Babels of Bedlam - Part 1

Stig kept perched on the windowsill, listening for any whisper of a sound. It was past midnight and, this deep into the winter, there wasn’t going to be a promise of light anytime soon. That was fine enough for him, though. His entire being was honed for the endless potentials that the darkness taunted him with; he was a thief, after all.

Noiselessly dropping into the carpeted corridor, a flit of exhilaration squeezed Stig’s stomach. This wouldn’t be a challenge, not in comparison to previous escapades of his, but the prize at the end was still worthy of the exhilaration he felt. And anyway, this was Midgardr. Mann dwelt here, and where mann was, deific protection tended to follow. He couldn’t make known his underlying motives, but, then again, this was Midgardr. Menn lost faith in his kind long ago. No truths that Stig let spill from his mouth would be taken with any gravity.

He started left down the hallway, taking quick, light steps in search of the only door on the second floor that would be locked. The overindulgent manor was obscenely simple to break into – even in Stig’s own opinion – and owned by a highly esteemed Venetian archaeologist who had the distasteful habit of bringing his work home with him. Such works would, no doubt, be hidden behind lock and key, and, of course, those artifacts were exactly what Stig was searching for.

Despite his current occupation, Stig generally frowned upon stealing, but with his wayward sense of justice, he wasn’t beyond thieving a thief. In fact, he found it quite amusing. All the more reason the excitement was acceptable. And anyway, it wasn’t as if he was going to take all of the corrupt archaeologist’s treasures – only one.

Reaching down for the doorknob of the fifth and final door on the right side of the corridor, Stig smiled, knowing already that this was the one.

“Opna,” Stig murmured, allowing the ancient word a moment before a soft, distinct click sounded, freeing the restriction of the knob.

Anticipation quickened his pulse as he pushed the door open. What lay beyond was something of a historian’s dream. Resting in the gentle shadows of the concealed room, glass cases, covering ancient artifacts from around the world, were erected and lined against the walls. Vases from Iraq, precious stones from India and Africa, small clay statues from China, all resting in their dust proofed cases.

“Dr. Malipiero, you’ve been quite a busy man,” Stig muttered, running a finger across the glass of the nearest shelf as he passed.

Just recently, the crooked archaeologist led a dig in the Orkney Islands on the southeast coast of the main key. Evidence indicated the past presence of a decently sized castle there, dating back to pre-Wessex influence over the island nations of Great Britain. That in itself was nothing ground-breaking. Previous to its annexation to Scotland, the little archipelago had many visitors, all of whom had intentions of staying. The constructions of strongholds weren’t anything that would pique the interest of any fame-seeking doctoral. What interested him were the builders themselves. Pre-Scottish Orkney was a breeding ground for a people known for their infamy in sea-roving. Dr. Malipiero had an acute allure to those loosely referred to as Vikings. As did Stig – in his own wicked way.

Nothing much was found in the decrepit structure owned, long ago, by some Nordic ruler who decided to sow his seeds into the Scottish island. Dr. Malipiero retreated back to his dragon-lair of stolen artifacts empty handed, save one piece of metal salvaged from three feet beneath what seemed to be the massive hearth of the crumbling dining hall. It wasn’t much to look at, not in comparison to other treasures the man had filched – most sword hilts from that time period weren’t much to look at, anyway - but the one uncovered had a simplistic attraction to it. A magnetism that couldn’t be explained by any single aspect of the forged metal.

Scanning the glass shelves, Stig slowly strolled along the length of the left wall. He could hear his pulse in his ear, pounding with eagerness, because, unlike Malipiero, he knew the value of that sword hilt. He knew why it was buried beneath that castle in Orkney. He knew why its first wielder discarded it with haste and its last fell to the hand of treachery. The metal…

“Gotcha,” Stig murmured with a grin, his eyes catching its faint luminescence tucked in at the farthest end of the glass display, residing on a violet velvet cloth. Crossing towards the far wall, Stig reached for the curtained window, pulling back the heavy drapery with a quick tug, allowing the light of the full moon to flood in, washing over his prize.

It was an eleven-and-a-half-centimeter piece of steel, topped with a triangular pommel, common amongst Viking Age European swords. The guard at the hilt’s base, however, was a bit more intricate than what was considered normalcy of the time. It was made with much more artistry and thought than that of commonplace smithies. Both pommel and guard were embellished with thin, gilded knot-work, etched into the steel’s surface like a river of gold running through the grey metal. Despite its age, the sword hilt was in almost pristine condition with only slight wearing on the shagreen grip. It was a shame the rest of the blade was absent from it, though, that wouldn’t be a problem for much longer.

Stig reached for the ancient hilt, his fingers brushing the metal with savoring satisfaction for only a fraction of a second before seizing it completely. A surge of liquid fire jolted through his body, his face contorting, without thought, to make room for his wicked grin.