Loki's Sword E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

After her adventures around the world, Melcorka the Swordswoman has returned to her homeland of Alba.

Facing war on two fronts, the High King of Alba orders Melcorka to hunt down and defeat the Butcher - a savage who wields Loki's Sword. Fighting through a variety of increasingly dangerous enemies, she and Bradan make their way towards their formidable, final foe.

But is there something more to the Butcher than meets the eye - and what is the secret of Loki's Sword?

Leseprobe

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 Next Chapter

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 sea darkened as the day faded into night.

Chapter One

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.

“Over there.” Bradan touched Melcorka's arm. “Something is happening in the west.”

Climbing to the summit of the ridge, between two suspicious sentinels, they watched as another army marched towards them. About half the size of the army of Alba, it was also more homogeneous, consisting of one group of people with similar weapons and clothing. They marched in a compact formation, with horseman guarding the flanks and rear, spearmen in disciplined clumps and stalwart captains leading each formation. Under a broad green banner, three men rode at the head of the army.

“Is that the enemy?” Melcorka asked the nearest sentinel, who shook his head.

“No – where have you been hiding, swordswoman? That is our ally, Owen the Bald, and the army of Strathclyde.”

“They look a handy bunch,” Melcorka said.

“Owen is a good man.” The sentinel eyed Melcorka”s sword without comment.

As the Strathclyde contingent approached, a group of men from the Alban army rode out to meet them, with a tough-looking, clean-shaven man in his thirties at their head.

“There goes the Destroyer.” The sentinel sounded satisfied. “Now things will start to move.”

“The Destroyer?” Melcorka asked.

“The King himself. Mael Coluim.” The sentinel eyed her with growing curiosity. “Who are you? You don't know Strathclyde are our allies and you don't recognise the king; are you Alban? From Fidach perhaps? Or are you a spy for the Northumbrians?” He shifted his stance so that his spear was ready to hand. His companion came closer, frowning.

“We are Alban,” Bradan said, “but we've been out of the country for many years. When we left, Maelona was queen, with Ahern the Pict of Fidach as her consort.”

“These days are long gone.” The sentinel continued to eye them with suspicion. “Mael Coluim is king now, the Norse have returned to the Isles, and the Danes have conquered the Angle lands to the south.” He turned a twisted smile to Melcorka. “Enemies surround us, woman-with-a-sword, with Angles and Danes to the south, Danes over the Eastern sea, and Norse to the north and west. King Mael Coluim is fighting a war on all fronts.” He lowered his spear. “We can thank God for Owen of Strathclyde, a loyal friend when we need one most.”

“Bad days, indeed,” Melcorka looked towards True Thomas. “Is that why you summoned us? Do you think my single sword can turn the tide in this clash of kings?”

“You will find out soon enough,” True Thomas said. “Wait, watch and learn.”

Owen halted the Strathclyde army and dismounted. Straight-backed, he walked, light-footed as a youth, towards the group of Alban horsemen. When he threw back his hooded cloak, the sun gleamed from a shaven head.

“King Owen the Bald of Strathclyde,” Bradan murmured, “and his overlord and High King Mael Coluim the Destroyer. I wonder what our part will be in this drama.”

The two kings embraced, and then the two armies merged, without any of the usual tensions between fighting men, only mutual welcome and a forming of small groups around the campfires. Harpers began to play, sennachies told their stories, bards sang their songs while the ubiquitous women who followed armies flitted from man to man, seeking protection, companionship or money.

“We have an allied army,” Bradan tapped his staff on the land, “yet we do not know our part in this, Melcorka.”

“There is darkness ahead,” Melcorka said. “I can feel it.”

The blast of a horn echoed around the bowl of the hills as Mael Coluim mounted a small knoll. Men of both armies gathered around, waiting to hear what the Destroyer said. Three warriors remained close to the High King, watching everybody. One was slightly above average height, with calm eyes above a neat beard. The second was dressed all in black, with a long black beard and 12 darts in his broad black belt. The third was slender, with laughter in his eyes, twin swords strapped crossways on his back and clothes of the Pictish fashion.

