Defending Destiny (The Warrior Chronicles) (13 page)

“Do you believe the sword Daisy found is a genuine Ulfberht?” Ulfberht swords were a thousand years ahead of their time metallurgically. A true Viking artifact made from super-heated crucible steel with three times more carbon than was commonly used in swordmaking around 1000 AD. A rare find, indeed.

“I know it is. It has been authenticated.” The certainty in Merry’s eyes made a believer out of Magnus. Ulfberhts were rare, about 170 or so legitimate finds that Magnus knew about, but not unheard of. They were also priceless.

“Another feather in the Arm-Righ’s cap. That monster has been itching to get his hands on any Ulfberht. One of the five that Somerled commissioned for his children would have the man creaming his trousers in avaricious glee.”

Merry ignored his vulgarity. “The King doesn’t know what Daisy found. If he did, she’d already be dead. One of the five swords of Somerled is powerful in its own right. The power of the five increases exponentially when two or more of them are together. With all five, a fighting force would be invincible. The Arm-Righ wouldn’t let anyone else control even a portion of that kind of power.”

Magnus put down the blade he was working on. Sharpening the Damascus steel could wait. Daisy would not keep any Ulfberht, much less Gleipnir, in her possession. She would do what any apprentice finder would do, give it to the Council member she served: Lauren MacBain. MacBain would then notify the King and the Council of the find. That was Society law. If Daisy didn’t have the sword, which obviously she didn’t, then the Arm-Righ had no right to harm or even sanction her without the consent of the Council, and that would require informing the entire Council of Daisy’s find. “Lauren is obligated to turn over any artifact under his control to the Arm-Righ. He risks excommunication, or worse, every day that he doesn’t.”

“Strictly speaking, the sword hasn’t been in his possession.” Merry paused and looked at Magnus with those witchy eyes that held as much back as they revealed. “And it never will be. When you’re done with it, there won’t be any proof that this one of the five even existed. The power will be there, albeit in a different form. The artifact will not.”

Merry walked deeper into the workshop, and for the first time Magnus paid attention to the picnic basket she held. He nodded toward it. “I’m assuming that doesn’t hold afternoon tea.”

Merry set the basket on a work table. She was wearing gloves. That should have been his first clue that she wasn’t there to work on his magic training. He’d been so preoccupied creating a short knife for Daisy that he’d missed the nuances in Merry’s body language. She was nervous and Magnus suspected a little fearful about her role in what was about to happen. Keying off her energy, he got more nervous by the second.

Merry opened the latch on the long basket and pulled out a soft linen towel. Magnus recognized it as one of the linen tablecloths used in the museum’s coffee shop. She then pulled out another, laying it next to the first on his makeshift table. She opened them both with a reverence he’d only seen acolytes use when displaying holy relics. The linen fell away, revealing two sections of a sword that looked to be at least ten centuries old.

Seeing the pitted and aged steel, Magnus knew immediately that it was from the time of Somerled, perhaps older. He longed to touch it, but he just stood there, the sword maker in him transfixed by the wonder before him. Merry waited without saying a word while he walked around the table, studying the pieces without touching them. Then he grabbed a clean towel, one he used to shine already polished silver, and carefully turned each piece over. There, clearly visible to the naked eye, was the telltale inscription:
Ulfberht.
Magnus’ heart kicked painfully against his chest and his throat constricted. He’d only been this close to a genuine Ulfberht sword one other time, and that one was not as well preserved. This was a museum piece of the highest quality.

Magnus looked at the pommel, which was surprisingly intact. On it was one word:
Gleipnir.

He looked up at Merry, who had grown preternaturally quiet. “Lauren had this authenticated?”

“Part of it.”

“Which part?”

“The broken piece of the blade, the smaller piece that has the last three letters of Ulfberht inlaid into it.”

“He had the carbon content analyzed? It’s a genuine Ulfberht?”

“He made the introductions. I had the piece authenticated. The carbon content along with the absence of slag indicate it is genuine.”

Magnus felt a sense of relief wash through him. “So no one has seen the pommel and the longer piece of the blade? No one has seen the runic script?”

