Loki's Sword

by Malcolm Archibald

  “They want Defender,” Bradan said.

  “Why?”

  “Maybe they've never seen a sword before,” Bradan said. “Or maybe somebody has sent them.”

  “There are more behind,” Melcorka said. “We can't go back!”

  Bradan nodded. Two more of the Moss-men stood on the causeway behind them. “Well, we can't stay here either, Mel. I'm no fighting man, but I'm damned if I'll let strangers block my path. Come with me.”

  “I can't,” Melcorka said.

  “Yes you can. You have Defender.”

  “I can't use it.” Melcorka sounded desperate.

  “Maybe not.” Bradan could see that Melcorka was far from her usual confident self, “but they don't know that! Look fierce and follow my lead.”

  “I can't look fierce today,” Melcorka said.

  “Try your best, or give me Defender and I'll brandish it.”

  Melcorka's wry smile failed to hide her fear. “Bradan, you could not look fierce in any circumstance.”

  “At least I will try.” Handing Melcorka his staff, Bradan unsheathed Defender and strode forward. Although Melcorka had told him about the surge of power she always experienced while holding the sword, he felt only the weight of a perfectly balanced weapon.

  “Move!” Bradan ordered as the three Moss-men stood before him. “We are coming through.”

  The Moss-men slid back along the causeway, with the space between them and Bradan remaining the same, however fast he splashed. He sensed movement to his right and saw more of the Moss-men parallel to them on the surface of the Moss.

  “Stay with me, Melcorka,” Bradan glanced over his shoulder. “The lads following us don't seem to be any threat.”

  “I'm staying close.” Melcorka clutched Bradan's sleeve.

  A fourth figure joined the three Moss-men in front. Slightly smaller, the newcomer did not wear a hood, and her long blonde hair descended to her shoulders as she stood in silence, yet Bradan knew that she wielded power. When she lifted a hand, all the men assembled, those with long poles to vault from dry land to dry land, those with the large shoes that helped them to ease across the Moss, and the naked men who swam through the mud like human eels.

  “Melcorka; stay close,” Bradan said. “Something is happening here.”

  The blonde woman pointed to Bradan, wordless, and all the men moved, with the vaulters leaping on one side, the men with shoes on the other and the swimmers submerging into the ooze.

  “They're coming for us,” Bradan said. “Do you want Defender? She works for you.”

  Melcorka shook her head, stumbled and inadvertently touched the blade of Defender. For one instant, she realised what was happening.

  “Bradan.” She spoke more crisply than she had for months. “That woman is in charge here. She is directing the Moss-men.”

  “I gathered that,” Bradan took a swipe at one of the vaulters, missing entirely and nearly overbalancing with the force he used.

  “If we get rid of her, the rest will pull back.” Melcorka hesitated as her mind began to cloud again. “Go for her, Bradan.”

  “Stay close.” Bradan moved forward, hoping the causeway was relatively straightforward under his feet, raising splashes of muddy water as he neared the woman. Two of the swimmers emerged at his side, one clutching at his legs, attempting to pull him off the causeway, the other reaching for Defender. Swinging the sword, Bradan felt contact as the second man fell back, spouting blood. He kicked away the other, cursing.

  “Keep going, Bradan,” Melcorka urged. “Only the woman matters.”

  The woman had not moved, depending on the Moss-men to do her bidding. Two of the skimmers slid towards Bradan, reaching for Defender. Bradan jabbed at one, missed and swore as the second took hold of his arm. Another swimmer grasped Bradan's legs, and two of the vaulters landed lightly on the causeway at his back, grappling with him as they tried to wrestle Defender from his hands.

  Throwing one down, Bradan tried to swing Defender, but with two Moss-men dragging down his arm, he found himself gradually overpowered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Melcorka leave him.

  Melcorka dashed forward, her feet slipping on the treacherous causeway. As she approached the woman, she pointed Bradan's staff like a lance and lunged forward.