“These will be the king's champions,” Bradan murmured, “the pick of his army.”

Melcorka nodded, taking note of their stance and bearing, wondering if it was her destiny to fight any of these men.

When Mael Coluim lifted his arms, silence descended except for the barking of a single dog. A woman's voice rose in the background, only for her neighbours to shush her into silence.

“Warriors of Alba and Strathclyde!” The king's voice sounded strong. “Today, we march to face the Angles of Northumbria.”

The army cheered, with men brandishing swords and spears in the air. Melcorka raised her eyebrows to Bradan – she had heard such enthusiasm before and had seen the bloodied, broken casualties writhing on the ground in the aftermath of battle.

“For years the Northumbrians have defiled our borders, raided our farms and stolen our livestock and women. Their southern neighbour and overlord, Cnut, the Danish conqueror of the Angles, has threatened to add Alba to his realms. Let us show him our answer. Let us show him the strength of Alba and Strathclyde.”

The men cheered again, with shouts of, “Alba! Alba!” and, “Strathclyde! Strathclyde!”

“The king's fired them up for bloodshed,” Bradan said.

“These Northumbrians are not children to face lightly,” Mael Coluim warned. “They are a savage breed. When I was a youngster, new on the throne, 12 years ago, I led an army against them.” The silence was tense as men nodded at the memory. “They defeated us at the walls of Durham and…” he waited, drawing out the drama, “the Northumbrian women washed the faces and combed the beards and hair of our dead and decorated their walls with their heads.”

A low growl came from the combined army.

“What kind of men would dishonour the dead? These people are not like us!” Mael Coluim said.

“He's raising the fighting spirit.” Bradan tapped his staff on the ground.

“Alba!” the warriors yelled, lifting spears and swords in the air. “Strathclyde!”

“Wait!” Owen the Bald joined Mael Coluim on the knoll, to further cheers from the allied army. He lifted his hands for silence. “We will not fight under different battlecries. We should have one slogan that unites us as one force under Mael Coluim, my king and the High King of Alba!”

Owen lifted his hand until silence descended. “As from today, our cry will be Aigha Bas – battle and die.”

There was a moment's silence as the men digested the idea, and then: “Aigha Bas!” Men of both armies roared. “Aigha Bas!”

Standing beside the High King, one man stood out among the three champions. Shorter than the man in black, less cheerful than the Pict, he had traces of grey in his neat beard, with a crystal in the pommel of the longsword across his back.

“Who is that?” Melcorka sensed the power of the man.

“That is MacBain, the king's personal champion and bodyguard,” True Thomas said. “He has never been defeated in combat and is the king's right-hand man.”

“I am interested in the sword he carries,” Melcorka said.

“It is not the sword that should interest you,” True Thomas told her. “It is what the pommel contains. You will ask him later.”

“And the other two champions?” Bradan asked. “They look like handy men to have on your side.”

True Thomas indicated the man on MacBain's right, the burly man in his late thirties with a black scowl to match his black hair and beard. Under his black cloak, his chainmail shirt descended to his knees, while he carried a bundle of long throwing darts on the right side of his belt and a short slender sword at his waist.

“That is Black Duncan the Grim,” Thomas said. “He has never been known to smile and has no time for women or any pursuit except fighting and war.”

Melcorka nodded. “Aye, he looks a cheerful fellow. And the other? The light-hearted man?”

“That is Finleac, the Maormor of Fidach,” Thomas said. “As you know, Fidach is a Pictish province and the Maormor, the ruler, is now a sub-king of Alba. Finleac is undoubtedly the fastest-moving warrior in Alba, and perhaps the most cheerful.”

Finleac was lithe, with a pale face that the sun would never tan, and light protection of quilted leather. His two longswords had light wooden handles, and he stared forward through pale eyes, with a small smile playing on bloodless lips.

“There is one more champion of note,” Bradan said. “Who is that one?” He nodded to a warrior who stood on a slight rise above the army. Although two men stood there, only one was worth watching. He was tall and broad, while a deep hood concealed his face, while both the grey circular shield on his left arm and the sword that hung from his waist were of Norse workmanship. The man who stood 10 paces from him was featureless, dressed in grey and with a bag of grey fabric held across his chest. He was instantly forgettable.

