Loki's Sword Page 10

  When the pure white serpent was completely clear of the hole, the woman sprang forward, caught it by the neck, stood erect and lifted it high. Saying nothing, she dropped the snake into an earthenware vessel and closed the lid, tying it tight with stalks of supple heather.

  Gathering dry sticks of hazel from the base of the tree, the woman piled them into a pyramid, struck a spark from two stones and blew life into the resulting tiny flame. She watched as the fire spread, adding twigs and dry wood until she built up a respectable blaze.

  Nodding in satisfaction, the woman filled an iron pot filled it with burn-water and placed it on top of the now-roaring fire. Smoke coiled upwards, blue against an empty sky, aromatic in that deserted glen. When the water began to bubble, the woman took the earthenware vessel, untied the heather and dropped the white snake into the water, quickly placing a lid on top, with a large stone to hold it in place. Steam escaped from a tiny hole at the side, joining the smoke.

  The woman sat down again, cross-legged, and waited with infinite patience until the fire died down. Only when the iron pot was sufficiently cool to touch did the woman lift the stone from the lid and remove the pot from the now-dead embers of the fire.

  The snake had turned to soup, with the bones coiled around the interior of the pot. Without any hesitation, the woman drank the contents, with the overspill cascading down her front to form a little pool around her bare feet.

  “Now I know!” she said as the wisdom of the white serpent exploded inside her head. “Now I know everything there is to know!” Dropping the pot, she began to laugh, with the sound of her voice echoing around the glen.

  “Now I know everything!”

  “Do you know who I am?” The dark figure rose from the ground, shapeless except for the two red eyes that glared at the woman.

  “I know who you are.”

  “Who?”

  “You are the Cu-saeng,” the woman faced the darkness.

  “Why do you not fear me?” The Cu-saeng's voice boomed inside the woman's head.

  “Because you need me,” the woman said as the knowledge of the white serpent cascaded inside her head.

  “Do you know what I desire?” the Cu-saeng asked, rising around the woman, a formless mass.

  “You desire me to help Erik Egilsson.” The woman said. “You need me to take the enchanted sword from Melcorka Nic Bearnas of the Cenel Bearnas.”

  “Go then, and do as I desire,” the Cu-saeng said.

  The woman watched as the Cu-saeng dissolved back into the ground, smiled and walked toward the south.

  Chapter Eleven

  They stood on the slope of the triple hills of Eildon with Bradan's staff upright in the ground while three deer were watching them curiously. Whisking across the summits, a stiff wind blew ragged clouds eastward, toward the sea.

  “How are the legs?” Bradan asked.

  Melcorka tested them, thumping down first the left and then the right. “Strong enough,” she looked at the broad white scar that disfigured the outside of each thigh. “I do not wish to fight Erik again.”

  “The fighting can wait,” Bradan said. “I am glad your legs are well. I suspect we have a lot of walking before us.”

  “Have you had any ideas about the riddle?” Melcorka asked. “One within three beside the mirror of the moon, with the wisdom of the old drawing from sacred blood.” She shook her head, flicking her long dark hair around her neck. “It means nothing to me.”

  “I have tried to dissect it,” Bradan said. “I think it's in two parts. The first is one within three beside the mirror of the moon, and the second is with the wisdom of the old drawing from sacred blood.”

  “Shall we walk?” Melcorka asked.

  “Not yet,” Bradan said. “Not until we know in which direction we should go.” He gave a twisted smile. “I'd hate to march two days north and find we should be heading south.”

  Melcorka did not match Bradan's smile. “What do we do, then?”

  “I once knew a wishing well near here.” Bradan said. “We will be safe there, with a rowan tree to guard us against the People of Peace.”

  “If you think so,” Melcorka said as Bradan worried at her lack of spirit.

  The well was as Bradan remembered it, two miles north of the Eildons, small and dark beside a rugged rowan tree. Around them, grass spread in a pleasant swathe of green, speckled with daisies, dandelions and buttercups, while bright butterflies floated free. A score of shaggy sheep grazed happily.