  “Mel!” Bradan shouted as another swimmer took hold of his left leg and pulled. He fought desperately to remain on the causeway as one foot slipped off and he slid sideways.

  “Cenel Bearnas!” Melcorka yelled the old slogan of her family as she lunged forward with Bradan's staff. The top, with its carved Celtic cross, came close to the blonde woman, who instantly withdrew. Melcorka jabbed again, and a third time, shouting to disguise her fear. “Cenel Bearnas!”

  The woman vanished. Within a second, the Moss-men retreated into their fastnesses, leaping, swimming or gliding away, leaving two of their number on the causeway.

  “How did you do that?” Bradan asked.

  “I threatened her with your staff.” Melcorka spoke through her confusion. “I don't know why she went away.”

  “I do,” Bradan said. “The priest at Carham blessed the staff. Evil cannot stand against the blessing.”

  “I can't remember the priests blessing anything.” Melcorka shook her head.

  “Yes, you can,” Bradan said. “You just don't know that you remember. Come on, Melcorka, let's get away from the Moss before these people return.” Bradan moved ahead, with Melcorka behind him, her feet splashing through the mud.

  “I think they've gone,” Bradan said, peering into the distance.

  “No.” Melcorka tried to control the hammer of her heart. “They are still there. We can't see them, but they are all around us.”

  Gripping Defender tightly, Bradan followed the causeway, moving as fast as he could while careful not to step into the waiting mud on either side.

  Melcorka was right. He could sense the Moss-men's presence amid the mist. He was unsure what they were or why they were there, but he felt more uneasy than he had at any time in his life. Bradan shook his head, trying to force some rational thought into his mind. That woman had directed them, trying to grab Defender. Now he thought about her, he could not describe her, as he could not describe the grey man who accompanied the Butcher. Why was that?

  Bradan could not think of a solution. He only knew that the blessing on his staff had repelled the woman, which indicated she was evil. Bradan thought of some of the dangers he and Melcorka had faced, from Norse armies to the multi-armed monsters of the Indian Ocean, to the magnificent waterfall of the New World to war-elephants and killer mermaids. Yet, he had never before felt such internal desolation, as if these grey, featureless people were draining him of all confidence.

  “Come on, Mel!” Bradan ran his thumb over the carved cross on the top of his staff. The surge of hope that simple action gave him ran through his body.

  “Come on, Melcorka.” Keeping his thumb pressed on the carved cross, Bradan nearly dragged Melcorka over the last of the causeway and on to the dry land beyond. When he looked behind him, only the Moss remained, and the threat of menace that he could not shake off.

  That was the difference. In their previous adventures, Bradan knew that he and Melcorka had only risked their lives. This time, he knew that they risked their souls.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Who are you?” Erik glanced at the grey man before he asked the question as if asking permission to speak. He drew Legbiter, prepared to strike.

  “I am anybody you wish me to be.” The woman stood at the entrance to the cottage in which Erik had spent the night.

  “I could kill you,” Erik said.

  “You could,” the woman agreed. “But you won't.” She stepped inside the cottage, allowing her long saffron cloak to gape open, revealing that she wore nothing beneath.

  Erik's male eyes devoured what the woman so artfully offered. “What do you want?” He ran his tongue over suddenly dry lips.

  “I want you,” the wo
man said. “And then you will want me.” She stepped further into the cottage, sitting on the very corner of the simple table. She looked him up and down. “I see that you want me already, Erik Egilsson, that men call the Butcher.”

  “If you know who I am,” Erik pushed the woman's cloak further apart with the blade of Legbiter, “why are you not afraid of me?”

  “I am here to help.” The woman tossed back her long blonde hair, smiling. “Between us, we will take Defender to our Lord.”

  “What is your name?” Erik found himself drawn to the force within the woman.

  The woman smiled. “Whatever you wish to call me, Erik.”

  “I will call you Revna,” Erik said. “It means Raven.”