“You will find out all you want to know about that man before long,” True Thomas said.

“Who is he?” Melcorka asked.

“He is death on two legs,” True Thomas said, “and who his companion is, I cannot say.”

“Cannot or will not?” Bradan asked.

“Either way, you will have to find out for yourselves.”

Looking directly at the two men on the ridge, Melcorka could sense the darkness emanating from the hooded warrior. “Does he have a name, this mysterious man?”

“I cannot say his given name,” True Thomas said. “He is known as the Buidcear, the Butcher.”

Melcorka felt a thrill run through Defender as if the sword also sensed danger from the Butcher. “Is he with the High King's army?”

“Nobody in the king's army knows who the Butcher is with.” True Thomas sounded troubled. “Or what he is with.”

Melcorka nodded, still aware that Defender was thrumming against her back as if warning her of danger. “I think we shall meet later, that man and I.”

“Aye, maybe,” Bradan said. “At present, Mel, I think it's time to make ourselves known.”

“Wait,” True Thomas said, with a little smile on his face. “Mael Coluim will know you when he needs you.”

“That is the way of kings,” Melcorka said. “Particularly high kings.” She continued to watch the Butcher, knowing that he returned her scrutiny. The Butcher's companion stood silently, but Melcorka could not make him out. He – if it was a he – seemed to be of no character at all, a grey man with no personality. He was there, but not there.

“I do not like that man,” Bradan pressed a thumb against the cross carved on the top of his staff, a sure sign that he was worried.

“Nor do I,” Melcorka agreed.

“You are looking at the warrior,” Bradan said. “I mean the grey creature at his side.”

Melcorka shrugged. “He is a nothing,” she said.

“That is so,” Bradan pressed his thumb down hard on the carved cross. “He is so much a nothing that I cannot describe him, even although I am looking directly at him.”

Melcorka grunted. “That may be so.”

A distant rumble made them both look up. High in the sky, the dying trail of the comet faded away.

“Tomorrow will be a bloody day,” Melcorka said as the thunder sounded an ominous warning of the anger of the gods. When she looked back at the ridge, the Butcher was gone, although the atmosphere of menace remained.

“May God have mercy on us all,” Bradan said, pressing his thumb hard on the carved Celtic cross.

* * *

At the blare of a dozen horns, the army rose, men of Alba and Strathclyde gathering in their separate divisions to march south, with much confusion until captains and clan chiefs sorted them out with loud shouts and a few blows. Mael Coluim sent scouts ahead and, on each flank, hard-riding borderers who knew the terrain, backed by light-footed caterans who quartered the ground, searched for any Northumbrian or Danish spies.

“Forget the thunder; it's going to be a dry day.” Bradan glanced up at the sky, where the comet had left only a faint white smudge against the periwinkle blue. “Best fill our bottles with water before the fighting begins.”

They forded the Tweed without delay, formed up in a long column on the south side of the river and moved on, with Melcorka and Bradan keeping pace 100 yards behind the rearguard. As they marched, the weather altered, as though the tail of the comet had disturbed the Gods.

Bradan glanced upward. “So much for my weather forecast,” he said ruefully. “If they are going to fight,” he said, “they had better get on with it. That sky is threatening a storm.”

Melcorka nodded. “It will be a big one,” she said as a host of geese exploded skyward from a field, circled and headed out to sea, their call a melancholic reminder of the folly of men.

“Look behind us,” Bradan said.

The Butcher was following, keeping clear of the army but always within a quarter of a mile. He rode a garron, the sturdy horse of the Alban hills, with the grey man keeping pace at his side.

“I see him,” Melcorka ducked as a rook skimmed her hair. “That's unusual. Rooks don't attack people.”

“That one did,” Bradan said, “but I think we have more to worry about than a stray bird.”

“Northumbrians!” The cry resounded around the army. “The Northumbrians are ahead!”

All at once, the atmosphere changed as the veteran warriors took charge and the enthusiasm of the untried waned. Boasting of battle around the fireside was far different from facing the reality of Northumbrians with their seax-knives, slave-hunting and savagery.