Merry shook her head. “No one but you, me, Daisy, and Rowan have seen the runes on the pommel. There is no reason for alarm. Even the man who authenticated it believes he authenticated a sample from a sword Lauren already has in his Museum of Celtic Art.”

Magnus relaxed a bit at the news. “The Ghost knows of this find?”

“You need an ally, Magnus. Rowan can be trusted. The Council employs his services, but Rowan is a Silent One. His allegiance is to his conscience. He answers to it and to the Druidic Order of the Damselfly only. He knows of the significance of Daisy’s find. The fact that Gleipnir exists is huge in its own right. The fact that Daisy was the one to find it is even more significant. The King will exploit her abilities if he can and crush her if he can’t. The danger Daisy’s in just escalated. She’s no longer a threat to his reign, she is
the
threat. She’s going to need help. You and Rowan are going to have to give her every advantage you can.”

The hair on the back of Magnus’ neck stood at attention. He knew Daisy was in danger, that was why he was there—but until that moment, it was a nebulous thing, a vague and uncertain threat. Now Merry told him he needed an ally to help Daisy. An ally he had relied on in the past, and who owed him a favor, and yet Rowan MacDonald’s loyalties were never clearly understood. That bothered Magnus. More than a little.

At least the Arm-Righ and his minions didn’t know about Gleipnir.

“I didn’t think the legend of the five swords of Somerled was real. I don’t know anyone who believes the legend to be true. Now you’re handing me an Ulfberht—one purportedly owned by Somerled’s daughter, no less. I’d rather see this buried away in the British museum than in the Arm-Righ’s private collection. It should be shared with the world, not sitting on a table in front of me. Why have you brought this to me? What do you expect me to do with it? And why do I need Rowan’s help?”

“I expect you to burn it.” Merry paused, letting her words settle. “As I understand it, that’s a two-person job, is it not?”

Magnus jerked back, feeling as though his mentor just slapped him. He shared the secrets of the ancient ones through his art. He kept beauty in the world through his jewelry, replicating ancient Celtic art and melding it with his own sense of the divine. He made weapons that captured the best of what his ancestors knew of science and craftsmanship and tailored them for today’s use, blurring the line between magical metallurgy and science, trying to create something that transcended both. Magnus believed that the knowledge of the ancients—magical, scientific, and spiritual—should be shared and honored. One didn’t share or honor by destroying.

He was a creator. Not a destroyer. Every bit of him revolted at the thought of taking something so beautiful and rare and liquefying it. A piece of history that could shed light on the lives and the religion of his ancestors, melted into nothingness.
No.

Merry put one gloved hand on his arm. He stiffened, eyes glued to the metal spread out before him. “Magnus,” she said. “Look at me.”

“Daisy will have to fight, the way all those who stand in judgment at Court fight—with a sword. Before she has to face the Arm-Righ, she’ll face others, including Kolin Damnet, his despicable Second. I’ve
seen
it. She’ll stand alone when that day comes. You won’t be able to protect her. Neither will Lauren. So help her now. Make sure she has the best weapon in the fight. You are the only one who can. In Daisy’s hands, Gleipnir becomes a sword of destiny, but only if she’s alive to wield it. The only way to ensure her safety is to transform Gleipnir into something that the Arm-Righ won’t recognize.”

Magnus swallowed past the dust in his throat. Saving artifacts of immense historical and cultural value was a meaningful and honorable calling, one that didn’t even live in the same universe as helping Daisy survive what she couldn’t escape if she took on the Arm-Righ. When it came right down to it, there was only one choice, and that choice was, now as it always had been, Daisy. “What do you want me to do?”

Merry dropped her hand back to her side and fished into the small, purse-like pouch she wore across her shoulder. She took out a small notebook, tore out a page, and handed it to him. “You need to make a new Gleipnir for Daisy. One she can use to defeat the Arm-Righ. One made from ancient crucible steel imbued with the pieces of the original and a new carbon source. A carbon source that comes from you. This sword has power, Magnus—use it. Combine it with your own power. Create a weapon crafted with love and purity of purpose. Put your own magic into it. If you do,
and
if Daisy learns how to wield it, you will have given her a fighting chance with the Arm-Righ.”

