Loki's Sword

Chapter One-3

“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.”