The Swordswoman Collection

Chapter 8

Observing the mountains from a distance and experiencing them at first hand were two different things. Melcorka bowed her shoulders and trudged onward and upward, ever upward. The deer track had started in the heather of the low country but now wound, narrow and steep, up to a slope of sliding scree. Melcorka slipped, muttered a word her mother would not be pleased to hear, recovered and moved on, one of the short column of Cenel Bearnas.

She looked ahead, past the bobbing heads of her companions to where the path vanished in the scree, and then looked beyond to a smooth, blue granite mountain that stretched into clinging mist. She could not see the summit; she was only aware of the vast space all around and the echoing nothingness of the hills. Twice, she heard something calling from the mist and warned the others.

"It may be a deer," Granny Rowan told her, "or a wolf. The mist distorts noises, so what you think is unearthly is only a beast, altered."

"It could be the Norse," Melcorka said.

"No. There is nothing here for them. There is nobody to e*****e, no monasteries to loot, no warriors on which to test their sword-edge." Granny Rowan shook her head. "No, Melcorka, there are no Norse here." She walked on a few paces before stopping and speaking over her shoulder. "Monsters perhaps, but not Norsemen." Her cackling laugh echoed for second, then altered to a hideous boom as the mist transformed the sound into something unearthly.

"There is no such a thing as a monster," Melcorka told herself, but, now that Granny Rowan had embedded the idea in her mind, she saw creatures and shapes behind every rock and in every swirl and twist of mist. She started at a sudden sound and Defender was in her hand even as she shouted the warning. "Something is coming!"

The others spun around, with Bearnas instantly taking charge. "Over to that rock!" She pointed to a large, wind-weathered lump of granite about thirty yards ahead. "Get behind it!"

Melcorka remained at the rear, sword in hand, waiting to greet whatever emerged, until Baetan reached back with a massive hand and hauled her to the rock.

"What are you doing?" he asked her.

"I"m going to fight it!" She brandished her sword. "I"m not running from a monster, however fierce!"

"You little fool!" He pushed her head down. "Keep down and stay alive. This is not the sort of enemy you can fight."

"I can fight any monster!"

Melcorka tried to stand. She saw the huge cloud of dust and small pebbles roaring down the slope from the mist; the ground itself was shifting as the scree from above slid down upon them, gathering speed and momentum with every yard it travelled.

"It"s an avalanche!" Baetan yelled. "Everybody, get down as far as you can and cling to something solid."

Melcorka looked up to see half the mountainside rushing toward her, with smaller stones bouncing and rolling on top of a mass of scree as the grey and black mass turned and growled down, picking up momentum with every yard it travelled. For a moment she stared, transfixed, and then dived down and tried to carve a hole for herself in the thin soil ground behind the rock.

And then it was on them, with a growl like a hundred dragons, crashing onto the rock and dividing into two vicious streams on either side, until the pressure from above forced the scree to build up behind the rock and overflow across the top.

The noise was horrifying, a constant roar in which the sound of any individual stone vanished in the overall ocean of moving rock. Melcorka felt a sharp pain on her back as a small boulder completed its journey across the shelter rock and landed on her. Others followed in ones and twos and then in a constant stream, as the pressure from the rear pushed the front-line stones over the top of the rock.

Melcorka glanced around. The Cenel Bearnas were sheltering as best they could as a stream of shingle and scree and rolling boulders formed on either side of them. She looked behind, to see another large outcrop of rock only fifty yards in their rear. The avalanche had reached that point and was partly stopped, with a build-up in the upward section.

As a fist-sized stone rattled across their sheltering rock, Melcorka ducked down again, trying to make herself as small as possible. The scree build-up was getting deeper by the second, with the stones climbing toward them at an alarming speed. They were in a small and diminishing island within a sea of moving scree.

"Keep down," Bearnas warned. "The higher your foolish head sticks up, the more chance there is of a stray rock taking it off."

Melcorka heard a loud scream. Fino had tried to find a less precarious position and a bouncing stone had hit her on the leg, smashing her kneecap. She fell sideways, and the right-hand stream of the avalanche carried her away. Melcorka could see her struggling in the mass, trying to escape as a million tons of rock cascaded around her, with stones, some as big as her head, crashing on her injured body. Her screams continued, then faded to a soft whimper and disappeared amidst the roar of the rolling stones.

As if it had done its allotted task, the avalanche began to subside, altering from a roar to a grumble and then into silence.

"We lost Fino," Granny Rowan said quietly.

"It was her time." Bearnas looked over the remainder of her crew. "Are there any other casualties?"

Apart from a few cuts, scrapes and bruises, there were none.

"These stones did not roll on their own accord," Baetan looked upward at the clearing mist. "Somebody caused them to move."

"Or something," Granny Rowan said. "There are strange things in the mist."

"Listen." Baetan put his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Monsters don"t whistle like that."

Melcorka heard it then, the low flute-like whistle on either side of them and from high above. She had been aware of the sounds in her sub-conscious and only now did she realise how prevalent it was.

"The Gregorach," Bearnas slithered out her sword, "the Children of the Mist. Form a circle, Cenel Bearnas. Don"t unsheathe yet."

"Who?" Melcorka asked.

"The Gregorach. The MacGregors, sons of Gregor, son of Alpin – a royal race cheated of their kingship and robbed of their lands." Granny Rowan sounded worried. "Since they became landless, they have lived as wanderers and outcasts, roaming the wild areas of Alba. Kings and lords employ them for clandestine killing. If you wish any dirty work done, any assassinations, any midnight reiving, then the MacGregors are your men."

"Are they dangerous?"

"If somebody has paid them to kill us, then we are all dead," Bearnas did not sound scared. "But they may be only testing us to see who we are."