Magnus looked at the sheet she’d given him. “What’s this?”

“It’s a spell I created with a little help from Merlin. Use it as you sweat the sword. Use your own words too. Words have power, Magnus. Make sure you choose the right ones.”

Merry smiled at him and the pleasant coffee shop owner was back. The Druidess was now lurking far underneath Merry’s warm smile. She always smiled like that when she spoke of Merlin, like he was real and part of her life. The only Merlin Magnus knew was Taryn’s assistant, a flaming redhead who, well into his late twenties, was still a teenager at heart. The man thought more about getting laid and eating junk food than anyone Magnus had ever met. That Merlin had about as much in common with his wise and cunning namesake as Magnus had with the great Druids of old.

Merry smiled again, like she read his mind and knew a secret he wasn’t going to find out for a long time. She grabbed her basket and was gone without another word. Merry left the sword pieces where they lay, trusting him with what would be all of their death warrants if the Arm-Righ learned of Gleipnir’s existence.

If he was going to create a new Gleipnir for Daisy, one worthy of the name, he was going to need some help. Merry was right about that. Making crucible steel, as it would have been made a thousand years ago, was a two-man job. Magnus pulled out his second phone. It had one number programmed into it. One number only. The military didn’t even have access to the encryption it used. How could they? It was based on a language no longer spoken, except by a handful of people on the planet. He was one of them. Rowan MacDonald was another.

Magnus pushed a button. When it was picked up, there was no verbal answer. Magnus spoke in Manx. Three words, followed by a fourth. “
I need you. Now.
”
Then he disconnected, not waiting for a reply that wouldn’t come anyway. Rowan got the message. He would come.

While he waited, Magnus gathered his supplies. He needed to sustain temperatures of three thousand degrees to make the steel as pure as he needed it to be, without slag, free from impurities, strong, flexible, and carbon rich. Daisy’s sword needed a name and a carbon source that carried its own magic. He’d craft it with love, imbue it with the pieces of the original Gleipnir and some of his own pure crucible steel.

Magnus got to work drafting an exact paper replica. Every measurement mattered. He needed to make every millimeter count. The sword needed to be crafted for someone Daisy’s size, with Daisy’s strength. Too long or too heavy and she wouldn’t be able to wield it effectively, no matter how perfectly balanced. Too short or too light and it wouldn’t stand up to a heavier weapon. Balance, reach, weight—all were key. And all ultimately depended on the warrior and her level of skill. A sword of destiny was said to strike with its rightful owner’s intent. Defend when its owner intended to block. Bleed when its owner wanted to give warning. Disarm, maim, kill, depending on the intention of its owner’s heart, as long as that heart was pure.

Hours passed and the sun set before Magnus finished his calculations and his paper model. He was setting his pencil down as Rowan walked through the door. Rowan glanced at the linen-covered pieces at the edge of Magnus’ drafting table. He took off his leather vest and set it on a stool in the corner, revealing his scarred and tattooed chest. “I believe we’ve got forging to do.”

Rowan wasn’t carrying the long sword Magnus had crafted for him, but the short sword Magnus forged for him years ago hung at his hip. Even meeting the only person Rowan called friend, he was armed. Since what they were about to do was tantamount to treason, Magnus was grateful the Ghost came prepared.

“It’s fitting that your woman should carry your blade. Will you keep the name?”

Magnus smiled. Rowan had a way with words, probably because he didn’t use them often or idly. Magnus wouldn’t dream of renaming the sword. Not when the name fit Daisy so perfectly. “No, I won’t change the name. Gleipnir fits.”

Rowan grunted in what Magnus took to be agreement.

They got to work. Once they started, they wouldn’t stop until Daisy’s sword was complete. That was the art, the science, and the ritual of the process. Through the ritual the magic flowed out of him and into the metal. Magnus looked at Rowan and handed the man the small Damascus steel blade he’d fashioned for Daisy just that morning. Rowan took the blade without comment. It was dwarfed in his hands.