“Scouts!” Mael Coluim shouted. “Ride ahead, count their numbers, don't get involved.”

Melcorka watched as a troop of border horsemen trotted ahead, with young Martin eager in the middle. “It's nearly dusk,” she said. “There will be no battle today.” She looked over her shoulder. The Butcher was still there, nearly within hailing distance, with his hood entirely concealing his face and the grey man 10 paces to his right.

By the time the scouts returned, the light was fading, with the sun tinting the sky magenta around bruised clouds. Bradan grunted as thunder again grumbled in the distance, with flashes of lightning highlighting the curves of the distant Cheviot Hills.

“When this storm hits, it'll be ugly.”

“Aye,” Melcorka sat on the trunk of a fallen oak tree, polishing Defender. “It seems to be upsetting the birds too.” She nodded to the clamour of rooks that flew above the Albans, swooping on individuals and small groups of men.

Mael Column listened to the scouts' reports and set the army to camp again, this time with no drinking and with triple sentries.

“Borderers, enliven the night; ride around the Northumbrian camp, shout challenges, keep them awake on the south, east and west sides.” The border horsemen trotted off, while the High King indicated the caterans. “You lads, I want you to concentrate on the north side, kill a few sentries. If you can get into the camp and dispatch some Northumbrians, even better.” He hardened his voice. “Don't get killed. I need you tomorrow.”

The thunder that had grumbled all day continued into the night, with intermittent lightning unsettling the horses. Sentries glanced at the sky, huddled into their cloaks and hoped the enemy had no raiding parties out while they were on duty. Others shivered at the wolves that howled in the distance.

“MacBain!” Melcorka approached the king's bodyguard. “Your name is known.”

“As is yours, Melcorka the Swordswoman,” MacBain met Melcorka with the confidence of a man supremely aware of his abilities. Behind him, Black Duncan did not look up, while Finleac gave a friendly grin and returned his attention to the two young women who were vying for his attention.

“Your sword interests me,” Melcorka said.

“You wish to hold it?” MacBain”s smile revealed unbroken white teeth. “Or is it the crystal in the hilt you want to ask about?”

“Both,” Melcorka said, honestly.

“The crystal is known as the Clach Bhuaidh,” MacBain said, “the Stone of Victory.” Removing his sword, he handed it over without hesitation, accepting Defender in return. “Your sword is lighter than I imagined,” MacBain commented as he gave a few practice swings, “but very well balanced. What is your secret, Melcorka?”

“My skill is in the sword,” Melcorka instinctively trusted this man. “The People of Peace made it, hundreds of years ago, and it retains the skill of each warrior who wields it in battle.”

MacBain held Defender high, swung at empty air and peered along the edge of the blade. “She sings well,” he said. “My secret is in the Clach Bhuaidh,” he said. “As long as the Stone of Victory is in the pommel, I cannot be defeated. The Clach Bhuaidh was a Druid's stone from long ago, a protector of good from evil.”

Melcorka examined the crystal as it reflected the embers of the dying campfires and the glitter of the stars above. “It is amazing what power a small thing can have.”

“As the saying goes, good gear comes in small bulk,” MacBain said.

They handed the swords back. “I am glad we are on the same side,” Melcorka told him.

“As am I.” MacBain replaced his sword. “Let us hope it will ever be so.”

“Let us hope so, indeed,” Melcorka watched the Clach Bhuaidh glow as MacBain looked around the camp.

“Where will you be fighting tomorrow?” MacBain asked.

“I will fight wherever I am most needed,” Melcorka said. “I will not disrupt the battle formation to win glory for myself.”

“That is a soldier's reply,” MacBain said approvingly.

An hour before dawn, with faint grey streaks easing over the eastern horizon, the camp awoke. They rose silently, to find whatever food they could, pray for courage and success that day and check their weapons. Women scurried to make food or sought the sanctuary of trees to relieve their bladders, a piper made himself unpopular by blasting out a rousing tune, and a bard began a long monologue about the heroes of past battles. At the edge of the camp, a group of stalwart warriors who hoped to be champions practised swordplay while boasting to impress a group of watching women.

