by Jon Jacks
*
Siren.
This was the sword Nechtan had spoken of, obviously.
In the king’s hand, it had appeared to be no heavier than a feather, despite its amazing size. He had wielded it as if it were a simple extension of his arm, even of his mind.
It had whistled joyously as it had cleaved the air, the flesh, the muscle, the bone, the inflections of its song changing as it struck and effortlessly severed every material it encountered as if they were no more substantial than water. In its way, its song had been as hypnotically entrancing as the girl’s.
The girl wasn’t singing any longer. She was in tears. In shock. Her body wracked with sobs, shaking with fear.
The princess giggled. Her eyes shone at the excitement of it all. She congratulated the king with a tender touch of his arm as he sat down beside her once more.
Siren was back in its sheath on his back. The throne, Prytani reasoned, must be especially carved to take its bulky form comfortably, to allow its great length to slip down a hole at the rear of the seat.
Brendan had eased back into the crowd, drinking uneasily from his horn. He glanced edgily now and again towards the throne, a grimace on his face beneath his pleasant smiles and grins that spoke of thoughts on how he might regain favour, or at least forgiveness.
He stepped out of the crowd once more, raised his horn in salute, and this time cried out heartily for the king to tell them all once again how he had acquired Siren.
‘Tell them, my lord, of that day when we landed on the sirens’ isle!’
The gathered people took up the cry, the calls growing for the king to entertain them with a tale of his bravery.
The king bowed his head diffidently, waved a hand as if to dismiss such calls as foolishness.
At last, to cheers, he rose to his feet.
As before, he moved swiftly, this time spinning around on his heels to grab the wolf pelt off the back of his throne. In the same easy move, he threw the pelt over his shoulders.
His back arched, his head rose, his neck extended.
He growled, howled, snarled.
The transformation was almost immediate.
In the blink of an eye, he was taller by at least another head, even more powerfully built, leaner and yet more muscular than ever.
He was half man, half wolf. Parts of his skin sprouted fur. His face was disfigured with a huge, powerful jaw, a semi-snout, eyes that flamed a fiery amber.
Prytani had never, ever seen an animal pelt have such a magically horrific effect on its wearer. Such pelts were only meant to instil courage, a hoped for if admittedly false sense of invincibility when in the midst of a battle.
The only time Prytani had ever seen anything like this was the attack of the werewolf. Indeed, if she hadn’t seen first one, the werewolf, and then this other, this transformation of the king, she would have presumed it was a werewolf she was seeing before her now.
Yet there were differences: the king retained more human qualities; he wasn’t quite so huge, quite so monstrous.
Even so, Prytani felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck, sensed the fear surging through her, telling her to flee, to save herself.
She knew that everyone around her must be suffering this very same instinct to flee, too. They danced edgily on their feet. Eyes were bulbous, bloodshot. Teeth were gritted.
No one, however, made a rush for the door. It was as if, despite their understandably natural feelings of dread, of alarm, they managed to control them, the transformation having been wholly expected rather than a shock.
‘Behold your Wolf King!’ the king proclaimed with an elated, snarling guffaw.
He spoke in a harsh, grating voice.
‘Just in case anyone here required proof of my ordeal.’
He finished with another howling laugh, whipped off the pelt with a flourish – and, in an instant, was purely man once more.
Throwing the pelt over the back of his throne once more, he sat down, grinning in appreciation as the princess admiringly stroked his arm.
‘Brendan,’ he said, inviting his friend with a welcoming wave to come out to the front of the assembled crowd. ‘I think you tell this tale best.’
*
Chapter 15
Siren’s Song
We’d spent weeks at sea.
Our old ship creaked in protest. Her eyes were faded, tired. She sighed endlessly. She had lost her way in an earlier storm, and was struggling to find once more the signs and sights she usually used to guide us safely home.
We were also tired. We had fought for over three months, killing at least seven times our original number. Our courageous King Cadeyrn alone had killed over a hundred men.
Fifty thousand men had taken part in that war.
Far less than a five hundred came out of it entirely whole.
We ourselves were down to just twenty five men and this one ship, the sea journey home taking its own toll on those who had survived the war.
We were short of water, of provisions. The wood of our ship was splintering, the sails irredeemably tattered. For all those weeks, we had seen nowhere, no land, where we could put ashore to make repairs and restock.
And then the sea sang, like countless weeping whales.
At last, the cry went out: ‘Land!’
An island was lying directly ahead of us!
And then our ship, fair Hafren, began to turn. To turn away from the island, from our salvation.
What witchcraft is this, we wondered? Why is even fair Hafren betraying us in this way?
Yet we were wrong. For no matter how much fair Hafren turned and raced, apparently attempting to avoid the island, that magical isle always remained in sight, always ahead of us.
And we were drawing closer with the passing of each moment.
The island itself was moving, we were sure of it! It was the song of the sea, that glorious sound of wind-filled sails, of windblown birds, that was manipulating the very waves and currents themselves, propelling the isle towards us!
And then the sirens sang, like countless weaving wedding-maidens.
It was the most beautiful music we had ever heard.
It was full of promise, every promise you could wish had been made to you.
