Loki's Sword

by Malcolm Archibald

  Astrid joined them at the table. “The hammering is nobody's fault but your own.” She glanced at Bradan. “Thankfully, not everybody needs such stimulation to prove they are men. Or even that they are warriors.”

  Melcorka understood the attack. Retaining her smile, she pulled Bradan close. “I am glad that Bradan does not need to prove himself as a man to me. I have had many years of such proof, and many more to come.” She allowed her gaze to harden until Astrid eventually looked away.

  Outside the hall, a raven called, with another answering as they circled the settlement. Their eyes took in all that was happening as their great wings beat a slow tune in the air.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Your next test is near.” Erik winced as the words slid through his head. He looked at the grey man who stood 10 paces away.

  “I don't wish any more tests,” Erik said. “I don't wish to butcher anybody else or rape another woman, or murder another child.”

  “You agreed to the contract.” The edged words cut into Erik's brain.

  “I want to end it.”

  As the first peal of laughter gouged into Erik's mind, he recoiled from the memory of the agony it brought. “No, please.”

  The laughter continued, driving Erik to his knees, with his hands pressed firmly to his ears in a vain attempt to block out the sound.

  Erik looked downward, gasping in horror when the ground opened beneath him. He saw layer upon layer of soil, with living things of all sizes crawling through it, and then rock, compressed by time. Erik descended, down and down until he saw something staring up at him. He tried to recoil, but the rock closed around, holding him firm and all the time the laughter sliced into his mind.

  When the laughter ended, the silence was worse. It was not the quiet of peace but the nothingness of the abyss. A dark silence of hopelessness pressed Erik.

  Two eyes glared at him; red and hot, they promised unspeakable evil. He tried to run, but could not. He tried to fight, but could not. The eyes stared, unblinking, until the name burst into Erik's mind.

  Cu-saeng. Cu-saeng.

  The name meant nothing.

  The pit closed up, inch by inch and Erik was back on the surface, lying face down on the soil. Around him, grey granite slopes reached to an unsettled sky where a fidgety wind played with dark clouds.

  “Get ready.” The words replaced the silence.

  Erik crawled to his feet, shaking from his experience. The grey man stood 10 paces away, watching with eyes the same tint of red as the thing underground, but eyes that gradually changed to a matt black.

  Cu-saeng.

  “What is Cu-saeng?” Erik asked.

  He was not surprised that there was no reply.

  “Get ready for your next challenge.”

  “I won't,” Erik said. He waited for the laughter. When he did not come, he drew Legbiter from its scabbard and held it in his right hand. All around, the granite peaks rose to the uncaring sky. The hills were watchful. They had seen a thousand centuries before man even ventured into this damp northern land, and they would see a hundred more before man destroyed everything else on the planet. The hills were cold, hard and enduring.

  “What are you looking at?” Erik shouted. “What are you looking at?”

  The hills did not reply.

  Erik stood on a plateau, with a sheer drop on three sides and a narrow ridge leading to a saddle on the fourth. Lifting Legbiter, he poised it over the edge of the cliff, where the sheen of a lochan showed hundreds of feet before.

  “I am stopping now!” Erik shouted. “Can you hear me, Cu-saeng, or whatever you are? I know you are not Loki! I am stopping now. Here is my sword with all the power you have put inside it. Take it back! I will not kill any more for you!”

  As the grey man watched without expression, Erik lifted Legbiter and threw it as far out as he could. He watched the sword spin end over end, with the sun reflecting from the pommel but never from the dull black of the blade. After a long, slow descent, it splashed into the lustrous surface of the lochan, raising a column of water and causing ripples to surge around to the shore and return. A brood of black-headed gulls rose from the lochan, squawking.

  Erik watched until placidity returned to the lochan's surface before he turned around. The grey man had not moved.

  “Get ready for your next challenge now.”

  The words burned into Erik's mind.

  “I will not,” Erik said. “I have no sword.”

  The grey man pointed to the depression in the centre of the plateau. Legbiter stood there, point first in the ground and sunlight glinting from the pommel.

  “No! I threw that sword away!” Erik yelled the words as he stared at Legbiter. The grey man said nothing.

