killed Erik now, the invasion would have no leader and would be easy prey for Mael Coluim's army, provided the king arrived. “Stay here, Fergus,” Melcorka said. “If I fall, run inland and don't stop for anybody.”<
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  “Where are you going?” Suddenly the potential warrior sounded like a little lost boy.

  “Don't you worry,” Melcorka said. “Just keep away from the Norsemen.”

  Selecting the best of her remaining arrows, Melcorka slid forward in the bent grass that fringed the sands. She was fortunate that Erik stood between her and his army, presenting a relatively easy target. Lying on her side, Melcorka drew her bow back and aimed between Erik's shoulder blades. She knew this method of killing was nearer to murder than honourable war, but the stakes were too high for such considerations.

  Drawing the bowstring back to her chin, Melcorka took a deep breath, released it slowly and loosed. She saw the arrow arc and dip, with the point heading for her target, until the grey man lifted his head, stared at the arrow and glanced at Erik, who stepped smartly out of the way. The arrow hissed past to bury itself deep in the sand 10 paces further on.

  Melcorka swore. That man in grey had warned Erik, somehow. Withdrawing through the bent grass, she stopped at the edge of a belt of trees. Erik had not bothered to send any warriors after her. He either did not think her worth the trouble or was confident that the grey man could protect him.

  When the sound of pipes and war-horns drifted to her from the south, Melcorka nodded. It seemed that Mael Coluim was coming with his army and with no pretence at stealth. If the High King caught Erik on Culbin Sands, he might be able to drive him into the sea. Although Erik's ships were safe in Findhorn Bay, the exit was narrow, so any retreat would of necessity be slow.

  “Come on, Mael Coluim – Erik's overconfidence has taken him into a trap, if you attack at once.”

  Climbing a prominent tree, Melcorka looked to the south, where the plain of the Laigh of Moray stretched to rising moors in the south. The sound of pipes grew louder and, far in the distance, Melcorka saw the flash of sunlight on many arms. She watched for a while as the column crept closer, rank after rank of men, Albans with spears and swords, the clans with long axes and dirks, and a scatter of horsemen on the flanks.