Surely this must be paradise lying before us? Had we died, at some time during our sleep, when we weren’t aware of it, and now we had been called to heaven? Was this an island of the purest virgins, lustfully awaiting our long prophesised arrival?
Only wise King Cadeyrn realised how endangered we were.
Reaching for his charmed wolf pelt, he slipped it about his shoulders – and, behold, the Wolf King stood before us! Half man, half wolf. Powerful. Immense. A champion amongst all warriors!
And, as half wolf, it gave him the power to resist the haunting song of the sirens’.
Even so, despite the orders of our brave King Cadeyrn to steer away from the isle, despite even fair Hafren’s attempts to save us from our foolishness, we each took up an oar, plunged its blade into the waves, and rowed with every ounce of strength we could muster towards our own deaths. The nearer we drew to our demise, the more we desired it. That glorious singing was more entrancing still the louder it became, and soon we caught sight of those glorious singers themselves – the most beautiful maidens you have ever seen, could even imagine, waiting for us upon the isle’s many rocks!
Now shrewd King Cadeyrn, he had seen that his own admonishments weren’t enough to save his men from the sirens’ supernatural lures. They would cast themselves upon the rocks in their eagerness to be embraced by these enchantresses.
Wresting the steer oar from the enraptured man deliriously directing us towards our doom, wise King Cadeyrn helped poor Hafren head towards the safer beach. At the last moment, too, Hafren raised her fair body enough to stop it suffering too much damage as our vigorous rowing drove her into the edges of the sand.
Immediately on striking land, valiant King Cadeyrn leapt ashore with Fairbu
rn, his sword, already in his hands.
Many of the beautiful maidens had already moved from their seats upon the rocks towards the beach, apparently, as we saw it, to warmly greet us. Their diaphanous dresses rustled in a slight breeze, revealing half naked bodies, licentious poses. Their smiles were full of promise.
And the sirens sang, like countless whispering virgin-wives.
What we saw next was, to us, madness; a madness we thought must have been inflicted on our triumphant King Cadeyrn by envious gods. He rushed through these beautiful, unarmed maidens, hacking at them as if they were the most fearsome warriors he had ever seen.
We cried out in horror at his murderous onslaught against these innocent ladies.
He rushed up the beach, up the rocks, his incredible swiftness taking everyone by surprise. He was heading, we realised with growing dismay, for their queen; a woman more beautiful than any other maiden here, and more richly dressed too!
Reaching her in a few athletic bounds, he immediately raised proud Fairburn to her throat – but this time, thankfully, he didn’t kill her.
Instead, he held her prisoner, grabbing her by her hair, wrenching her head back until her throat arched against Fairburn’s eager blade.
‘Tell them to stop!’ he snarled. ‘Stop their singing – or die!’
And the sirens sang like a waning Venus, the song fading, fading, until it was no more.
The enchantment broken, we at last saw the sirens for what they truly were – more eagle, more lion, than woman: and even that part hideous beyond belief. They were slavering, not with lust, but hunger. They didn’t desire us as lovers, but as a feast!
We would have set fair Hafren about and left the isle there and then, as hurriedly as we could. Fortunately, our King Cadeyrn was far more astute: he realised that setting back out to sea before we’d restocked with fresh provisions would simply place us back in the same peril we’d been in for weeks now.
‘My men need food, fresh water,’ he growled at his captive queen. ‘See to it that they receive it, now!’
For added emphasis, he lightly scraped an overly eager Fairburn along her exposed throat.
‘We also need canvas for a sail, wood for our ship,’ he barked.
The sirens, fearing for their queen’s life, rushed about the island, bringing as quickly as they could everything brave King Cadeyrn had demanded. All this we hurriedly stored aboard a gratefully creaking Hafren.
The siren queen, of course, was furious that she had been so humiliated by our great King Cadeyrn. She struggled to break free of his grip, a grip that no normal man could have ever hoped to maintain even for a brief second, let alone for so long.
She had the strength of a lion, the ability of an eagle to fly upwards towards the sun itself. And yet, here she was: a prisoner, in her own land!
Never, ever, had this siren queen found herself confronted by such strength, such power, such sheer force of will.
She was well aware that, for the very first time in her life, that life was in danger.
‘Spare me,’ she pleaded, ‘and I will give you a sword like no other. One that can kill even the dead.’
Those of us in close hearing started in surprise.
Could she really be referring to Sparta’s Sword?
We had all heard of the legend, of course.
Amongst all true warriors, who hasn’t dreamed at some point in their lives that such a legend might be true?
And here was this siren queen declaring that she had the actual sword: Sparta’s Sword!
Strangely, it was a declaration that seemed entirely conceivable. After all, if this sword was in anyone’s possession, who would be more likely to own it than a siren queen, living on an island powered by song, a song that could lure even the proudest warrior to his doom?
‘Bring it,’ our great King Cadeyrn commanded. ‘Bring me this Sparta’s Sword: and I promise you I will spare your life.’
*
The great sword was so heavy, so gigantic, that it had to be borne by seven sirens.
It was wrapped in a number of protective veils, seven in all, all of which were ceremoniously cast aside until this legendary sword was at last revealed.