  “Get ready for your next challenge, now.”

  “I will not!”

  Erik cringed, expecting more agonising laughter. When it did not transpire, he pulled Legbiter free from the granite, wondering that the blade had not made a single mark or left even a slight slit in the ground. For a minute, he held the sword, feeling the weapon as a dead weight in his hand. It was only steel and leather, with a sharkskin grip and an iron pommel. It was a sword, like any other.

  “Get ready for your next challenge, now.”

  Holding Legbiter in his right hand, Erik took two steps toward the grey man, and then another two. When the grey man remained static, Erik made a sudden rush, swinging Legbiter in a slash that would have taken the grey man's legs off, had it landed. Erik did not see the grey man move, but he was 10 paces away, unsmiling and unconcerned.

  “Get ready for your next challenge. Now.”

  “No!” Erik tried again, rushing forward to swing Legbiter, only for the grey man to be elsewhere. No matter how hard Erik tried, he missed, and the grey man was the same 10 paces away.

  “Get ready for your next challenge. Now.”

  Sobbing in frustration, Erik lifted Legbiter and threw it at the grey man. The sword slashed Erik's leg, deep enough to draw blood but not to cause serious injury.

  “Get ready for your next challenge. Now.”

  Erik lifted Legbiter and threw it again, with the same result, except this time the blade cut deeper into his leg.

  “Get ready for your next challenge. Now.”

  Losing blood, Erik collapsed. He was naked in a shallow depression in the ground, with Legbiter lying on his chest and the cold soil all around. As Erik lay there, the grey man hovered above, and the earth closed in, smothering Erik within, silencing his screams. There were only the darkness and the scent of cold earth, the pressure of the world as he sunk deeper, and then nothing at all.

  * * *

  Erik stood on the plateau, with a sheer drop on three sides and a narrow ridge leading to a saddle on the fourth. He stamped his feet, feeling the renewed strength that flowed through him. Looking down at himself, Erik saw the healthy shine of unmarked skin and the smooth slide of supple muscle. He smiled, stamped his feet and lifted Legbiter. The power of the earth flowed from the sword into his hand, wrist and arm to his rejuvenated body.

  “I am Erik Egilsson! I am the Butcher! Who dares meddle with me?”

  Even the hills seemed to pull back at Erik's challenge. When he laughed, the two ravens rose to seek and guide the challenger to their death on the plateau.

  “I am Erik Egilsson, the Butcher!”

  And not even the granite hills could see the tear that fought from a single duct to roll slowly down Erik's cheek.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Norse waited to send them away, the warriors watching Halfdan with envy and some of the women with expressions of regret. Astrid clung to Bradan's arm.

  “Stop this way on your return,” she said. “A man of peace is a rarity in this place of warriors.” Her eyes were bright blue, more inviting than ever. “I have never met such a man before.”

  “We may return this way,” Bradan said. “You know now that not all men are warriors. The Norse also have men of peace.” He held
her eyes for a second, recognising a woman lost in a world where she did not belong. “Find strength, my lady. Peace is a rare commodity and a woman of peace has more strength than a woman of violence.”

  “Your woman is violent.”

  “There is peace within her,” Bradan said. “It will come out when her violence is no longer required.”

  When Astrid looked towards Melcorka, her eyes seemed to glow. “I see battle and blood with that woman, Bradan, and there is a fight where she will fall.” Her fingers drifted to Bradan's leg. “I will see you again, Bradan the Wanderer, and you will be grateful for my presence.”

  Melcorka glanced at Astrid. “Your presence will be welcome, Astrid, but your hand on my man's leg is not. Remove your hand or I will remove your arm.”

  Astrid stepped back. “He is your man, Melcorka, yet he is not the man for you.”

  “Are you coming?” Halfdan asked. “Death is holding open the door for the Headhunter, and I have yet to find him.”

  “We're coming,” Bradan said, giving Astrid a final wave.

  Mounting small hardy garrons, they travelled northward and westward, making their presence known to everybody they met. They slept in small settlements of Norse longhouses or Celtic roundhouses, or under the star-broken abyss of the sky. Everywhere they travelled, Halfdan asked for the man known as Headhunter, and Bradan asked about a house built on human bones.