The whistling continued and then stopped. Only the sound of the wind across the rocks could be heard now, and the scream of an eagle high on the peaks.

"Who are you?" The voice boomed out, seemingly from nowhere. "What business do you have here?"

"We are the Cenel Bearnas," Bearnas answered. The slither as she drew her sword sounded soft and sinister on that scree slope. "We are crossing this land on a journey to see the king."

"Bearnas." Baetan sounded strained. "They are all around us."

Melcorka looked sideways. At first, she could see nothing, and then she realised that some of the stones were not stones. There was movement amidst the scree, a man was standing there. More than one man.

One by one, they rose from the ground until they surrounded the Cenel Bearnas. One minute the ground was empty of people, the next, fifty men surrounded the small group of islanders. They wore stone-coloured shirts or grey chain mail, their faces were dyed grey and while half carried the claymore, the great sword of the Highlands, the others had short and powerful bows, with broad-headed arrows pointing toward Bearnas and her people.

claymore"Drop the weapons, or we drop you." A tall man stepped through the Gregorach ranks. "I am MacGregor."

Melcorka focussed on him; handsome as Satan"s promise, his faint smile gave strength to his neatly-bearded, saturnine face that his neck-length hair only enhanced. He was not above middle height and in build was lithe rather than muscular, yet there was a presence in the man that demanded respect.

"I am Bearnas of the Cenel Bearnas, and we keep our weapons," Bearnas said quietly. "For every one of us that you kill, we will kill four of you."

There was taut silence until Bearnas spoke again.

"Unsheathe," she ordered quietly. "MacGregor is not bluffing. We were unfortunate to cross Drum Alban while the Children were here."

Melcorka felt the thrill as she drew Defender. The sword seemed lighter in her grasp than it had before and even easier to hold. She stepped forward until Baetan shook his head.

"Stand with us, Melcorka. Don"t break the circle." He sounded nervous.

Bearnas looked around. "Well, MacGregor, you have the next move in this game of steel chess."

"Well met, Bearnas!" MacGregor"s smile was of pure pleasure. "Your name is still known across the breadth of Alba. Where are you bound?"

"Dun Edin," Bearnas said, "with a message for the king."

"Royal is my race." MacGregor"s smile did not falter as he gave a small signal with his right arm that saw his bowmen lower their weapons. "We will take you safely across Druim Alba, Bearnas of the Cenel Bearnas."

"Mother," Melcorka asked, "how does this man know about you?"

"Do not ask questions, little one," Granny Rowan said, "and you will not be told lies."

And Melcorka placed her tongue firmly within her mouth and said no more.

It was a seven-day trek across the granite heartland of Alba, with the shadowy Gregorach trotting in front and on either flank. Sometimes Melcorka saw them; sometimes they merged with the granite precipices, or slid in and out of the mist that they now claimed as their only home. They communicated in whistles rather than speech and moved without another sound.

They negotiated narrow ridges where the ground fell away to unseen depths beneath, and up winding paths that only the deer and the Gregorach knew and where one wrong step would mean a fatal slide down a granite slope. They halted on the crest of a rugged peak on the second night, with the wind dragging rain from the west and the sky to the north tinted a flickering orange.

Melcorka stood, mesmerised by the vista of peak after peak running in a series of ridges that spread as far as her eye could see. "There is no end to these mountains," she said.

"There is an end," Bearnas said quietly, "but rather than looking south and east, Melcorka, look to the clouds in the north and tell me what you see?"

"An orange sunset," Melcorka said at once.

"The sun sets in the west," Bearnas pointed out. "What you see is the reflection of fires on the belly of clouds far in the north."

"Northmen?"

"Northmen," Bearnas said flatly. "It seems that they are burning their way south through Alba." Her eyes followed the line of the mountains ahead. "We have to increase our speed, or the Northmen will arrive on the heels of our message." She tapped Defender. "Keep up your training, Melcorka. We are only at the beginning. The Northmen are doughty fighters, and Alba has forgotten the arts of war."

"Come on, then." Baetan unsheathed his sword. "Let"s see how you fare without your magic sword."

"Leave Defender." Granny Rowan tossed over her sword. "Use mine."

Baetan smiled to Melcorka across his blade. Melcorka tightened her grip on her borrowed sword and smiled back. Both of them wore a simple leine and knee-length trousers, with feet bare to enable them to grip the damp ground.

Melcorka crouched, feinted left and winced at the power of Baetan"s parry. She tensed her muscles and thrust forward, only for Baetan to step aside. As she overbalanced, Baetan swung the flat of his sword against her shoulders, knocking her on her face.

The audience groaned, both Cenel Bearnas and Gregorach.

"Come on, Melcorka," Granny Rowan urged. "You can do better than that."

"Yes, come on, Melcorka," Baetan encouraged. "If I were a Northman, you would be dead."

Melcorka tried again, feinting to the right and left before trying a s***h at Baetan"s legs. He leapt over the sword, delivered a stinging whack with the flat of his blade to Melcorka"s backside and laughed when she yelped.

"Dead again, Melcorka! You"ll never defeat me."

Melcorka rubbed at herself, glowering at Baetan. "That was uncalled for," she said.

"All"s fair in love and war," Bearnas shouted out. "Keep going, you two! Don"t be too kind on her, Baetan. The quicker she learns, the better her chance of survival."

Melcorka sighed and crouched down again, with Baetan grinning at her. It was going to be a long session.

After a few moments, the Gregorach drifted away from what was a very one-sided contest.

"Keep on," Bearnas ordered, as Melcorka gasped at yet another swipe of Baetan"s blade.

Every night, when the Cenel Bearnas caught up with their sleep and the MacGregors vanished into the dark, Melcorka practised her fighting techniques, with the men and women taking it in turns to teach her their particular skills. She felt herself growing faster, more lithe, more daring with each lesson, although she never once got the better of Baetan. Every night, when the last muscle-tearing session ended, she slept the sleep of the exhausted.