“All is normal,” Bradan fingered the cross on his staff, “yet things are not right. The sky awaits, and the animals are unhappy. There is not a single dog in the camp, despite an abundance of food.”

“Where are they?”

“They ran off last night.” Bradan tapped his staff on the ground. “Things are not what they seem, Mel.”

“The champions don't seem concerned.” Melcorka watched as Finleac kissed both his women, planted a small Celtic cross in the ground and knelt before it, while Black Duncan sharpened each one of his dozen darts. MacBain gave Melcorka a wink as he wandered over to the king.

“Gather round, captains, kings and chiefs,” MacBain”s invitation was more of an order. “The High King has intelligence from the scouts.”

“We are not sure who commands the Northumbrians,” Mael Coluim told the leaders as they congregated around his knoll. “It might be the veteran Uhtred, or it may be his brother Eadwulf Cudel. I hope it is Uhtred, for he repulsed my attack on Durham 12 years ago, cowering behind fortifications and afraid to fight us in the open. If not, then it is Eadwulf, who even his army called Cudel, cuttlefish, the coward. Either way, we shall be victorious.”

The captains were too experienced to cheer. They asked sensible questions about the disposition of their men and spoke to their supports on either flank.

“If anybody wants religious help,” Mael Coluim added, “the Church of St Cuthbert is over there. Go quickly as we'll be marching off the moment the men have eaten.”

As the captains organised themselves, MacBain checked the army, stalking around the fringes. Noticing the Butcher watching from a small rise, he stopped to glare at him. The Butcher, still astride his garron, did not move, while the grey man was as insubstantial as before.

“You lads,” MacBain gestured to a group of border horsemen, “go and see who that man is, and what he wants. If he's a Northumbrian or Danish spy, kill him. If he wants to join us, bring him to me.”

Melcorka watched the five horsemen trot off with young Martin in the lead. “I'd like to see what happens now.”

“Time will see all things,” Bradan lifted his head as a wolf howled. “The beasts know that something is wrong.”

“Of course something is wrong,” Melcorka said. “Thousands of men are going to be hacking at each other so one king or another can claim he owns a bit ground he'll probably never visit again in his life.”

Bradan nodded. “Aye; maybe that's all it is. I think we had better see the holy men. I fear we may need their help today.” He nodded as Finleac passed them. “Even the king's champions agree with me.”

Finleac moved like a shadow, moving lithely across the ground on his way to the church, still with a woman clinging to each arm. Only when he was at the door of St Cuthbert's Minster did he disengage himself, give the brunette on his left a hearty kiss, land an equally hearty slap on the backside of the buxom redhead on his right and attempt to look solemn.

St Cuthbert's Minster at Carham stood within 100 paces of the fast-flowing Tweed, a wood and wattle creation of the Celtic Church, a symbol of Christianity and humanity in a borderland only partially tamed.

Urging his women away, Finleac handed his swords to a tired-eyed priest and walked in. Kneeling before the simple altar, he asked the head priest for a blessing. “May God forgive me for what I am about to do,” Finleac said. “And forgive me if I forget you during this day, for I will be busy smiting hip and thigh.”

The priests welcomed his words, shook their heads at the slaughter to come and blessed him. Rising, Finleac left the small church, accepted his swords back from the priest and strode to the front of the Alban army. In the distance, Melcorka heard the deep-throated singing of the enemy, hard-edged voices roaring out a battle hymn that had nothing to do with gentle Christianity.

Mael Coluim marched them onward towards the Northumbrians, a long column of Albans and Strathclyde British, with the High King, Owen the Bald and the three champions at their head. Carried by eager young standard-bearers, a score of banners and flags announced the various groups of the Alban army, with the twin banners of St Andrew's cross and the Blue Boar of Alba to the front.

“Melcorka,” Bradan said urgently, leading Melcorka away from the main array, “look.”

At first glance, Melcorka thought that the five horses that were cantering towards the Alban army were riderless. But then she saw the occupants. Each man had been placed face down on his saddle. Blood wept from the deep wounds in their legs as the horses arrived at the head of the Alban army. Young Martin still lived, moaning softly as his life seeped away.