  People shook their heads or avoided their eyes, refusing to speak of the evils that had befallen the land.

  “They are scared to speak,” Halfdan said.

  “They are scared even to acknowledge the fact they are scared,” Bradan said. “These people are so used to fear they think it is normal.”

  “We will try to remove that fear,” Melcorka said.

  “Tell me of this house built on human bones,” Halfdan said. “I have not heard of it.”

  “We don't know,” Melcorka said. “We only know that a man who lives there might hold the key to this evilness.”

  “A house built on human bones,” Halfdan said. “That could mean two things. It could mean a house with foundations on human sacrifice, or it could mean a house built on top of a battlefield.”

  “Either is possible,” Melcorka said. “I had not considered the battlefield. Are there many in the Norse territory?”

  “We are a warrior people,” Halfdan said. “And the Picts and Albans resisted. There are many battlefields in Thorfinn's jarldom.”

  Melcorka nodded. “I can understand that. Do you know of any battlefields where a house now stands?”

  Halfdan pursed his lips. “No. I can't. I'll think about it, Swordswoman, and see what I come up with.”

  “Ravens,” Bradan said, as they rode across an area of moorland. Patches of nettles showed where people had once farmed the land, while the tumbled stones of cottages marked small tragedies that history would never record.

  “They are following us,” Melcorka said.

  “We are drawing near to the Headhunter.” Halfdan gave his opinion. “The ravens sense fresh meat.”

  The moor rose before them, broad in the south but rising to a heathery ridge that boasted a view of distant blue-grey mountains to the west, and ended in a pass between granite hills. At the entrance to the pass, a man sat astride a black horse, watching them approach. A double row of stakes stretched behind him, marking the route upward, with a round object crowning each stake.

  “That will be the Headhunter.” Halfdan touched the sword at his waist. “Now I will either send his head back to Thorfinn, or feast in Valhalla tonight.”

  “If he is the victor, Halfdan, I will avenge your death,” Melcorka promised.

  “You avenge it if you must, and Bradan will tell stories of my deeds, so men will remember me for ever.”

  Bradan nodded. “Warriors will speak your name for generations to come, Halfdan One-eye.”

  “Hold there!” the stranger shouted, “and tell me what business you have in my land.”

  “Your land?” Halfdan pushed his horse leisurely forward, her hooves rustling through knee-high heather. “Jarl Thorfinn owns this land.”

  “Oh, very melodramatic,” Bradan said. “Why do warriors have to talk like that?”

  “So the world remembers them,” Melcorka said, with a smile. “It is easier to recall a short, supposedly clever statement than a reasoned argument.”

  Bradan smiled. “You are too intelligent to be a warrior, Melcorka.”

  “And you are too adventurous to be a scholar, Bradan.”

  “I have claimed this land!” As the stranger warrior rode closer, Melcorka saw the array of human heads that adorned the saddle of his horse, each one tied by the hair.

  “Look behind him,” Bradan murmured. “Look at the stakes.”

  Melcorka looked and frowned. What she had taken to be globes were human heads, some so fresh the blood still smeared the stake on which Headhunter had impaled them, others rotting and the oldest with the skin stretched over eyeless, noseless skulls.

  “The Headhunter's trophies of battle,” Bradan said.

  The Headhunter advanced as far as a small knoll, where he halted his horse and hefted a large axe. “Come and die, stranger!”

  “I am Halfdan One-eye,” Halfdan said, spurring forward, “and I will kill you now.”

  Melcorka watched with a critical eye as Halfdan trotted to meet the stationary Headhunter. With his sword pointing forward like a lance, he spurred upward, dodged to his right at the last moment and swung a backhanded blow that the Headhunter blocked with the handle of his axe.

  “An iron handle to his axe.” Melcorka said. “That is interesting. No swordsman can chop that in two, and the axe has a spike at the back and on top as well. That will be a very lethal weapon.”

  “If very heavy to wield. The Headhunter will hope for a short fight,” Bradan said.