"Melcorka." Bearnas pushed her with an unsympathetic foot an hour before dawn on the fifth day. "Time we were moving."

That day brought more finger-wide tracks where they could gaze down on spiralling eagles. There were more knife-edge ridges with granite made slippery by horizontal rain and where the wind threatened to pluck them upwards and toss them down and down and down forever. There were more sliding scree slopes with stones slithering underfoot and the MacGregors dancing ahead, more sure-footed than any mountain goat.

"What sort of men are they?" Melcorka asked.

"MacGregors," Bearnas answered. "They are what they are."

There were more spectacular views of peaks and ridges and the ice-scoured hollows of corries, where the water of mysterious lochans glittered cold and still beneath leaden skies. There were more halts at tall waterfalls that descended the side of green-mossed cliffs or roared through narrow defiles, where rowan trees overhung tempting pools, trout waited for subtle hands, and the water was as cold and clear as Arctic ice.

"How far is it, Mother?"

"It is as far as the road takes us, Melcorka."

They halted on the northern slope of a hill with grass that dun-coloured sheep had cropped so close that it was slippery as glass, and Melcorka pointed to the east, where a conical hill thrust pyramidal sides to a bright star in the sky. That hill seemed to draw her, as if by some magnetic power.

"What hill is that?"

Baetan put a finger over her lips. "Hush now, and don"t point with your finger. Use your chin if you must."

"Why?"

"That is Schiehallion, the shee hill, the sacred hill of the Caledonians. It is not a place to point at, or to treat with anything but fear."

sheeMelcorka studied the hill. Although it was amidst a welter of other hills, it seemed to stand alone, a unique shape among peaks jagged or ice-smoothed.

"Why is it sacred?" Melcorka asked.

Baetan lowered his voice further. "It is the home of the Daoine Sidhe, the People of Peace."

Daoine Sidhe"The fairy folk?"

Baetan stepped back, his face suddenly pale. "Don"t use their real name," he said, "they might hear you." He looked around as if expecting to see one of the People of Peace emerging from the shadows.

"Are they so dangerous?" Melcorka asked.

"It is best to avoid them," Baetan said.

"But who or what are they?"

"Nobody knows," Baetan said seriously. "Some say they are fallen angels come to earth, some say they are from the spiritual realm, while others think they were of the old folk, the people who were here before us and who we replaced. We know they milk the deer and steal our children, we know they live underground or within mountains, and we know they have enchanting music." He shrugged. "If we avoid them and christen our babies in case the People of Peace steal them, then we are safe. If we annoy them by using their real name, we are courting danger from which steel cannot protect us."

Melcorka listed intently, as she did to all new knowledge. "Thank you, Baetan." She motioned toward the hilt of Defender but did not touch it. If Baetan had said that steel would not protect against the People of Peace, then she would not try her sword.

The slopes of Schiehallion faded slowly into the distance as the Cenel Bearnas plodded on over mountain passes and through thick forests. In a day of drizzling rain, they came to a loch too long to bypass. Melcorka looked left and right and saw no end to the water; it was a miniature sea, with waves that curled and broke on the shore, and islets half hidden in the distance,

"There is a small ferry here that will take us two by two," MacGregor said, "or we can travel in style."

"Travel in style." Melcorka spoke without thought.

MacGregor lifted one finger of his left hand and began to whistle, long and low. His people joined in, one after the other, until Melcorka saw the birlinn appear from behind one of the wooded islets.

birlinnIt was a long, low craft similar in design to Wave Skimmer except for small wooden structures in the bow and stern. Melcorka watched as it approached, with the water breaking under its sharp prow and a dozen oars turning the loch to a white froth. A single mast rose from amidships, with a spar running at right angles near the top, fastened to the gunwales by stout lines.

Wave Skimmer"She"s fast," Melcorka said.

"She is the fastest ship in Alba," MacGregor did not hide his pride, "and the best adapted for fighting." He stepped onto a square rock that thrust two yards into the loch and placed his feet in a perfectly shaped hollow.

"My ancestors have stood on this spot for centuries," MacGregor said, "since long before there were kings of Alba."

As the birlinn came closer to him, MacGregor raised his hand. The birlinn"s oars lifted from the water, and she slid to a halt exactly where MacGregor stood. He stepped over the low freeboard without getting his feet wet.

birlinnBearnas followed, and her people filed on board. The oarsmen, men and women in grey-blue linen shirts, were as quiet as all the Gregorach.

"Take us south and east," MacGregor ordered, and the steersman in the stern sounded the time on a large drum. Only then did Melcorka see the woman who sat in the stern, plucking the strings of a harp as the birlinn slid through the waves. There was one man in each of the wooden structures fore and aft, constantly looking around them.

birlinn"My floating castles," MacGregor said. "In battle, my Gregorach fire arrows and spears down on any enemy."

"It is a good idea," Melcorka said. At a nod from Bearnas, she mounted the wooden steps to the forecastle and looked around. The view was immense, and the wooden deck provided a sound platform for fighting. That was another small lesson in the art of warfare.

"Sail!" MacGregor shouted.

There was a rustle of linen, and the sail descended from the spar. Melcorka smiled as she saw the insignia of an oak tree and a sword lifting up a crown: Macgregor may be a child of the mist, but he was certainly not afraid to announce his presence on this loch, she thought.

With the sail augmenting the power of the oars, the birlinn sped south, surging through the loch with no significant effort by the oarsmen. Melcorka saw the mountains slide past, and then they were threading through the scattered islands, each one dense with foliage and one holding a religious settlement from where friendly monks stood beneath a rough cross and waved as they passed.

birlinn"Larboard sides; lift oars; wave back. Starboard side, lift oars: hold."

