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  Loki's Sword

  The Swordswoman Book V

  Malcolm Archibald

  Copyright (C) 2020 Malcolm Archibald

  Layout design and Copyright (C) 2020 by Next Chapter

  Published 2020 by Shadow City – A Next Chapter Imprint

  Edited by Terry Hughes

  Cover art by Cover Mint

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

  For Cathy

  Gloom and silence and spell,

  Spell and silence and gloom,

  And the weird death-light burns dim in the night

  And the dead men rise from the tomb.

  Murdoch Maclean

  Prelude

  “Derwen made this sword,” Ceridwen said. “It came from long ago, and Derwen made it for Caractacus, who was betrayed by a woman. It was the blade of Calgacus, the swordsman who faced the iron legions of the south in the days of heroes.” Ceridwen ran her hand the length of the scabbard, without touching the steel of the blade. “It was the sword of Arthur, who faced the Angle and now it is the sword of Melcorka.”

  “It was a sword well made,” Ceridwen said, “in Derwen's forge. It was made with rich red ore with Derwen tramping on bellows of ox-hide to blow the charcoal hot as hell ever is. The ore sank down through the charcoal to the lowest depth of the furnace, to form a shapeless mass the weight of a well-grown child.”

  Melcorka listened, trying to picture the scene when her blade was forged at the beginning of history.

  “It was normal for the apprentices to take the metal to the anvil, but Derwen carried the metal for this one himself, and chose the best of the best to reheat and form into a bar. He had the bar blessed by the Druids and by the holy man who came from the East, a young fugitive from Judea who fled the wrath of the Romans.”

  “Christ himself!” Melcorka barely breathed the name.

  “It is as you say if you say it,” Ceridwen said. “And Derwen cut his choice of steel into short lengths, laid them end on end in water blessed by the holy one and the chief Druid of Caractacus. Only then did he weld them together with the skill that only Derwen had. These operations, working together, equalised the temper of the steel, making it hard throughout, and sufficiently pliable to bend in half and spring together. Derwen tested the blade, and retested the blade, then hardened and sharpened it with his own touch and his own magic.”

  Ceridwen seemed to waver, her shape merging with that of the air around her. “At the end, in the final forging, Derwen sprinkled his own white powder of the dust of diamonds and rubies into the red-hot steel, to keep it free of rust and protect the edge.”

  “It is a good blade,” Melcorka agreed.

  “There will never be made a better,” Ceridwen told her. “Only certain people can wield it, and then only for righteous reasons. It can never be used by a soft man or a weak woman, or by one with evil in his or heart. The blade is used only for good.”

  “My mother told me I must use it only for the right reasons,” Melcorka said.

  Ceridwen smiled. “Your mother was a wise woman. She watches you.”

  “I miss her,” Melcorka said softly. She could not say more on that subject. “How do you know about my sword?”

  “It told me- and I remember Derwen making it.” Ceridwen laughed at the expression on Melcorka's face. “Or am I merely teasing you?”

  Melcorka started from her memories and looked around. She sat in the stern of Catriona, their boat, steering her automatically over a sea that extended to an unbroken horizon. “Are you all right, Melcorka?” Bradan looked at her from the well of the boat, where he made minute adjustments to the sail to catch the last of the fitful breeze. “I am all right. I was reliving the past.” Melcorka touched the hilt of Defender, the sword she had carried around the world. “I think we will be needed soon.”

  “That is always possible,” Bradan said, “although I dream of a time when your sword is not needed and we find a place of peace.”

  “So do I.” Melcorka lifted her head to catch the evening sun. “I dream of a house in a sheltered glen, with rowan trees bearing bright berries, and a cool burn washing between green fields.”

  “I should like to be near the sea,” Bradan said. “A house that is welcome for all peaceful visitors, and a place where all the scholars of Alba may debate philosophy and the meaning of the stars.”

