Loki's Sword

by Malcolm Archibald

  “They must have another reason for being there,” Bradan said.

  “They are watching us,” Melcorka said simply.

  “Everybody seems to be watching us,” Bradan said. “We must be fascinating people.”

  Melcorka gave a bitter laugh. “I've always thought so! Shall we follow these animals?”

  “I”d like to know why they killed Halfdan and not us,” Bradan said. “It may be something to do with Erik – or with Dun Dreggan.”

  Melcorka looked sideways at him. “What is Dun Dreggan?”

  “I don't know. Halfdan told me to tell you that. It was the last thing he said.”

  “The last thing he said before he died?”

  “No – he was already dead,” Bradan said. “He lingered to tell you that name after he died and before he went to Valhalla.”

  “Oh,” Melcorka nodded. “What was the last thing he said to me? He said he would think about a house built on human bones. That must be Dun Dreggan.” She glanced back at Halfdan”s body. “There is no more sign of the creatures.”

  Bradan grunted. “Whatever they were, I hope they stay away.”

  “Look!” Melcorka half drew Defender as a grey-cloaked man rose from the heather. Another joined him and more, until five grey-cloaked and hooded figures stood in a semi-circle, silent and watchful. The grey woman was slightly in the rear, her hair curled around her ears, her dark eyes intent, fathomless.

  “We've seen her before, in the Flanders Moss.” Bradan faced the grey men. “And these fellows are the twins of Erik's familiar.”

  “I remember her, vaguely.” Drawing Defender, Melcorka raised her voice. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  In reply, the woman lifted her left hand, and the grey men slowly drew back their hoods. Melcorka looked at each man in turn, yet she knew she would not recognise them again. They were grey in dress, with grey hair and features so devoid of personality they were instantly forgettable. Even their eyes lacked expression as they stared at Melcorka first, and then turned their attention to Bradan.

  “Aye, you'll know us next time,” Melcorka said. “And I'll know you!”

  “Enough of this!” Striding forward, Bradan swung his staff. It hissed through open air as the grey men replaced their hoods. Every time Bradan took a step, they withdrew the same distance, until Bradan swore and returned to Melcorka.

  “They're too elusive even to follow. Shall we get started?”

  Melcorka nodded. “If we start now we might get to the head of the pass before dark.” She returned Defender to her scabbard. “Keep alert for these cat creatures or the grey men.”

  The trail led into the pass, where bare granite slopes rose on either side of a narrow, steep path. Wisps of mist slithered along the upper slopes, now revealing, now concealing a ragged ridge of uneven rock.

  “Not much cover here,” Melcorka said. “Nowhere for the cat-creatures, or whatever they were, to hide.” She walked on for another 100 paces before she spoke again. “Dun Dreggan – the dun or fort of the dragon. I'm not sure I care for the name.” As she spoke, she looked around at the bleak hills, on which a grey drizzle was now weeping.

  “The dun of the dragon built on human bones.” Bradan peered into the rain. “That is not a cheerful prospect. I thought I saw movement there, away on our left.”

  Melcorka did not look in that direction. “Human or animal?”

  “I'm not sure. Human, I think.”

  Melcorka yawned, stretching. “All right. Someone is shadowing us, then. Keep moving; don't rush and watch out for the cat creatures.”

  The drizzle increased as they ascended the path, with each step now more treacherous on wet ground. The pass magnified the sound of the burns that descended from the granite, making a thin trickle sound like a torrent, and when the voices came, they echoed in the mist.

  “Come on, Melcorka. Come on, Bradan.”

  “Come on, Melcorka. Come on, Bradan.” The words ended in low laughter.

  “How many?” Melcorka asked.

  “I am not sure. This mist distorts the sound.”

  “I heard three at least,” Melcorka said. “They are inviting us on.”

  “That is kind of them,” Bradan said.

  The pass continued to ascend, dropping to nothingness on their left and the granite slope on the right.

  “He is waiting,” the voices sounded again. “He is waiting.” The words again ended in laughter that echoed around the hill.