Melcorka could only smile at the ludicrous view of the ship waving to the monks on the island.

"Row on," MacGregor ordered, and the oars dipped back into the water. They surged on, past the verdant green of the islands to the southern shore of the loch.

MacGregor pointed east and south. "Down there is the Flanders Moss. Only the Gregorach know the secret paths and tracks through the Moss. Once you are through, you will be on your own."

Bearnas nodded. "Your help will be appreciated, MacGregor."

"You will have it," MacGregor said.

Melcorka had never seen anything like the Flanders Moss. It was mist-sodden bogland that stretched for endless miles, with the River Forth running through the centre in a series of erratic loops and curves that would baffle any intruder save for an expert, and only the MacGregors were experts.

Once again there was mist, rising from the stagnant pools and drifting along the coils of the river, hovering over the fords and hazing every view, so Melcorka was unsure in which direction she faced. She could only follow MacGregor in blind trust.

"Are there monsters in the mist, too?" Melcorka asked Granny Rowan, who smiled.

"Not that I know of, Melcorka. Only MacGregors."

"And here I leave you." MacGregor picked out a rare patch of dry land as he pointed east. "This is the plain of Lodainn, with the Scotsea, the Firth of Forth, to the north of it, where the River Forth opens. Travel east and you will find Dun Edin, where the king resides."

Bearnas held out her hand. "You are a good man, MacGregor. If ever you need a favour, send word, and the Cenel Bearnas will come."

MacGregor took her hand. "If you are anywhere north of the River Forth, Bearnas, look to the mist, and there you will find MacGregor." He dipped into a small pouch at the side of his belt and produced two small whistles of deer-horn. "This will fetch one of my children, Bearnas. Keep a whistle for yourself and…" he tossed one over to Melcorka, "here is one for you, Melcorka, daughter of Bearnas."

"Thank you." Melcorka slipped the small sliver of horn into the pouch at her belt although she doubted she would ever use it.

Bearnas fingered the broken cross around her neck as the MacGregors melted into the wastes of the Flanders Moss. She watched until they were only a memory, sighed and led the way eastward, through a land of broad fields divided into agricultural strips and with broad-chested farmers watching this group of warriors with wary suspicion.

"How far to Dun Edin?" Bearnas asked at every settlement and village they came to, and every time the answer was slightly less than the time before.

Then one night, they camped at the northern flanks of the gentle Pentland Hills, with the wind sweet over the heather and the land to the east and west prosperous with fertile farms.

"Only two sentries tonight," Bearnas decided, "and I want us all up before dawn. Tomorrow at this time, we will be in the royal castle on its rock, feasting on royal pork and drinking royal mead. There will be royal harpers playing beautiful music and a royal sennachie to regale us with lies about the past."

"No more camp fires in the rain, cold, windy hills and sodden wet nights," Baetan promised. "We will inform the king about the Norsemen, and he will call up the army." He smiled. "And then we will see how brave they are!"

"Sleep now," Bearnas spoke directly to Melcorka, "for you meet the king tomorrow."

Melcorka felt suddenly nervous. She knew she was only an island girl with no experience of the world or of war. She had nothing to offer the king, nothing to show. She had travelled the breadth of Alba to see a man she had barely thought about in all her years of life. And tomorrow, she would meet him face to face, with the king in all his grace and she in only what she wore.

Melcorka took a deep breath and looked at Defender. She also had her sword. She sat up, restless with her thoughts until Bearnas put a supportive hand on her forehead. "Rest, Melcorka. All will be what it will be, and it will be all the better if we sleep."

Melcorka looked into her mother"s eyes and smiled. There was never any doubt when Bearnas was there.

"There it is!" Granny Rowan pointed ahead, and all the Cenel Bearnas stopped what they were doing and looked toward the east.

The rising sun silhouetted Dun Edin, the fort of Edin, as it stood on its precipitous rock at the head of a steep ridge. Black against a dawn sky of fading purple, the battlements of the royal dun were stark in their simplicity. The walls followed the line of the volcanic plug, as if the fort was organic, an addition to the living rock on which it stood. Running down the steep ridge from the dun to the lion-shaped hill a mile to its west, was the town, the largest in all Alba. Despite the hour, smoke already smeared the houses with a blue haze.

"The good neighbours of Dun Edin like to rise early," Bearnas said with a smile. "No slugabeds under the king"s watchful eye."

Melcorka tightened the buckle that held her sword belt secure, licked the palm of her hand and smoothed it over her head so her hair appeared under control, and fought her nerves.

Granny Rowan gave a deep chuckle. "You look lovely, girl. We are the bearers of ill tidings. Do you think the king will care how the youngest of us wears her hair?"

"He might," Melcorka defended herself. "I don"t want to bring shame on us."

Others joined in Granny Rowan"s loud laughter as Bearnas said, "you will never do that, Melcorka." Bearnas then took her position at the head of the column and began the last march to Dun Edin.

"Wait until you see the royal castle," Baetan said, "silk and satin and gold, with cushioned chairs and tables laden with fruit and the choicest cuts of venison, salmon from the rivers, a bevy of beautiful women…"

"The beautiful women will hardly interest me," Melcorka said tartly.

"Of course not," Baetan said with a smile, "but it certainly interests me! Perhaps the thought of a court of handsome men would be more to your taste?"

"Stop teasing her," Bearnas shouted over her shoulder. "She is too young yet for such things."

"Mother!" Melcorka scolded, to the delight of the Cenel Bearnas.

"You were married at her age," Granny Rowan said. "And he was not your first man." She nudged Bearnas as the others in the column laughed. "Or your second… or your third!"

"Mother!" Scandalised, Melcorka scolded her again.