  “Then let me peck at you, Erik,” Revna said, “before we set to work.” She laughed as Erik reached for her, uncaring of the two corpses who already shared that cottage with them.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dawn brought streaks of red and silver that graced a sky of grey, while white clouds hovered above the blue peaks of the Cairngorm Mountains. Skein after skein of geese passed them, flying northward to the sea and the lands that lay beyond, as if anxious to escape from the troubled realm of Alba.

  “There is the Moor of Grainish.” Bradan rested on his staff, looking to the expanse of rough heather-moor that stretched to a low granite ridge in the hazed distance.

  Still favouring her injured legs, Melcorka nodded. They stood side by side as the sun rose higher, with the silver rays highlighting the white stones that protruded from the body of the moor, and reflecting from the lochans and burns that dissected the heather. “Where is your triple stone circle?”

  “In the very centre,” Bradan said. “I warn you that this is an unchancy place.”

  “Everywhere is unchancy this season,” Melcorka said.

  The atmosphere hit them the second they stepped on the springy heather. Despite the rising sun, it was cool. Despite the daylight, there was a darkness in the air. Despite the geese that passed overhead, it was silent. Not a bee hummed, not a frog croaked, not a deer broke the still of morning. The only thing they heard was the swish of their feet through the heather and the thud of Bradan's staff on the spongy ground.

  “Some call this the silent moor,” Bradan said. “Others, the moor of the snakes.”

  “I can understand the silent name,” Melcorka said. “I'm not so sure about the snakes. I haven't seen any.”

  “It is another name for Druids,” Bradan explained.

  The Moor of Grainish was not extensive, so Bradan and Melcorka could walk to the centre within a couple of hours. They passed three single standing stones and the remains of two stone circles before Bradan pointed out the triple circle.

  “Here we are.”

  The stones rose from a central patch of slightly higher ground, like an island surrounded by bogland. A single monolith reared above three concentric stone circles, while a circular lochan, half-hidden by heather-tangle, lurked seven paces to the side.

  “There's nobody here,” Melcorka could not hide her sense of disappointment.

  “It's not Beltane until tomorrow,” Bradan said. “We will find a place to wait, watch and witness.” He paused. “We don't even know if this is the right place. It's only a guess.”

  Melcorka accepted Bradan's word. “I can't remember what Druids are, Bradan, my head is so confused.”

  “They were the learned class of society,” Bradan reminded her gently. “The priests of the Celtic world before Christianity came.”

  “Oh, I think I remember that.” Melcorka struggled with her bruised brain.

  “As far as we know,” Bradan continued, “they had 30 years' training in geography, nature, astronomy, theology and the immortality of the human soul.”

  Melcorka struggled with a dormant memory. “I thought they sacrificed people.”

  “I don't believe so,” Bradan said. “They have, or had, the most disciplined mental training anywhere in the world we know.”

  “Can they help us?” Melcorka asked.

  “I hope so, Mel,” Bradan lowered his voice. “Oh, God, I hope so.”

  They walked around the triple ring, three rows, each of seven stones, with the central monolith lighter in colour than the others and half as tall again. “Look here,” Melcorka pointed to the ground, where a stone lay horizontal, half concealed by a year's growth of heather. “There's something carved in the stone.”

  “A footprint,” Bradan cleared away the heather. “No, two footprints.”

  “I wonder why,” Melcorka said.

  “Some ceremony, perhaps,” Bradan said. “I doubt we will ever know why.” He walked around the circles. “I can't feel anything special here,” he said. “I can't feel a surge of spirituality. If anything, it's depressing.” He stared into the lochan, hoping for answers. “Only water,” he said. “Dark, peaty water.”

  Finding a concealed spot within sight of the circles, they lay down in the soft sunshine and prepared for a long day. After a while, the small moor creatures returned, bees scouring for heather, long-legged spiders probing for prey, a shy mouse that scurried away when she sensed the presence of humanity.

  The sound began as soon as the sun dipped to the west. At first, Melcorka could not recognise it, until she realised it was somebody humming. It came from beyond her consciousness, from somewhere beyond the triple circle, somewhere beyond the confines of the moor itself.