  “He is waiting,” Bradan repeated.

  “Good,” Melcorka said. “Let him wait, whoever he is.” She gave a sudden smile. “I doubt he is somebody we wish to meet, and I doubt he is somebody who wishes to meet us!”

  “That's my Mel!” Bradan said.

  The laughter sounded again, mocking, and faded away to nothing as they emerged through the mist to stand at the head of the pass. The cloud lay before them, a grey blanket covering the ground, pierced by the peaks of a hundred distant hills.

  “It's like being on top of the world.” Bradan gave a bleak smile. “I wonder how many thousand people have said that when they stand on a hill summit.”

  “More importantly,” Melcorka said. “I wonder what we'll find when we descend to the other side.”

  “Cat creatures with slashing claws,” Bradan suggested, “ravens that do not feed on corpses and a dragon fort built on human bones.”

  “I feel as if somebody is drawing us into something,” Melcorka said. “Enticed by challenges. The cat creatures could have attacked us as easily as they killed Halfdan. Why didn't they?”

  “They want something else,” Bradan said. “What do we have alive rather than dead?”

  “I don't know,” Melcorka said. “It cannot be our possessions. I own only the clothes I wear, and Defender. You have your clothes and your staff. We're not worth robbing.”

  “Defender is valuable,” Bradan said.

  “Only a few could use her power,” Melcorka said, “and then only for good. If anybody murdered me, they would have only an ancient sword.”

  The ravens emerged from the cloud at their side to circle them. “We have company,” Bradan said.

  “The ravens are always with us,” Melcorka said. “I just ignore them now.”

  As they began the descent, the cloud shredded and disappeared, revealing the glen beneath. At first sight, it was fertile, with swathes of green beside a broad, slow river, and patches of woodland climbing the hill-slopes.

  “It is a lovely place,” Bradan said. “I see houses and people and no sign of war. If this is Glen Tacheichte, the Haunted Glen, I wish there were more ghosts.”

  “Aye, it's a place of peace amid devastation,” Melcorka said. “Would that all Alba was so fortunate.”

  They descended into the valley, still with the ravens overhead and the mist shredding into mere wisps on the slopes of the surrounding hills. Women worked in the infields or stopped to give a wave, while men tending cattle in the outfields shouted greetings across the intervening land.

  “This is Alba as it once was,” Bradan said, “before the Norse invasions. It is as if these people had never heard of the evil that has befallen the land.”

  “Aye,” Melcorka looked around, too wary to accept things at face value. “Something seems to have protected this valley from the evil of war.”

  “There is no dun here, no fort; nothing to deter any raiders.” Bradan looked around. “Only the hill pass and the Headhunter.”

  “Perhaps he was doing more good than we thought,” Melcorka said.

  “And them?” Bradan gestured to the five grey men who had risen from the slopes beside them. “What part do they play?”

  “The men in grey,” Melcorka said. “I thought it was too peaceful.” She raised her voice. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  The grey men said nothing as they kept pace alongside Melcorka and Bradan. They moved silently, their feet barely touching the ground. Slightly apart, the grey woman joined them, silent, watchful.


  “There is something uncanny about them,” Bradan said. “As if they are not really here.”

  “I'll go closer,” Melcorka turned abruptly to mount the slope. With every step she advanced, the grey men retreated, always keeping the same distance.

  “Who are you?” Melcorka asked. Her voice echoed in the glen: “Who are you, are you, are you?”

  As Melcorka increased her speed, so did the grey men.

  “Mel! They're leading you away!” Bradan stood still, holding his staff in both hands. The people of the glen paid no attention to the grey men, continuing what they had been doing without comment or hurry.

  “Mel!”

  “Say something,” Melcorka said as the grey men withdrew in silence. When Melcorka looked behind her, she realised she had climbed halfway up the slope, and the mist was returning, sending long tendrils to the valley bottom, encircling her with damp fingers. She peered ahead into the greyness and heard the barking of a dog. It barked once, twice and then silence. Melcorka shivered, remembering the name of this place: the Haunted Glen.