"Oh, there is a lot about your mother that you don"t know," Granny Rowan said. "Most of it you will never know!"

Somebody began to sing, with the others catching the lyrics after the first stanza, so they regaled the Lodainn plain with the music of the far west. They passed quiet little farm steadings and nucleated villages that crouched around thatched churches or the long wooden houses of the landlord.

"There it is!" Granny Rowan pointed to the stone-built dun that squatted atop the living rock. "We"re nearly there."

Beneath the dun and straggling down the long ridge to the lion-shaped hill that men named Arthur"s Chair, the town of Dun Edin stood silent. Black crows circled through the smoke that drifted acrid above the thatched roofs.

"Something"s wrong," Bearnas said. "Something is very wrong here." She held up her hand to stop the column. "Baetan, scout ahead. Take Melcorka with you, she needs the experience. We"ll stay in this copse here." She indicated a small group of oak trees.

Baetan nodded to Melcorka, checked his sword was secure at his side and led the way at a fast, jinking jog-trot.

As they approached the hill known as Arthur"s Chair, they found the first body.

"Killed from behind." Baetan spoke without emotion as they stood over the woman"s remains. "See how she has fallen? Somebody put an axe through the back of her head."

Melcorka looked down on the crumpled body. The woman had been about thirty, with a thin, lined face. Her mouth was open in a permanent silent scream. They moved on cautiously.

"Who would have done that?" she asked.

Baetan did not answer.

The second body was a few paces further on, with the third just beyond that. Then came an entire family, man, woman and three children, killed as they ran.

"Come on, Melcorka." Baetan did not inspect any more of the bodies that were increasingly abundant as they neared the town. There was no sign of battle or even resistance, only of s*******r and m******e. All the dead were unarmed civilians.

"Careful now." Baetan sounded tense. They stood at the thin paling that acted as a defensive barrier and looked up the single main street, with its numerous alleys that plunged at right angles down both sides of the ridge.

The houses were either destroyed, or still smoking from a recent fire and bodies lay thick on the streets. Even here, so close to the royal fortress, the vast majority were civilians, with the odd warrior, Alban or Norse as sweetening.

"The Norsemen have taken the town." There was no emotion in Baetan"s voice. "The Norsemen have captured Dun Edin."

Melcorka pointed to the two Norse bodies she could see. "At least some of them paid the price."

"Not enough," Baetan said, "not near enough. They must have caught us by surprise." He shook his head. "I only hope the dun has held out. Come on, Melcorka." He slipped through one of the gaps that had been torn in the paling. "Keep close and, for the love of God, keep your hand on the hilt of your sword."

They moved cautiously, dodging from house to house as they advanced up the long ridge that comprised the town of Dun Edin. Each building revealed fresh horrors, with dead and mutilated bodies, women, men and children, and even dogs and cats, stuck to the floors with congealed blood.

"The Norsemen know no pity," Baetan said softly. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his face.

Melcorka nodded, unable to speak. The scenes were the same as in the village they had discovered in the north, except multiplied a hundredfold.

The royal dun overlooked the town, its stone walls seemingly impenetrable, its tall tower glowering over the fields of Lodainn and far beyond, and its walls thrusting upward from the sheer face of the cliff in every spot save one, where a drawbridge crossed a deep, defending ditch.

"It would be a hard job to capture that." Baetan ran an experienced eye over the dun.

"The king will be inside, awaiting his chance to launch a counter-attack," Melcorka said hopefully.

"Maybe," Baetan said, "but the royal standard is not flying. The blue boar of Alba should fly wherever the king resides."

"Shall we go further?"

Baetan nodded. "Very careful now. These Norse would not be mere raiders but trained warriors."

They moved again, with Melcorka following Baetan"s movements, keeping in the shadow of the buildings as they made their way up to the head of the steep ridge. She winced at the sight of two monks, crucified to a church door. One was still alive and moaned as they passed.

"We must help him," Melcorka said, as the man twisted against his bonds and turned agonised eyes to them.

"I will," Baetan said. "You had better not look."

He thrust his sword through the monk"s chest. "If we had cut him down," he explained, "he would have lingered in pain for many hours and then slowly died."

Melcorka did not answer. She could not look at the dead man. She felt sick.

The ridge steepened as they neared the dun.

"Look," Baetan pointed, "the drawbridge is down." The sound of his sword clattering against the stone wall of a house seemed to resound like the clash of cymbals. Melcorka unsheathed Defender. The thrill of power surged up her arms. She closed her eyes in relief as new courage chased away her fear.

"Come on, Baetan!" Melcorka balanced Defender across her shoulder. "I"ll lead."

Baetan placed a hand on her arm. "Stay behind me." She had never seen him looking so nervous before. "The Norsemen could be inside."

Their footsteps echoed on the wooden planks of the drawbridge, changing to a sharper clicking when they hit the rock on the other side. The gatehouse rose above them, stark stone and home to three men of the guard. All were dead, sprawled on the stone floor.

"How did the Norse manage that?" Baetan asked. He looked around him. "What in God"s sweet name happened here? How did they manage to get past the guard?"

Melcorka shook her head. "I do not know," she said. "Let"s hunt for Norsemen."

"I am more concerned that they may be hunting for us," Baetan said. "Keep close and for God"s sake don"t do anything until I say so!"

The dun followed the contours of the rock, rising to a central basaltic mound on which stood the royal hall. There was a surrounding wall twelve feet high, with an internal defensive step and battlements guarding a scatter of buildings, some stone, others timber. Flies rose in ugly clouds, buzzing around a dozen bodies, feasting on blood and torn flesh. A dog slunk past, red-jawed and guilty-looking. They let it go.

"No Northmen." Melcorka felt disappointment.

"No anybody," Baetan said. "Or nobody alive. Only the dead. Look in the buildings."

