Loki's Sword

Chapter One-2

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.”