The sword was ludicrously simple in its design. It carried no ornament, no unnecessary embellishments. The blade, however, was a glorious decoration in its own right, made of a metal the like of which none has ever been seen before or since, with a rippling sheen that sparkled like the captured waves of a crystal clear pool.
Yes, yes; such a blade could indeed be that fabled, most deadly sword.
To a renowned warrior, its lure was every bit as entrancing as a siren’s song!
King Cadeyrn reached out for it, briefly letting go of the siren queen’s hair.
She took her chance. If not as swiftly as the king, she could move faster than any other man alive.
She grabbed the blade of proud Fairburn; and crushed and shattered it as if it were forged from nothing but ice!
As soon as they saw that Fairburn’s sharp blade was no longer held at their queen’s throat, the treacherous sirens launched into an attack upon us all. They literally flew at the men already aboard Hafren, they rushed down the sands towards those still on the beach. With their great maws, their evilly taloned feet, they ripped and rived at our flesh.
The siren queen and two of her closest attendants threw themselves as one at our brave King Cadeyrn. But he moved equally if not even more swiftly, raising the great Sparta’s Sword as if weightless.
And the sword sang, like countless wrathful vengeful-angels.
The blade sliced deeply through a siren’s wing, took the legs off another. Then, with a twirl of Sparta’s Sword, King Cadeyrn partially severed the queen’s neck, such that her head hung at a sickening angle.
‘To the ship, back to the ship!’ King Cadeyrn cried urgently to us all.
We needed little urging. We fled – yes, fled – towards the patiently waiting Hafren. We fought back as well as we could, but against such monsters, our swords were as useless as a lady’s discreet dagger.
Only King Cadeyrn could hold his own against these monstrous beasts, and even he was in grave danger of being overwhelmed. Thankfully, he had had the presence of mind to only fatally wound rather than kill the queen outright. This distracted a great many sirens, who had to tend to her wounds in the hope of saving her.
Thankfully, too, we had already stored aboard everything the sirens had brought us. We took up our oars, while a handful of us remained on the beach, pushing against Hafren’s bows to free her of the sand.
Aided by fair Hafren’s own exertions, we pulled back out into the sea. Even now, though, we continued to suffer constant, horrific attacks from the sirens, who would swoop down at us from out of the sky, lashing out at or picking up a man with their claws.
Fortunately for us all, the magnificent King Cadeyrn seemed truly invincible that day. He hacked and cleaved his way through siren after siren that tried to block his path back towards us.
It seemed to us, watching from Hafren, that one hundred times they came at him.
And one hundred times, King Cadeyrn’s sword sang.
Sang like countless wailing wraiths.
After lying redundant for so long, Sparta’s Sword rejoiced at being held once again by a fearless warrior.
And the sword sang, like countless whirling wings.
And the sword sang, like countless wheeling winds.
And the sword sang, like countless wind-wracked willows.
At last, he leapt aboard Hafren.
We strained all the more at our oars, pulling Hafren back out into the welcoming waves. And, at last, the constantly swooping sirens had met their match: with a whirling of his great sword, King Cadeyrn took off wings, feet, heads.
And the sword sang, like countless woeful widows.
Screeching in frustrated fury, the sirens had to satisfy themselves with wheeling around the top of our mast, none daring to come close to the k
ing’s deadly, life-devouring blade.
And we rowed for our lives.
*
It was only when we were fully clear of the island that King Cadeyrn deemed it safe to shed his charmed wolf pelt.
Only then, when he’d returned to human form, did we realise the full extent of his grievous injuries.
Lacking the strength the wolf pelt gave him, he collapsed on deck. He had lost so much blood, so much severed flesh, that he had to be carefully carried to his bed, where he could be expertly tended.
‘I should have stayed,’ he boldly insisted. ‘I should have made sure those terrible creatures can never entrap any innocent sailor ever again!’
Once he was well on his way to recovering, he similarly boldly insisted that we should search for the island. But no matter how far we travelled, how strenuously we looked for it, we never found that evil isle again.
At least, though, our brave King Cadeyrn was now the rightful owner of Sparta’s Sword.
In honour of his achievements – the way he had fought so relentlessly against those monstrous harridans, the way the sword had sang more wondrously than even they – we, his men, made another bold insistence that day: that Sparta’s Sword be renamed.
It’s new name – Siren!
And Siren sang, like countless writhing vipers.
*
Chapter 16
As Brendan finished his tale, the hall erupted in raucous cheers. Drinking horns were raised. Fists were banged on hard breastplates.
With a show of modesty, the king lowered his head slightly, raised a hand as if to still this unexpected ovation.
Alongside him, the princess reached over to excitedly grasp his hand. She looked at him adoringly. He looked back to her with a pleased, leering grin.
The cheers, the fist banging, increased.
As the noise finally receded, Nechtan stepped closer towards the thrones, pausing a while as he waited for permission to speak.
With a gracious wave of his hand, the king indicated that the wizard was free to speak.
‘With such an interesting tale behind the acquisition of Siren, I wonder if the princess would favour us with a telling of how she came to be the holder of the sword’s equally remarkable sheath?’