They checked the buildings one by one, seeing a warrior dead here, a woman there, a few oldsters with their heads crushed. "Axe wounds," Baetan said. "They were killed because they are of no value."

"Value for what?"

"Slaves," Baetan said. "That"s why there are so few dead here. The Norse have taken them as slaves." He nodded to the royal hall. "We have only that room to visit now. Come on, Melcorka."

The door was open, swinging loosely in the ever-present breeze. Baetan stepped in first, with Melcorka two paces behind.

The interior was all that Melcorka expected it to be, with a raised dais on which stood the carved throne of the king and three long tables that ran the full length of the hall. Decorations of green branches and now-faded flowers hung in silent complaint, while the remains of food scattered over the tables and floor suggested that there had been a feast prepared.

"That is what happened," Baetan guessed. "This place has been set up for a feast. I wager that the king prepared a banquet to welcome a delegation of Northmen in peace and friendship. The Norse were at the table with the court and turned on them."

Melcorka shuddered. "Would they really do that?"

"Treachery is second nature to the Norsemen." Baetan stirred a discarded apple with his foot. "There is only one way to tell that a Norseman is not lying."

"What is that?" Melcorka asked.

"He is not talking," Baetan did not smile at his joke. "You have no experience of them, Melcorka, but always remember that they value deceit to an enemy as highly as they value courage. The more they smile and make promises, the more they are planning to kill."

Melcorka looked around the hall with its scattered tables and the remnants of festivities, the trampled food and broken hopes. There was one corpse under the table, a child who could not have been more than eighteen months old. "I will remember."

"Best get back to Bearnas," Baetan said. "I hope she knows what to do next."

Bearnas listened to their account. "They sacked Dun Edin but have left the plain of Lodainn untouched so far. They captured the king and his court and landed an army in the north." She sighed. "This was a well-planned operation. Capture the king and all the leading nobles while the main army ravages its way south."

"But why leave the Plain of Lodainn untouched?"

"It is one of the most fertile and docile parts of Alba," Bearnas said. "Why despoil an area that you will soon own?"

"That is what I thought," Granny Rowan said. "The Norse are not here for a raid or a war – they seek conquest. The Norsemen wish to take over Alba."

"I think they already have," Baetan said. "With the king either dead or a slave, and his court and high officials all gone, there is nobody left to organise resistance."

"Except us," Melcorka said.

Bearnas and Baetan glanced at her as Granny Rowan looked away to hide her smile.

"You are very young," Baetan said. "It would be better to leave Alba now and head for Erin, or even the lands of the Saxons, barbarians though they are."

"You are very easily defeated," Melcorka said, tartly.

"Bearnas," white-bearded Lachlan raised his hand, "we have company." He pointed to the west.

"How many?" Bearnas asked, without haste.

"I would say two hundred Norse on horseback and a thousand on foot, marching this way."

Bearnas stood up. "It is time we left," she said.

"We can fight them!" Melcorka touched the hilt of Defender. "We can"t keep running."

"We can"t fight them all," Bearnas said. "There are fifteen of us, and only Baetan is a warrior in his prime." She stilled Melcorka"s protests with a frown. "Don"t argue with me, girl! Now, I know a dun where we can decide what best to do."

Baetan looked puzzled.

"Castle Gloom," Bearnas said. "The boldest Norseman in creation could not find that stronghold, and if he did, he would never take it from the Constable."

"The name is not welcoming," Melcorka said.

"Nor is Lodainn, it seems," Bearnas told her.

"The Norsemen are coming fast," Lachlan warned.

"Follow me," Bearnas said quietly. She stood up and began a steady jog north, towards the coast of the Scotsea, the inlet of the sea known as the Firth of Forth. The others followed, with Baetan taking up his customary position as rearguard, a dozen paces behind Melcorka.

"Keep a steady pace," Bearnas said over her shoulder, "and don"t stop."

The ground sloped steeply to the north, dotted with copses of trees and isolated settlements so far untouched by the Norse. Men and women watched them pass, stoic, uncaring, intent only on their small part in the world; the straightness of a plough furrow, the weight of an ear of grain, the yield of milk from a cow. Unless the outside world affected them, they ignored it in the hope that it also ignored them.

Beyond the plain of Lodainn, the Firth of Forth stretched blue and bright all the way from the wastes of the Flanders Moss to the chill Eastern Sea. The most fertile area in all of Alba, it was a patchwork of fields and woodland, home to nests of neat housing and snug, thatch-roofed churches.

"It is hard to imagine war coming here," Melcorka said. "This Lodainn is so different from the cliffs and hills of our island." Even as she spoke, she felt the vibration of thousands of marching feet and heard the blare of martial music.

"Is that the Norse?" She nudged Baetan. "Is that another Norse army?"

He looked at her in evident confusion and said nothing.

"Listen," Melcorka raised her voice. "Listen, everybody! There is another army here."

Bearnas lifted her hand, and the column stopped.

The vibration increased, and the sound strengthened.

"That is a second army," Bearnas confirmed. "And it is coming from the west." She pointed to a bare knoll that rose a couple of hundred feet above the plain. "Melcorka, run up there and see what is happening, Quickly, girl!"

Melcorka sped up the slippery grass to the summit of the knoll. She looked south first, where the Norse army had altered direction. Rather than following the Cenel Bearnas, they were moving toward the west and had been reinforced by hundreds more infantry. They marched purposefully with the cavalry in the van and flanks and every third footman was carrying a bow. The other footmen sported spears, axes or long swords. At the head rode a small group of men under the banner of a black raven with drooping wings. She tried to count them, batching them in tens and then in hundreds, stopping when she reached thirty.

"Thirty times a hundred. That makes three thousand infantry, as well as the cavalry." Melcorka shook her head. "I had no idea there were that many people in the world!" She shook her head and turned to face west, where the second army was approaching.

