Loki's Sword (The Swordswoman Book 5)

Book summary

In "Loki's Sword," Melcorka the Swordswoman returns to her homeland of Alba and is tasked with a daunting mission by the High King: hunt down and defeat the Butcher, a savage warrior wielding Loki's Sword. With war looming on two fronts, Melcorka and Bradan embark on a treacherous journey, facing formidable foes and unraveling the mysteries surrounding the Butcher and the enigmatic Loki's Sword.

Excerpt from Loki's Sword (The Swordswoman Book 5)

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.

“Aye, here we are,” Melcorka said. “Another war.”

“Somebody”s called up the army from the four quarters of Alba,” Bradan said. “This is no mere border raid.”

Melcorka nodded agreement. She saw the rugged horsemen of the border clustered in their family groups, the footmen of the Lowlands with their long spears, the lightly armed caterans and heavy axemen and swordsmen of the Highlands and the dark-headed Picts of the northeast. “Not all four quarters,” Melcorka said. “There are no Hebrideans.”

Leaning on his staff, Bradan ran an experienced eye across the fighting men of Alba. “You’re right, Mel. There are no men from the islands.”

Melcorka raised her voice. “Tell me truly, Thomas, why is the army gathering here and where are the men of the islands?”

Thomas stood a little apart, with the breeze failing to ruffle his long cloak. The oystercatchers continued to circle his head. “The enemy is to the south of the kingdom, Melcorka, while the Hebrides no longer form part of the realm of Alba.”

Bradan frowned. “Why is that?”

“Somebody assassinated the Lord of the Isles, and during the confusion over a new Lord, the Norse moved in.”

“The Lord of the Isles was my half-brother,” Melcorka said. “And the queen? Did Queen Maelona have no say in things?”

“Mael Coluim the Second is king now.”

“Mael Coluim the Second?” Melcorka said. “I didn’t even know there had been a Mael Coluim the First!”

True Thomas did not answer as Melcorka continued to study the gathering army. Among the grey-bearded veterans and confident champions were many fresh young faces, youths who had never experienced the horror of war, with the usual number of camp followers exploiting the warriors. She found it interesting that, in such a diverse collection, the various groups did not fight one another. The only reason for that, she considered, was a leader with sufficient force of character to bind them all together. Mael Coluim must be a strong king.

“Why have you brought us here?” Bradan asked.

“Watch,” True Thomas said.

“Are we to fight Alba’s enemy?” Melcorka struggled to contain her increasing impatience.

“Watch,” True Thomas repeated.