There was silence as Melcorka and Bradan pondered the words. “Why are these things always in riddles?” Bradan asked eventually.
“It is the way of the world,” Maelona said.
“Does that mean anything to you, Bradan?” Melcorka asked.
“Not a thing,” Bradan said. “I'll have to think about it.”
“Oh.” Melcorka fought her disappointment. She had hoped that Bradan could immediately unravel the mystery. “You do that, Bradan.”
Day followed day, with Melcorka gradually regaining her physical strength, although she brooded over her defeat and was worried how she would cope in any future encounter. Leaning Defender against the wall, she barely glanced at the sword as the days smoothed past. Bradan watched her, shielding his concern behind cheerful conversation.
They remained within Elfhame, not sure about the passage of time, uncertain if they would ever be allowed back to their own realm, ignorant what was happening in the world outside as Melcorka progressed from a single tottering step to a full day on her feet. Eventually, after what might have been a year or three months, Melcorka declared herself fit once more.
“You are only partially healed,” Maelona said. “Although physically you are better, your mind is still damaged.”
“I cannot remain here any longer,” Melcorka said. “I cannot continue to take the People's hospitality.”
“Are you ready to leave Elfhame?” Maelona asked.
“We are ready,” Melcorka touched Defender for the first time in weeks. “We will seek this mysterious place beside the mirror of the moon.”
“The People of Peace wish you well,” Maelona said. “Fighting this darkness benefits us as well as humanity.”
“How do we leave?” Bradan was desperate to be on his way.
“You already have,” Maelona said.
When Bradan looked around, a soft wind dissipated the green mist, and they stood on the upper slopes of the Eildon Hills, with half of Alba revealed before them.
Melcorka stood, round-shouldered, holding Defender as if she had never seen her sword before. “I want to go back,” she said.
Chapter Nine
Erik sat on a rounded boulder within the ramparts of the ancient hill fort, with the ravens circling him in ever-widening spirals. He sharpened Legbiter on a smooth stone, using long, even strokes up the length of the sword. With each stroke, the dark blade thrummed, creating sombre music. Ten paces from Erik, the man in grey stood, unsmiling, his face unemotional, and the grey bag slung over his shoulder.
“It is a hard price to pay,” Erik said, looking up from his task.
“It is the bargain you agreed,” the grey man spoke without moving his lips, the thoughts transferred from his mind to Erik's in an instant.
“It is a harder bargain than I wished.”
“It is the bargain you agreed,” the grey man reiterated.
Erik continued to sharpen Legbiter, keeping his head down to hide the tears in his eyes. “I do not wish to continue with the bargain. I want my freedom from Loki.”
“It is the bargain you agreed,” the grey man repeated once more.
“I wish to end it.” Erik said.
The grey man put a hand on top of his bag and his laughter was painful as it ripped through Erik's head. He cringed, dropping the sword and holding both hands to his ears, which only trapped the laughter within his mind. “No,” he said, “no,” as the noise increased, expanding until it reached every part of him. “No!”
The grey man did not move. There was no expression on his face as Erik writhed and kicked, clutching his head until the laughter ended as abruptly as it began.
Lying on the ground, exhausted, Erik felt the sweat soaking him from scalp to feet. The grey man stood as unemotional as before.
“It is the bargain you agreed.”
Erik dragged himself to his feet. “It is the bargain I agreed,” he said miserably. Lifting Legbiter, Erik returned to the task of sharpening it, using the same long, even strokes that rang around the interior of the fort. As he worked, the two ravens hopped closer, until one stood on each shoulder. A soft wind whispered through the tumbled stones of the ancient hill-fort, a reminder that all things come to an end, and even the most powerful of empires fade away.
Erik looked up as the idea came to him. Standing, he tested the edge of his blade, drawing a bright bead of blood from his thumb.
“He is here.” The words formed in his mind. “You are a Norseman, Erik Egilsson; fight. Kill him now.”
The ravens continued to fly in ever-increasing circles from the hill fort, their eyes seeing everything below them.
Standing on the highest point of the once-formidable ramparts, Erik saw the small group of men approach, their horses appearing to crawl across the bright green of the countryside. Even from this distance, Erik could see that one man rode slightly in advance of the others, with his black cloak flowing from his shoulders.
“Black Duncan the Grim,” Erik said. “Come to kill, or be killed.”
Stepping back from the lichen-smeared stones, Erik stripped off his clothes and lay on a depression in the ground, drawing energy from the soil. The power eased into him, increasing his strength, sharpening his mind, augmenting the force of Legbiter, so when Erik rose, he was ready to fight. Knowing that Black Duncan would find him, Erik took pains to smear the mud over his body from neck to upper thighs before he dressed. The grey man watched, saying nothing.
Only when he was dressed did Erik pull up his hood and return to the boundary stones of the fort. He watched the horsemen mount the slope, carefully avoiding the lines of sharp rocks that long-dead hands had placed there to deter attackers. Black Duncan halted his horse a spear's throw from Erik, studying him carefully before he spoke.
“Are you the man they call the Butcher?”
“That is one name that men call me,” Erik replied.
“Then I am here to kill you.”
“I know that, Black Duncan the Grim.” Erik felt the power of the earth enter his body and the surge of evil from Legbiter. “We shall fight, and one of us shall