  “Are you going to wish for an answer to the riddle?” Melcorka asked.

  Bradan shook his head. “No. I'm going to stay close to the rowan tree and be thankful we got away from Elfhame. I only wish I knew how long we were there. Judging by the weather and the state of the country, it's spring, if not early summer.”

  “We can ask that shepherd,” Melcorka gestured to a man who was herding his sheep with the aid of two black-and-white collie dogs.

  Bradan gestured to the man. “Halloa there! Do you know what year it is?”

  “What year is it?” The shepherd came closer, stroking his beard as if deep in thought. “The same year as it was yesterday,” he said, “and the same year as it will be tomorrow, but blessed if I know what number people say it is.”

  Bradan nodded. “Aye; that”s a fair answer,” he said. “Is Mael Coluim still king of Alba?”

  “King of Alba? There's a king, for sure, or maybe a queen, but I'm blessed if I know who it is. I don't speak to such people, you see, and they don't talk to me.”

  Bradan tried again. “Do you remember a great battle down by Carham, near the Tweed?”

  The shepherd stroked his beard again. “There have been many battles by Tweed. Which one were you meaning?”

  “The one where King Mael Coluim defeated the Northumbrians,” Bradan fought to retain his patience.

  “The one where a woman killed three Danish champions,” the shepherd was suddenly alert, nodding at Defender. “A woman with a sword like that.”

  “That”s the battle,” Bradan said. “Could you tell me how long ago it was?”

  “Six months, Bradan,” the shepherd said. Even as Bradan watched, the shepherd transmogrified into True Thomas, while his collies shrank into oystercatchers. “You have been in Elfhame for five months and three weeks. The world believes you dead, and the Butcher continues to kill.” True Thomas looked grave. “He defeated Black Duncan last month.”

  “Black Duncan has gone too?” Melcorka felt her despondency increase. “He was one of the best. I don't think that anybody can defeat Erik and Legbiter.”

  “There is always hope,” True Thomas said. “What have you learned in Elfhame?”

  Bradan told him of Maelona's ideas of the forbidden entity from a far-distant past and repeated the riddle. “One within three beside the mirror of the moon, with the wisdom of the old drawing from sacred blood.”

  “The mirror of the moon,” True Thomas said. “That should be simple to explain, if not to find. Where can you find a mirror that shows the moon?”

  Bradan grunted. “Any pond, loch or pool will reflect the moon.”

  “Exactly so,” True Thomas said. “You are looking for a body of still water.”

  Bradan looked away. “Yes, seer; in Alba, we must have ten thousand bodies of still water.”

  “Now look at the second section of the riddle.” Thomas ignored Bradan's irritation. “One within three. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “It means nothing to me,” Bradan said.

  “The “one” must be significant.” Melcorka tried to cudgel life into her brain. “What is a one that might matter? What is a one that can stand out within a three?”

  “Something that dominates its surroundings, or something of historical importance,” Bradan said.

  “I would agree,” Thomas said. “What single thing could dominate its surroundings while being within a three?”

  “A building, perhaps?” Melcorka hazarded. “A castle? Or a mountain? Schieh
allion, the sacred mountain? That stands out.”

  “It does,” Bradan agreed, “but where does the mirror of the moon come in, or the three?”

  “Something that stands tall beside a loch or pond,” Melcorka said.

  “The wisdom of the old must also be represented,” Thomas added, grave-faced. “This is a complex riddle indeed.”

  “Indeed,” Bradan began to tap his staff on the ground. “One within a three. I cannot fathom that, but the second part of the riddle is about the wisdom of the old. Maelona mentioned that some of the old families still possessed a family Druid. The Druids maintain the wisdom of the old.”

  They do,” True Thomas said. “Where do these old families dwell?”

  “North of the Forth,” Bradan said at once, “and in the areas where the influence of the Norse is weakest.”

  Melcorka nodded. “That means the north and east of the country.”

  “We are narrowing the area down,” Bradan said. “Which type of families would have these Druids?”

