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