  “Bradan!”

  “I hear it.” They lay side by side in the heather, watching as an ethereal light came from above, illuminating the triple circle so that each stone glowed. “And I see it.”

  The humming increased in volume until it dominated everything, blocking the whisper of the wind through the heather and the soft gurgle of the half-seen burns. The small creatures vanished again, creating an unsettling sterility. It became difficult to talk, hard to think with that persistent hum.

  “What's happening?” Melcorka gripped the hilt of Defender.

  “The Druids are creating a vacuum, I think,” Bradan said. “They are driving everything away from the moor so that they can take it over.”

  “The power of sound,” Melcorka said. “I have not heard the like before.”

  “ 'In the beginning was the Word',” Bradan quoted the Bible. “ 'And the Word was with God'. Words and sounds are more important than we realise.”

  The humming continued, joined now by a deep-throated chanting that raised the small hairs on the back of Melcorka's neck. “I think something is happening,” she said.

  The first man came from the north, drifting across the heather as though his feet did not touch the ground. Wearing a long, hooded white cloak that shielded his face, he placed a single wooden branch on the ground, moved to the outer circle of stones and stood still as the humming and chanting continued. The second man appeared from slightly east of north, added a stick to the pile and stood at the next stone in the circle a moment later, and the third a few moments after that.

  “They appear in a deasil fashion,” Bradan said. “As if they follow the rotation of the sun.”

  One by one, the robed and hooded men appeared, each adding to the pile of sticks before taking his place beside a particular standing stone. The humming increased in volume until it became an almost physical phenomenon, painful to the ears. With the arrival of each man, the stones glowed brighter, as if they were drawing light from the dying sun. Only the central, tallest stone remained in darkness.

  When a man stood at each stone in the outer circle, the humming and chanting reached a crescendo and stopped. The absence of sound was as painful as the noise had been. Nothing stirred on the moor, not wind, not an insect. Even the burns were silent.

  Without any visible signal, each man stepped forward to the middle circle of stones, again in a deasil, sunwise, formation. The chanting started again, low and soft.

  “I've never seen anything like this before,” Melcorka said.

  “I doubt anybody has, exc
ept the Druids, if that is what they are.” Bradan pitched his voice low.

  “Look! What's happening now?”

  Another man walked towards the triple circle. Dressed in a black cloak, he passed around the outer ring, touching each stone in turn, before stepping to the middle circle where the Druids stood.

  Moving slowly, the man in black bowed to each Druid, none of whom returned his greeting. When he completed the circuit, the man in black moved to the inner circle, moving deasil, touching each stone before he approached the tall monolith in the centre. The sun hesitated on the western rim of the hills, retaining a sliver of ochre-red as if reluctant to disappear and leave the earth unattended by light.

  “I don't think I like this.” Instinct impelled Melcorka to touch the hilt of Defender. The sword felt cold, as if all the power had retreated from her.

  “Nor do I,” Bradan whispered.

  The man in the black cloak stood at the central stone. The chanting increased with the Druids speaking a language that neither Melcorka nor Bradan understood, but which Bradan guessed was either so ancient no scribe had ever written it, or so sacred that only the Druids knew it. One by one, the Druids stepped to the innermost circle, still chanting.

  By now, the sky was full dark, yet the stones still glowed. The man in the dark cloak lifted his hands as if in supplication, with the others following his movements. High above, the clouds parted, allowing the moon to shine through.

  The Druids began to chant again, moving forward towards the man in black. When they surrounded him, he removed his cloak to stand stark naked in front of the central standing stone.

  Each of the white-cloaked Druids produced a tiny, leaf-bladed knife from within the voluminous sleeve of his cloak and reached for the naked man.

  “I thought you said the Druids didn't have human sacrifice,” Melcorka said.

  “I didn't think they did.” Bradan wished he had not brought Melcorka here. He felt a sickening slide of disappointment. He had been wrong – these were not the people to help Melcorka. He had raised her hopes for no reason.