  “We can have that place,” Melcorka said, “but not yet, I fear. I sense darkness on the horizon. There is trouble in the wind, Bradan.”

  “There is always trouble in the wind, Mel. We have seen enough trouble,” Bradan said. “I am weary of trouble.”

  Melcorka tapped the hilt of Defender, with even that minimal contact giving her a thrill of the blade's power. “We will cope, Bradan. We always do.”

  Bradan sighed and trimmed Catriona's sail on as the wind gave a final puff before it died away. “Aye; we will.” He smiled across to her. “As long as we have each other, we will survive.”

  Although Melcorka smiled back, she felt an unexpected lurch within her. She saw herself lying on a field of sand and blood with a man standing over her, brandishing a longsword with a dull, black blade. She saw Bradan walking away with another woman's hand on his arm. The woman was smiling, her eyes bright with triumph and her hips swaying in erotic promise. “We will survive,” Melcorka said, and blinked away her fears. She had known Bradan too long to worry about a stray image.

  All around them, the sea darkened as the day faded into night.

  Chapter One

  They saw the light an hour before the dawn, so bright that it outshone the stars, so high that it could only be a messenger from God.

  “What's that?” Melcorka squinted upwards.

  “I don't know.” Bradan said. He rested on the oars, adjusted the set of the sails to catch a non-existent wind and stared into the starry abyss of the night-time sky. “It's a comet, I think. I've heard of such things although I've never seen one before.”

  The ball of light progressed slowly across the heavens, dragging a glowing trail in its wake. There was no sound except the slap of waves against the hull.

  “I have heard that it's a warning of troubled times.” Bradan looked up as a sudden breeze breathed life into the sail.

  Melcorka shook her head. “If that were so,” she said, “there would be many more comets, since times are always troubled.”

  “You're getting cynical in your old age,” Bradan said as the sail bellied out, pushing Catriona faster through the waves. He heard the distant call of a bird, but of what variety he was not sure.

  For some time, they watched the strange light ease across the sky, then Bradan settled to sleep as Melcorka remained at the tiller, keeping Catriona's bow to the oncoming waves. Eventually she, too, dozed, only to be woken by the sharp piping of an oystercatcher, the black-and-white bird that was Melcorka's totem.

  “Welcome to dawn,” Bradan had taken over at the tiller. “That light is still there.”

  “So it is.” Melcorka looked skyward, where the light remained brilliant as it slowly headed towards the west. “We have company, I see.”

  A pair of oystercatchers circled the boat, their red beaks open as they emitted their distinctive piping calls.

  “They joined us as dawn broke.” Bradan stretched his long, lean body. “I think they want to tell us something.�
�

  “My oystercatchers.” Melcorka watched them with a faint smile. “The old folk knew them as guides of St Bride.” The birds circled again, flew half a mile to the west and returned. “Follow the birds, Bradan. It seems that they're guiding us back to Alba. How long is it since we left? About 10 years?”

  “It must be, perhaps more. I never keep count of time.” Bradan touched the tiller, easing Catriona to larboard, the direction where the birds were urging them.

  Melcorka nodded ahead, where seagulls clouded near the surface of the water. “These gulls never stray far from the coast, so we should sight land soon.”

  “Take the tiller,” Bradan said and climbed the slender mast. He balanced near the top, peering ahead. “You're right, Melcorka. I can see the hills of Alba.”

  As it slowly probed above the horizon, the distant blue smear of Alba woke countless emotions in Melcorka. She remembered her childhood as a naïve girl on a small island off the west coast. She remembered the day of revelation when she was introduced to Defender and realised she came from a line of female warriors. She remembered the terrible day Egil the Norseman had killed her mother, and she knew she was alone in the world, with a destiny she was unsure how to follow. She remembered the day she had met Bradan, a wandering man who carried only a staff. She remembered battles with the Norse, and later adventures with the Shining One until she and Bradan left the shores of Alba in Catriona.