  She was in the Haunted Glen with a dog that barked twice. Melcorka was well aware of the threat of the Cu Sith, the massive fairy dog. Green in colour and the size of a bullock, it dwelt in the mountains and could kill on sight. If anybody heard it bark three times, they knew that death was close and their only protection was to stone the creature as soon as it appeared. She had heard it twice – once more and she was doomed.

  Stooping, Melcorka lifted a handful of loose stones from the ground. She peered into the mist, seeing only the slithering greyness until a flash of something green appeared.

  “Get away, you hound of hell!” Melcorka threw the first of her stones. It flew beyond her sight, to rattle on a rock somewhere in the distance.

  The Cu Sith appeared again in a rift of the mist. Melcorka had a brief glimpse of a massive jaw, gaping open, and a row of sharp white teeth. She threw another stone, saw it bounce off the ground at the dog's feet, threw a third and heard it thud against the creature's leathery skin.

  “Come on, then!” Melcorka shouted, moving towards the Cu Sith with her feet sliding on loose scree, wondering if she should draw Defender or rely on the stones.

  The Cu Sith loomed above her as it moved silently on the slope. Red eyes glared at Melcorka as she grabbed another handful of stones and threw them in a steady stream, one after the other, towards the green dog. It stood on a slab, staring down at her until one of her stones bounced off its broad nose.

  “Got you!” Melcorka said. “Now run!”

  Yelping, the Cu Sith turned tail and vanished into the mist without disturbing a single stone.

  “Aye, run,” Melcorka said, just as the grey men appeared, as silent as the Cu Sith and much more menacing. Forming a semi-circle above Melcorka, they stood still, with their hoods up and their arms loose by their sides.

  “Who are you?”

  Again, Melcorka”s voice echoed, without response. Turning, she tried to retrace her steps, but the mist was denser than before, coiling around her with a chill so intense it seemed to penetrate to the bone. Rather than descending, the slope levelled out, then rose in front of her, whichever direction Melcorka walked.

  “You were right, Bradan,” she mused. “There is something uncanny about them, and they have led me away.” She stopped, unsheathed Defender and moved on, slowly, waiting for an attack. None came.

  “Mel!” Melcorka heard Bradan's voice through the cloying mist. “Mel! Down here!”

  “I can't see you!” Melcorka swung Defender. “Where are you?”

  “Move to your right!”

  Melcorka did so, feeling the ground solid under her feet. When the slope inclined steeply in front of her, she stopped. “I'm going the wrong way!”

  “No!” Bradan”s voice was clear. “Trust me! Keep moving, but slowly. The ground descends steeply before you.”

  Bradan was correct; and following his instructions, Melcorka walked on, until Bradan's face loomed through the mist and his hand was on her sleeve.

  “What happened up there?” Bradan asked. “You were staggering around as if you were drunk.”

  “I could not see in the mist,” Melcorka said.

  “What mist?” Bradan asked. “It's clear as midsummer.”

  Melcorka blinked. Bradan was right again – there was not a trace of mist. The glen smiled in the sunshine and the sound of cattle lowing mingled with women singing as they worked. The five grey men were back, watching and saying nothing. As always, the woman was apart. In the sunshine, she looked different, with the blonde tinge to her hair more evident.

  “Let's talk to some of the people,” Bradan said. “They might help us understand this place better.”

  The first group of women continued to sing as they cut weeds from the ground with long hoes.

  “Good morning to you,” Bradan said. “God bless the work. Could you tell us the name of this place?”

  The women looked up together. The oldest could not have been more than 35. “Good morning, stranger,” she said. “Welcome to the glen.”

  “Thank you,” Bradan said. “Does the glen have a name?”

  “It is the Grey Glen, of course,” the woman said as if everybody should know its name. “Strangers call it Glen Tacheichte, the Haunted Glen.”

  “Who lives here?” Melcorka asked.

  “We do,” the woman said, smiling as if at some secret joke. “We all live here.”

  “Who are you?” Melcorka asked.