  “The old Pictish families,” Melcorka said, without the shadow of a smile. “Those furthest from the Celtic church.”

  “Away from the Norse, far from the Church,” Bradan said. “I would say we are looking at an area inland, and we think in the northeast.”

  “You have wandered there, Bradan,” Melcorka said. “Which old families would have a pool or a pond? Perhaps a sacred loch?”

  Bradan shook his head. “There are hundreds of sacred places, hills, lochs, rivers, and standing stones in that area.” He looked at Melcorka in sudden enlightenment. “And stone circles.”

  “Stone circles?” Melcorka asked. “Is there one beside a loch?”

  “Yes,” Bradan said. “I know of one in the Moor of Grainish.” Standing to clear his mind, he tapped his staff on the ground. “I think I know where this place might be, Mel. I know of a triple stone circle, three concentric rings of stones, with a taller stone in the centre.”

  “One within a three,” Melcorka spoke with no animation. “Is there a loch nearby?”

  “There is a lochan if I remember,” Bradan said, “a small pool of dark water. I do not know if it is sacred or not.”

  “It will be sacred at such a location,” Melcorka said. “The Moor of Grainish is in Fidach is it not? The old Pictish province that we once knew well.”

  “The Moor of Grainish straddles the border between Fidach and Alba,” Bradan said. “We passed it on our way to Fidach, years ago.”

  “I remember,” Melcorka said. “We met no Druids.”

  “They must gather at certain times – the old holy times, perhaps.”

  “Beltane.” Melcorka said flatly. “If the Druids gather there, it will be when they light the holy fires at Beltane,” Melcorka said. “Beltane is the beginning of summer.”

  “What date is it today?” Bradan asked.

  True Thomas had been listening. “You have two weeks,” he said. “And 200 miles of difficult terrain to cover.”

  Bradan tapped his staff on the ground. “We had better start,” he said. “Thank you for your help, Thomas.”

  But True Thomas had vanished. The elderly shepherd grinned at him, gap-toothed and without understanding.

  “I wish that man would stay for a full conversation,” Bradan said.

  “Yes.” Melcorka had already lost interest. She stared at a sheep as if she had never seen such an animal before.

  “Come on, Mel,” Bradan said. “We have a long way to travel.”

  * * *

  “I still don”t feel myself,” Melcorka said as she leaned against the carcass of a hollowed-out tree.

  “You are not yourself,” Bradan said. “I can feel the weakness in you.”

  “I thought the People of Peace had cured me.”

  “They cured the physical wound,” Bradan reminded her gently. “There are other things that they could not cure. That is one reason why we are still looking for help.”

  Melcorka forced a smile. “I don't like this feeling. It is as if someone is inside me, tearing at me as he tries to get out.”

  “We'll get you better, Mel.” Bradan put a supporting arm around her. “I wish that True Thomas would turn up again. Like all these seers and foretellers, he talks in riddles and leaves us to grope for the solution.”

  “Yes.” Melcorka”s attention had drifted away again. She hitched up her sword, frowning. “Do I have to carry this thing?”

  “You'll need it later.” Again, Bradan concealed his concern.

  “Oh.” Melcorka shook her head. “Yes, of course.”

  “Somebody's following us,” Bradan said. “Don't look behind you.”

  “I didn't hear anything.” Melcorka would have turned around if Bradan had not held her sleeve.

  “Nor did I,” Bradan said. “That's what worries me. I haven't heard a bird or an animal for some time now.” He forced a smile. “Keep walking, Mel.”

  They reached the edge of the Flanders Moss, the vast stretch of bogland, river and floating islands of peat that stretched across the waist of Alba, separating the south of the country from the northern heartland.

  “How many people are following?” Melcorka asked.

  “I don't know.” Bradan tested the depth of the mud with his staff. When he felt no bottom, he moved on, probing for an entrance to the marsh. “I know there are causeways somewhere.” He swiped at a host of biting insects, frowned and moved on. “Ah, here we are – there's solid ground about a hand span under the water. Can you see anybody behind us?”