  Halfdan trotted past the Headhunter, turned his horse and tried again, swinging his sword left and right to confuse his enemy. When he came close, he feinted right, turned left and swung overarm, only for the Headhunter to block again, laughing.

  “You are very slow, Halfdan One-eye. It is no wonder you carry a scar on your face.”

  “You are right,” Halfdan said. “I am slow, and I do have a scarred face.” He walked his horse a good hundred yards away, turned and spurred, increasing his speed to a trot, then a canter and finally a gallop, with his sword pointing straight ahead. At the last possible moment, he altered the angle of his blade to cut at the Headhunter's horse and galloped past. Halfdan's blade sliced into the neck of the horse, so it reared in sudden pain, throwing its rider. The Headhunter crashed down with the heads on his saddle bouncing around him as he scrambled for his axe.

  Halfdan walked slowly toward him and dismounted. When he smiled, the scar on his face seemed to writhe like a snake. “Now we are both afoot, Headhunter.” Without increasing his pace, Halfdan swung the circular shield from his back on to his left arm. “Come and fight, Headhunter!”

  Not quite so confident now, and limping from his fall, the Headhunter ran towards Halfdan, swinging his axe. Without breaking stride, Halfdan ducked to his left and sliced the metal rim of his shield at the Headhunter's Achilles tendon. The Headhunter gasped, stumbled and died as Halfdan thrust his sword into his heart.

  “I am Halfdan One-eye!” Halfdan roared, just as the creature erupted from the heather 30 paces away. Halfdan swore, turning to face this new adversary. “What are you, stranger?”

  The size of a man, the creature ran on all fours, snarling through the face of a cat.

  “Fight me!” As Halfdan raised his shield and sword, another creature emerged from the heather behind him. It leapt on his back, digging its claws deep into his neck. Halfdan staggered, mistimed his swing, reversed his sword and stabbed behind him.

  “Halfdan!” Drawing Defender, Melcorka ran forward, just as two more of the creatures leapt from the heather, slashing at Halfdan with hooked claws. One ripped at his jugular, so he
fell with blood coming in great spurts.

  “What are you? You creatures from hell!” Melcorka slashed at one, cutting it nearly in half. With their job done, the creatures fled, picking up the casualty and racing away with their tails dragging behind them.

  “And so dies Halfdan One-eye,” Melcorka said, circling with Defender held in front of her. “The heroes of Valhalla will have a new champion to toast tonight, for he fought well and died bravely.”

  “What in God's name were these things?” Bradan asked.

  “Bradan!” With his throat pumping blood, Halfdan tried to rise. “What were they?”

  “I do not know.” Bradan knelt at Halfdan”s side. “Rest easy now, and we'll get your wounds attended to.”

  “Oh, I'm a dead man,” Halfdan said, trying to laugh as his blood drained away. “It was a good life. tell Jarl Thorfinn how I defeated the Headhunter and how I died in battle.”

  “I will,” Bradan said.

  “Bradan,” Halfdan's voice was weakening. “Dun Dreggan! Tell Melcorka, Dun Dreggan!”

  “What? What does that mean?” Bradan asked. He heard a sound like the rustling of wings, saw Halfdan's mouth twist into a smile and knew his Norse companions had transported him to Valhalla. “Feast well, Halfdan One-eye.”

  “Bradan keep still! These things may still be around.” Melcorka strode around them, gradually increasing the area she was covering. She stopped and knelt on the ground.

  “Bradan!”

  Leaving Halfdan's dead body, Bradan joined Melcorka.

  “Look!” Melcorka pointed downwards at broken heather stalks and scuffed earth. “How many of them?”

  Bradan counted the impressions. “Five. Five of these creatures were watching us, and we saw nobody.”

  “They are still watching us,” Melcorka said. “I can't see them, but they are here, somewhere.”

  Bradan tapped his staff on the ground. “We are easy targets then,” he said, “if they choose to attack. Hold Defender ready, Melcorka.” He looked upward. “And the ravens are still quartering the sky.”

  “Why?” Melcorka asked. “They are not searching for meat; Halfdan provided them with one body and the creatures with another. Two full-grown men provide meat enough for a dozen ravens, let alone two.”