  “We are the people of the Grey Glen,” the woman said. “We don't get many strangers here. Who are you?”

  “I am Melcorka Nic Bearnas and this is Bradan the Wanderer.”

  “Oh; you have strange names. May I look at your sword?” The woman held out her hands.

  “I do not let anybody see my sword.” Melcorka prepared for an argument, but instead, the woman returned to her work, with all the others following her. They sang as they worked, the same song, endlessly repeated.

  “We are the people of the Grey Glen

  We will be happy within our home

  We know it is better here than there

  We are the people of the Grey Glen.”

  “Are you Norse,” Bradan asked, “or Alban?”

  The women straightened up again, still smiling. “We are the people of the Grey Glen.”

  “Who is your chief, your lord?” Bradan tried, “who owns this land?”

  The woman's smile did not falter. “Nobody owns this land. We all own this land. We are the people of the Grey Glen.”

  “They are the People of the Grey Glen,” Melcorka said. “I think it is time we moved on, Bradan, and left this Grey Glen to its people.”

  “Aye. No offer of hospitality, you'll notice.” Bradan said. “That's unlike anywhere I've been in Alba, Erin or the Norse lands.” He tapped his staff on the ground. “Onward, Melcorka.”

  Saying goodbye, they moved on, exchanging greetings with other groups of women, returning the waves of men in the outfields and always with the five grey men shadowing them from the flanks of the hills.

  The road unwound before them, straight between the fields, with no visible end to the valley. “Something is very wrong here,” Melcorka said. “We've been walking for hours and we're no further forward.”

  “I thought that myself,” Bradan said. “Nothing has changed. The hills look the same, the people are still working, and even the sun has not shifted.”

  “Where are we, Bradan?” Melcorka asked.

  “Wherever it is, it's not where it appears to be,” Bradan said. “We can try going up the hill again.”

  “Into the mist? Perhaps. Let's hurry along here first.”

  Lengthening their stride, they moved on, with the valley as pleasant as ever around them and women singing the same song.

  “Welcome strangers,” the woman could have been the twin of the first to whom they spoke. “We are the people of the Grey Glen. Come and rest for a while. I wil
l relieve you of the burden of your sword.”

  “I will keep hold of my sword, thank you,” Melcorka said, pushing Bradan in front of her.

  “These people are too interested in your sword,” Bradan said.

  “They are,” Melcorka agreed. “I will keep it safe, despite their interest.”

  “I cannot see an end to this glen,” Bradan said.

  “Nor can I.” Melcorka looked behind her. “Nor a beginning.”

  The road behind them seemed identical to that behind, long, straight and stretching for ever past pleasant farmland. Women worked in the infields and men in the outfields, cattle lowed and there was an occasional burst of laughter.

  “We're not here,” Bradan said. “I don't know where we are, but we are not in a glen.”

  “Up the hill, Bradan, and damn the mist!”

  They marked their route, eyeing a gully in the granite that led to a small corrie, where a burn gushed near perpendicular from a cliff.

  “That's our way out,” Melcorka said. “If we keep to the gulley and the corrie, the mist should not confuse us.”

  “There's no mist yet,” Bradan said.

  “Oh, it'll come,” Melcorka said. “Are you ready?”

  “Ready,” Bradan said.

  Turning abruptly to the right, they powered over the fields, ignoring the waves of the men. The cattle did not move or even look up as they passed them, and within moments they clambered over the grey dry-stone dykes that marked the end of the pastureland and the beginning of the granite slopes.

  “Here comes the mist,” Melcorka said as the familiar grey tendrils rose from the ground and snaked from above.

  “Ignore it,” Bradan said. “Remember our route and keep close to me. We can't get separated.”

  The grey men appeared, mere shapes in the mist, sliding before them without a sound. The woman was behind them, watching, with her hair now more blonde than grey.

  “Ignore them,” Melcorka advised. “Pretend they do not exist.”

  The gulley was rougher than it had appeared from below, with ridges of rock running at right angles to the cutting, and a foaming white burn on the floor.