  “Are you all right, Mel?”

  Melcorka nodded. “I was thinking of past times in Alba.”

  Bradan nodded. “Aye, good and bad, eh?”

  “Good and bad,” Melcorka agreed. Once again, she saw herself lying on that sandy ground, with a tall man standing over her and Bradan walking away with another woman.

  “More good than bad,” Bradan hauled in one of their fishing lines. “Haddock for breakfast,” he announced, “and we're nearly home. This will be a good day.”

  Melcorka forced a smile. “Today will be a good day,” she repeated. She tried to push away the sense of foreboding that pressed down on her.

  * * *

  The oystercatchers guided them to a sandy bay backed by low cliffs, with the sweet scent of peat smoke a reminder of friendly hearths and a warm welcome. Catriona beached with a gentle hiss as if she knew she was home after a decade of wandering the oceans and rivers of half the world. Surf broke silver-white around them, gently sliding away with a receding tide as nesting kittiwakes squawked from the cliffs.

  “Well met, Melcorka and Bradan.” A tall man strode to meet them with his long cloak flapping around his ankles and his long face animated. The oystercatchers circled his head, piping happily.

  “Well met, tall man.” Melcorka lifted Defender from the waterproof case in which it travelled and fastened it across her shoulders as Bradan attended to the sail and dragged Catriona above the high-water mark. “Who are you, and how do you know our names?”

  “I sent for you,” the man indicated the two oystercatchers. “These are my messengers.”

  Securing Catriona, Bradan lifted his rowan-wood staff. “You are no ordinary man.”

  “People will know me as True Thomas.” The tall man stopped beside a line of dark seaweed while the oystercatchers pecked around his sandaled feet.

  “People will know you as True Thomas? What do they know you as now?” Melcorka stopped a long pace from the tall man.

  True Thomas smiled. “They don't know me at all,” he said. “I shall not be born for 200 years.”

  “That's a clever trick.” Melcorka did not sense any threat from this man.

  After weeks at sea, the beach seemed to sway around Bradan. Pressing his staff into the sand, he rested his thumb on the carved cross on the top. “What do you wish with us, True Thomas?”

  “I wish you to accompany me to a battle,” True Thomas said. “Catriona will be safe here. She will turn up if you need her again.”

  Melcorka touched her sword. “We've been in a few battles,” she said, “but Bradan is not a fighting man.”

  “I know. But you are Melcorka the Swordswoman.” Without another word, True Thomas turned away and stalked, long-striding, up the beach with the oystercatchers circling his head.

  “Shall we follow this unborn man?” Melcorka asked. “He seems interesting.”

  “Unless you have something else planned,” Bradan said. “Catriona will be safe here if Thomas is as good as his name suggests.”

  Shaking her head, Melcorka followed True Thomas. “Why do we do these things, Bradan?”

  “Because it's in our blood.” After a few moments, Bradan glanced over his shoulder. “Look.” He pointed to the ground. “There are three of us, yet only two sets of footprints.”

  “Perhaps Thomas is true after all.” Melcorka adjusted her sword. “A man not yet born won't leave any impression on the ground.”

  “I wonder what an unborn man wants with us in a battle that nobody has yet fought, but where he must already know the outcome?” Bradan tapped his staff on the ground. “I am confused already.”

  “We'll soon see what Thomas wants,” Melcorka said.

  They met the first party of warriors within half an hour, dour, unsmiling borderers, riding on shaggy ponies as they carried lances and swords towards the south. Ignoring True Thomas as if he was not there, they nodded briefly to the unarmed Bradan and paid more attention to Melcorka's sword than to its bearer.

  “That's a heavy burden for a woman,” one young man said.

  “I'm used to it,” Melcorka said.

  “Are you carrying it for your man?” The borderer glanced at Bradan.

  “No.” Melcorka treated him to a smile that would have warned a more experienced man to take care.