There were hundreds upon hundreds of men, marching in groups and clumps, each under a different banner, colourful, brave and defiant. At the head, surrounded by an entourage of dancers and musicians, rode a group of three men under the undifferentiated banner of a blue boar against a yellow background. The middle man was tall with a slight beard, while his companions were older, broader and carried large axes.

"That is Urien, uncle to the king." Baetan joined Melcorka on the knoll. "And this," he swept a hand around the huge mass of men, "must be the royal army of Alba." He smiled for the first time that day. "Now the Northmen will see that Alba is not only composed of soft courtiers, women, defenceless villagers and town-dwellers!"

The army seethed across the fertile fields in its myriad groups, singing and chanting defiance as the men brandished a variety of arms.

"There are plenty of them," Melcorka said.

"There are," Baetan agreed.

"Will they fight?" Melcorka asked.

"They will fight for the blue boar of Alba," Baetan said, "and they will die for the blue boar of Alba."

"We will not join in when the battle begins," Bearnas decided, when she saw both armies. "Our small numbers will not matter in armies of thousands."

"I want to fight!" Melcorka touched the hilt of Defender.

"There may be other opportunities," Bearnas said quietly.

"But this battle may end the war," Melcorka protested.

"Pray to God that it does, Melcorka, although I can"t see that happening." Bearnas removed Melcorka"s hand from Defender. "Watch and learn, little one."

"I am no longer young." Melcorka"s protest was cut short when Granny Rowan chuckled and placed two fingers over her lips.

"You will be older after today," she said.

The Norse sent a force fifty strong cantering ahead of the main body and towards the advancing Albans, while the remainder continued their steady, remorseless march.

At sight of the Norse cavalry, the Albans waved their weapons and raised a great yell of defiance. They spread over the plain, each group behind its banner, most with long spears or weapons that Melcorka guessed had been fashioned from agricultural implements, or long swords that looked dull and rusty from disuse.

Melcorka"s hunter-keen eye picked out one tall, raven-haired man who rode a white horse in the midst of a hundred or so mounted men. Dressed in a green quilted jacket and carrying a short lance and a sword that might have seen service in the days of his grandfather, the dark-haired man rode with a confidence that was visible even from a distance. And then Melcorka"s gaze shifted to the front of the army, where small numbers of warriors stood in front with drawn swords or brandished axes.

"These men are the champions," Baetan explained, "the best warriors of the clans. They will lead by example and expect to die, so future generations will remember the glory of their deeds."

Melcorka nodded. When she touched Defender, she understood the way of the hero. It was a good way to be remembered.

The Cenel Bearnas watched as the Norse advance party scouted around the Alban army, keeping just out of range of the hail of slingshots and thrown spears that thrummed into the ground around them. They rode quickly, with short lances bouncing at their saddle-bows and long swords hanging loose in their scabbards. They taunted the Albans with their presence and then withdrew, remaining a watchful shadow, a hundred paces from the Alban army.

More and more Albans emerged as the sun entered the last quarter of its life and began the slow descent to the west.

"I had no idea the world had so many people in it," Melcorka said.

"A large army," Granny Rowan said quietly, "is hard to command."

"It will be night in four hours," Bearnas said. "The darkness will give the Albans the advantage. They will know the ground better than the Norse."

The Norse cavalry cantered along the front and flanks of the Alban army and then returned to their main force without hurry. As Melcorka watched, the Norse halted between a pair of wooded hillocks and formed into three lines of infantry, with the cavalry taking up position on the flanks. Compared to the raucous Albans, they were ominously quiet save for hoarse orders from the small band of leaders under the banner of the drooping raven. Once formed up, they stood waiting, facing their front with their circular, painted shields at their sides.

"They look very stubborn," Melcorka said.

"They are very dangerous." Baetan sounded nervous again.

The Albans surged on, cheering, yelling, waving their weapons as they shouted challenges to encourage each other and intimidate their enemies. The champions stepped bravely in front, some resplendent in bright tartan decorated with ornate jewellery, others in chain-mail and helmet, or with the tails of their leine tied between bare thighs. Behind them, musicians blared horns or clattered cymbals, while sennachies stood tall and regaled their men with long tales of past battles.

Standing beneath the Raven Banner, the tallest of the Norsemen blew a long blast on a silver-mounted horn and the infantry divided. The first two lines stepped forward to form a circle, with the third line and the cavalry inside. Another blast and the forward lines presented their shields as an interlocking barrier, two shields high in a colourful display that extended around the full circle. The sun glinted on the metal shield bosses.

"The shield ring," Bearnas said softly. "They will wait and meet the charge of the Albans, sword to sword and axe to axe."

The Albans" noise increased as they approached the Norse, with weapons waving, banners held aloft and a surge of enthusiasm. They halted in a great arc around the front of the Norse, outnumbering them by at least two to one. The racket rose to a mighty torrent that ascended to the heavens above.

"If noise were sufficient, Alba would have won the war already," Bearnas said.

"They should swamp the Norse." Melcorka could not contain her excitement.

"Watch," Bearnas said quietly. "We have forgotten all that we learned last time we fought these Norsemen." She sighed. "This will be a hard lesson to swallow, Melcorka. It is a wise woman who keeps clear of this battle."

"We will swallow them whole!" Melcorka craned her neck to watch what she believed would be a m******e. "Then the Norse in the north will retreat to their home."

"That may be so." Baetan did not sound as confident as his words suggested.

The Alban army was suddenly quiet. The standard bearers lifted their banners higher, and the champions stepped forward in their pride and bravery.

"I wish I could hear what they were saying," Melcorka whispered.

"Touch Defender," Bearnas said.