  “No.” Melcorka had found a half-submerged tree from where she could watch in all directions. “No movement at all.”

  “As long as they don't attack us when we're on the causeway.” Bradan waited for Melcorka to laugh his fears to scorn.

  “I hope not.” Melcorka did not touch Defender as she looked behind her in sudden apprehension.

  “Here we go, Mel.” Testing each step with his staff, Bradan moved cautiously along the causeway, with Melcorka a few paces behind him, occasionally glancing over her shoulder.

  “Can you see anybody yet?” Bradan asked.

  “I saw something.” Melcorka sounded unusually nervous. “Something moving.”

  “If it's friendly, it won't worry us. If it's not friendly,” Bradan nodded to Defender, “you have that.”

  Melcorka looked away. “Yes. I have that.” She did not touch her sword hilt.

  Bradan looked over his shoulder, squinting to see what was happening. Slivers of mist drifted across the surface of the Moss, making identification difficult, yet he saw movement. Was that a man on the causeway behind them? Or was it an animal? He could not be sure. “It might only be a deer,” Bradan said, “or a trick of the light on the Moss.”

  “It was no deer,” Melcorka said. “Can you smell deer?”

  “I cannot.” Bradan looked around. It was impossible to hurry, for one step off the twisting causeway meant slow suffocation in the sucking mud. He sniffed again. “You are right. I can't smell deer or anything.” People and animals had distinctive scents to people brought up in the wilds. Although the dampness of the Moss would mask most odours, Bradan knew he would recognise the scent of a deer. He waited for Melcorka to challenge whoever or whatever was following them, to draw Defender and face the pursuers. Instead, she pointed ahead.

  “Hurry, Bradan. We'll try to lose them in the Moss.”

  “I'm hurrying,” Bradan probed and stepped, probed and stepped, with the causeway taking them deeper into the Moss, turning this way and that over patches of brilliant green turf, areas of reed-covered water and peat holes where dark water covered mysterious depths. Occasional trees thrust through the Moss, isolated on patches of firmer ground, and from time to time a rat swam next to their feet or investigated their ankles, while bog-cotton bobbed in unseen winds.

  “Look!” Melcorka pointed to the side, where a man jumped high over the surface of the Moss, to vanish into a patch of mist. “What sort of man can do that?”
>
  “The sort that can bleed,” Bradan said. He saw another man rise high, holding a long pole, then seemed to fly over the Moss. “Whoever they are, they are agile.”

  The figures appeared and disappeared, vaulting over or through the mist on their long poles. Only partially seen, they moved silently, without word or gesture.

  “They're in front of us,” Melcorka said.

  Disfigured by the mist into elongated giants, the men loomed ahead, standing on the causeway to bar Melcorka and Bradan's path. Each held a pole three times the length of a tall man.

  “That's not promising,” Bradan said.

  “No,” Melcorka looked behind her. “We can't fight three of them.”

  “You are Melcorka, the Swordswoman,” Bradan said. “You can fight anybody.”

  Melcorka shook her head. “Not now. Not any longer.” She looked around, searching for an avenue of escape.

  “Who are you?” Bradan shouted. “What do you want?”

  The three men stood in front of them, silent figures in the mist. With their faces smeared with mud and their clothes the same grey-green colour as the surrounding bogland, they fitted perfectly into their environment.

  Melcorka gasped as a hand slid from the bog to grasp her right ankle. She kicked out, jumping back as another grabbed at her left calf.

  “Get away!” Bradan slammed his staff down. A man emerged from the mud, his eyes dark in a muddy face. Bradan hit him again. Two more appeared, skating over the surface of the mud in shoes like wide saucers.

  More hands grabbed at Melcorka, pulling her down, while the skating men lunged at the hilt of Defender.

  “No you don't!” Bradan swung his staff, knocking one man down. The second nearly succeeded in pulling Defender free from the scabbard before Melcorka pushed herself to her feet and Bradan wrestled the man away. The Moss-men disappeared into the misty distance, leaving only the three on the causeway.