“Those were the border riders MacBain sent to challenge the Butcher,” Bradan said.

“Aye.” Melcorka hitched Defender higher up her back. “At least we know now that the Butcher is not going to join the army.”

“Whatever he wants, it will have to wait,” Bradan said. “The Albans have more to worry about than a single rogue warrior, however fierce he may be.”

Sunlight glinted on the swords and axes of the Northumbrians and gleamed from the array of bright circular shields as the enemy battle line waited for the Alban advance. The Northumbrians had positioned themselves along a grassy ridge, with the River Tweed guarding one flank and a patch of dense woodland the other. Above the army, banners and flags drifted in the light wind.

At the sight of the Northumbrian array, the Alban army stopped. Each side stared at the other for a few moments, and then gave a great roar of defiance, with the flags lifted higher and weapons brandished aloft.

“Here we go again,” Bradan tapped his staff on the ground. “How many battles have we seen, Melcorka?”

“Too many,” Melcorka touched the hilt of Defender. “This fight at Carham will be one more to add to our list.”

True Thomas appeared at their side, with a sad smile on his face. “This battle will decide the shape of a frontier for centuries to come,” he said, “yet you must not take much heed of the armies.”

“Then why are we here, Thomas?” Bradan asked. “You have guided us from the sea to a battle. There must be a reason.”

When True Thomas nodded, there was infinite weariness in his eyes. “A battle will determine a frontier and which king may neglect his subjects. I have brought you two here for something more important than kings or nations.”

“I wish you would tell us what it is,” Melcorka said. “Why do seers always talk in riddles?”

True Thomas smiled. “You have freedom of choice, Melcorka. I can guide you, but ultimately the decision lies with you. I will say this to you, Bradan: evil's smiling arrogance will reveal the light.”

Bradan shrugged. “That is another riddle, Thomas.”

“It is a riddle that may help you if you decipher it.”

“I will remember it,” Bradan said. “Evil's smiling arrogance will reveal the light.”

“Good.” Thomas nodded. “Now wait; your time will come soon.”

The Northumbrians greeted the advancing allies with a great roar and a volley of arrows, stones and spears.

“Out! Out!” they yelled, shaking their weapons in the air. “Out! Out!”

“They sound like the barking of a thousand dogs!” Owen said, with a dark sun reflecting on his bald head.

“These same Anglian dogs have murdered and plundered half the island of Britain since they first invaded,” Mael Coluim replied. “They are a disease sent by the devil for our sins.”

“Then let us be the antidote.” Owen unsheathed his sword. He stood erect, broad-shouldered and tall. When he slid a steel helmet on, he looked every inch a British warrior, facing the Angles, the enemies of his blood.

“Out! Out!” The Northumbrians barked. “Out! Out!”

Owen stamped his feet. “Give the word, my king!”

“Good man, Owen!” Mael Coluim's grin was fierce. “Form line of battle! Archers and spearmen to the front! Skirmishers advance!”

Melcorka watched in approval as the allied army formed up, with Owen's Strathclyde men on the right, the post of honour, and the spearmen and archers stepping forward to harass the Northumbrian line. The warriors wore quilted leather or padded linen, with a few of the champions in chainmail, while some had a metal helmet to protect their head. The majority fought in their leines, the long linen shirt common to all the Celtic peoples, with perhaps a rudimentary coat of deerskin as protection. Only the wealthy carried swords, for they were expensive weapons that took great skill to make. Most men carried spears or dirks, the long fighting knife, or arm-length darts they could throw with terrifying force and accuracy.

Uhtred responded in kind, sending forward his skirmishers to face the Albans, so volleys of spears and arrows passed back and forward, with the light infantrymen of both armies in between. Occasionally a missile found its mark, with an Alban or Angle falling or grunting in pain. A scatter of bodies littered the ground, and the groans of the wounded rose to the circling rooks.

“The Northumbrians hold the high ground,” Melcorka said, “so they have the advantage. Now both sides will form a shield wall and it will be about resilience, muscle power and strength.”

Bradan tapped his staff on the ground, wordless, watching the bravery and the suffering.