  The youth looked to his companions as if he were about to say something smart. “You must be carrying it for me then.” He rode close to Melcorka and reached for Defender.

  Melcorka stood still. “If you are riding to fight for the king, youngster, you had better leave my sword alone and hurry before death departs without you.”

  The other borderers laughed as the youngster lifted his lance. “If you weren't a woman, I'd challenge you for that.”

  “And if you were a man and not a child, I'd accept,” Melcorka said.

  “I'll show you how a man fights!” Hefting his spear, the youngster kicked in his spurs, rode 20 yards away, turned and trotted towards Melcorka while his two companions watched with interest. Sighing, Bradan sat on a rounded boulder with his staff thrust out before him. He began to whistle, rubbing his thumb over the cross at the top of his staff.

  Melcorka waited until the young man was 10 feet away before she drew Defender. Immediately she did so, all the skill and power of the sword's previous owners flowed into her hands, up her arms and through her body. She took a deep breath, savouring the thrill, for however often she drew Defender, the feeling never paled.

  When the young man came close and thrust out his lance, Melcorka sliced it in two, turned the blade, and struck the man across the shoulders with the flat. The borderer fell from his horse, landed face down on the ground, bounced and faced Melcorka.

  “You'll die for that,” the youngster snarled, drew his sword and rushed forward.

  Sidestepping, Melcorka swung Defender once, catching the youngster a stinging blow across his backside. “I call that move Melcorka's greeting,” Melcorka said as the youngster yelled, spun around, and stopped as Melcorka placed the tip of Defender under his chin.

  “A small lesson.” Melcorka kept her voice level. “Before you start a fight with somebody, find out who they are. Now go.”

  When the youth backed away, Melcorka replaced Defender in her scabbard.

  The other borderers had watched with interest. “Sheath your sword, Martin, and mount up,” an older man with the eyes of a basilisk said. “I hope you fight better against the Northumbrians.” Lifting his hand in acknowledgement to Melcorka, he turned his horse towards the south, with the others following.

  �
��Martin,” Melcorka called after them. “Keep that spirit! Just think what you are doing and don't rush so much.” She watched the borderers ride away. “Come on.” True Thomas had been a silent spectator.

  “Nobody spoke to you, Thomas,” Bradan pointed out.

  “They can't see a man who is not yet born,” True Thomas explained patiently.

  “We can see you,” Bradan pointed out.

  “You see what I wish you to see,” Thomas said. “Nothing more.”

  As they headed south and east through the fertile, settled countryside, Melcorka and Bradan saw more men gathering, in small groups or larger companies. Some were on foot, hefting a variety of agricultural implements that a charitable observer might have classified as weapons, while others rode small, sturdy horses and carried spears. Only a few were warriors with padded leather jackets or chain mail and proudly sporting swords. A small entourage of supporters accompanied each warrior.

  “Who is gathering an army?” Bradan wondered, “It cannot be Queen Maelona. She is the least warlike woman alive.”

  Melcorka nodded. “I was thinking the same thing myself. I hope Maelona is well.”

  “I think we are nearing the army's camp,” Bradan nodded to a line of sentries who stood on a grassy ridge, either talking to each other or studying the countryside all around. One pair of spearmen watched as Melcorka led Bradan up the slope to the top of the ridge. They eyed Melcorka in her hooded blue cloak with the patches that told of hard usage, and the great sword whose hilt protruded behind her left shoulder.

  “Does the woman carry your sword?” the taller of the spearmen asked.

  “She carries her own sword,” Bradan replied as they stopped on the summit of the ridge.

  When the spearman opened his mouth to say something, his companion nudged him into silence. Both turned their attention on to anything except Melcorka.

  Beneath them, in a bowl in the undulating countryside, were hundreds, perhaps thousands of men and scores of women walking around or sitting in groups around campfires. Blue smoke formed a haze above the gathering, with the occasional drift of harp music or burst of laughter rising to the ridge.