As Melcorka had said, Mael Coluim formed his men into a formation identical to that of the Northumbrians. For half an hour, the two armies faced each other, with the rival warcries rising and the skirmishers firing arrows and spears. Men fell in ones and twos, with the casualties on both sides beginning to mount.

Twice Black Duncan stepped out of the Alban array to challenge the Northumbrian champions to single combat, without result. The Northumbrians hearth carls, the professional soldiers, remained in their ranks, much to the Albans' disgust.

“Cowards!” The Albans yelled. “Tailed English dogs!”

Melcorka sighed, reaching for Defender. “I think I should get involved here before we all fall asleep.”

“No.” True Thomas laid a hand on her arm. “This is the High King's battle. Let him win it. Your time will come.”

When Mael Coluim roared an order the allied army formed into a wedge, with the long Lowland spears thrusting out behind a line of circular shields. The allies moved slowly up the slope towards the Northumbrians, who responded with renewed cries of, “Out! Out!” and a frantic volley of spears, while hundreds of arrows descended on the advancing allies. MacBain was at the forefront of the Alban array, marching with as little concern as if he were in his home village. Black Duncan and Finleac were nearly level with him, one a little to the left and another a few paces to the right, Duncan with his perpetual scowl and Finleac whistling a song of love.

The two armies met with a grunt from the allies and a roar from the Northumbrians. The Lowland spears probed, thrusting at half shielded faces, bare legs and thighs. Northumbrian axes and swords chopped at Alban spear-shafts and Strathclyde heads. Men died or fell hideously wounded, with spear wounds in groin or belly. Uhtred, the Northumbrian king stood in the centre of his shield wall, with his hearth-carls, his picked fighting men, all around. They fought with the stubborn, unimaginative courage that the Northumbrians always displayed, big men with longswords, axes and circular shields killing and dying together.

“Out! Out!” The Northumbrians barked.

“Aigha Bas!” The allies responded. “Battle and die!”

The Northumbrian shield wall quivered as men from the second rank stepped forward to replace the casualties in the front, and then Mael Coluim gave the order:

“Caterans! Get over!”

As soon as the words were uttered, the second Alban rank laid their shields horizontally on their shoulders, and 50 of the lightly armed skirmishers leapt on top. Using the shields as a springboard, the caterans jumped over the three ranks of the Northumbrians, turned, and attacked with their long dirks. They used the terrible Highland groin stroke, drawing their arms back and thrusting upward with the single-bladed dirk so if the point did not maim the groin or slice through the femoral artery, it penetrated the belly or stomach.

Under this fresh assault from the rear, the Northumbrian battle line weakened. Some men turned to face the caterans, others continued to fight the advancing allied wedge, and a few turned and ran.

“Now!” Owen pushed forward, and the Strathclyde men increased their efforts, hammering at the shaken Northumbrian shield wall with sword and axe. At that moment, with the allies on the point of victory, a horn sounded in the undulating country behind the Northumbrians, and three men strode forward. One was taller than any man in either army, with a double-bitted axe balanced over his shoulder and his dark hair braided over his shoulder. The other two were nearly as tall, with naked longswords in their hands.

“Here's trouble,” Melcorka said. “These lads mean to fight.”

“Wait,” True Thomas said, “and you will be noticed.” When he turned toward her, Melcorka could see the force behind his smoky eyes. “I have not summoned you here merely to kill a warrior or two.”

“Then why am I here?” Melcorka touched the hilt of Defender. “I've had sufficient of your hints, Thomas. Tell me plain or leave us in peace.”

“I have a much more onerous task for you, Melcorka the Swordswoman.”

By the time True Thomas had finished speaking, the three newcomers had arrived at the allied line. They attacked at once. “Odin claims you!” the tall man said as he decapitated a lithe cateran with a casual swing of his axe.

“King Cnut of Denmark!” The second roared as his longsword sheared through an Alban shield and sliced off the arm of its wielder.

“Thor!” The third shouted, hacking through a Lowland spear.

“Now?” Melcorka wrapped her fist around the hilt of Defender.

“No.” True Thomas's eyes were smokier than ever.