Melcorka did so. Her hearing, already sharp, became acute. She focussed on the forthcoming battle.

"Norsemen!" one Alban champion shouted, his voice rising to the skies above. "I am Colm of Cenel Gabrain, and I challenge you to fight me in fair combat or leave this land."

There was a cheer from the ranks of the Albans, quickly stilled, and then the reply came from the Norse. It was a single word, loud and clear, repeated often.

"Odin! Odin! Odin!"

Melcorka watched in astonishment as the raven on the Norse standard altered. The wings straightened and extended, and the drooping head rose, with the beak opening in a wide gape as if about to strike. The Norse roared, like the bark of a dog and clashed their swords against the shields in a constant, rhythmic drumbeat.

"Did you see the flag?"

Baetan nodded. "That is their Raven Banner," he said soberly. "The Norse never lose when the raven opens its wings."

One huge Norseman stepped from the shield ring, spear in hand. Rather than throw it at the Albans, he threw it high and long. It soared over the Alban ranks to land with a soft thud behind them.

"Odin owns you all!" the Norse roared.

The drumbeat stopped abruptly, and the archers inside the shield ring lifted their bows high, pulled and loosed, joined by others hidden on the wooded hillocks on either side.

Melcorka saw the arrows rise in their hundreds, hover in the air and descend toward the Alban ranks. Even as the first flight darkened the sky, a second joined them, and then a third just as the first screamed down to land amidst the Albans. A volley of screams ran out, as men who had been eager for battle a minute previously looked in horrified astonishment at the feathered monstrosities that sprouted from chests and stomachs, bellies, arms and legs.

"Cowards!" The word rang out from Colm of the Cenel Gabrain as the arrows continued to fly, thinning the Alban ranks moment by moment. The champions raised their swords and rushed toward the Norse, howling their slogans and hacking at the linden-board shields.

The Norse front rank shuddered under the sheer force of the assault, and some warriors were forced back a few paces. Melcorka distinctly saw an Alban sword hack right through a Norse shield, splitting it down the centre, and the Alban pushed forward, disengaged his sword and thrust. A fountain of blood sprayed upward, dying the Alban scarlet as he lifted his head and howled his triumph. A second Alban champion crashed into the shield ring, and then a third. Swords rose and fell, pieces of linden wood filled the air like sawdust from a demented carpenter, and the Norse front line buckled and wavered.

"We"re winning!" Melcorka grasped for the hilt of Defender.

"Watch." Bearnas stilled Melcorka"s hand.

A Norse spear snaked from behind the shield ring, gutted Colm and withdrew. Colm looked down as his intestines slowly seeped out of his belly, and then he roared his slogan and plunged on, a hideous, b****y mess, dying even as he sought to kill. More Norse spears thrust from behind the shields, picking their targets, killing here, maiming there and always blunting the force of the attack. And all the time the Norse archers pulled and released, pulled and released, so a constant flow of arrows hissed and screamed down on the mass of the Alban army, killing, wounding, maiming, and weakening the army minute by minute. As Melcorka looked, she saw there were already scores lying prone, some with a single arrow through them, others hit so often that they looked like hedgehogs.

Another Alban champion fell as a Norse axe sliced knee-high beneath the shields and cut his left leg clean off. The champion roared as he landed, swinging his sword in impotent fury at the Norse.

There was a single word of command from the Norse, the blast of a cow-horn and the shield ring stepped forward as one man, toward the Alban masses.

"Bearnas, we must help them!" Melcorka pleaded. "If we launch an attack on the rear, it might distract them."

"We are less than twenty strong – one warrior, one cub and thirteen of us middle-aged or grey-haired. There are over three thousand Norse warriors, disciplined and in their prime. Stay still, watch and learn. There will be work for your sword later, I promise you that."

The Norse horn brayed again and the shield ring stomped forward, each step accompanied by a single hoarse shout. There were fewer Alban champions left, each one fighting furiously in lone charges against the interlocked shields, as all the time the Raven Banner looked down, beak agape and wings fluttering, encouraging the Norse warriors to greater endeavours.

Even as the Albans fell in scores, they set up a huge roar. Their standards rose again, the Blue Boar of Alba, the Cat Rampant of Clan Chattan and the others, brave banners defiant in the face of the disciplined invaders who had already captured their king and sent the inhabitants of their capital into s*****y.

Despite their losses, despite the death of all but one of their heroes, the Albans massed again, stepping over their dead and dragging aside their writhing, bleeding wounded. They lifted their weapons, gave a long yell that mingled despair, rage and anger and charged forward. The Blue Boar was in the van, held aloft by a champion with blood on his face and the haft of a spear protruding from his side. Again, Melcorka saw that black-headed youth with the padded jacket and the worn-down sword. He was on foot with the rest of the army, but alive and fighting, yet now the odds seemed stacked against him.

The Albans hit the shield-wall like a human tide, a screaming horde of men waving swords and staffs, axes and flails that battered against the double line of shields, slender, thrusting spears and long, stabbing swords.

For a long five minutes, the Albans hacked and crashed at the Norse shields, with the men in front falling by spear and sword and those in the rear dropping under the constant stream of arrows. Melcorka saw the Blue Boar a few paces from the Raven; the banner of royal Alba snout to beak with the symbol of the Norse. Then the Boar jerked and fell, fluttering down amidst a huge cheer from the Norse and a despairing groan from the Albans.

The dark-haired man was still upright, still fighting with the rest. Although men fell all around him, he seemed immune; a warrior blessed amidst the c*****e of battle. The Albans struggled on, occasionally scoring a success as a man managed to wound or kill a Norseman, only for the Norse lines to immediately close up and the horn to give a single blast. Then the shield ring stepped forward again, the spears licked in and out, the axes swept from beneath the shields, and more Albans fell in crumpled heaps on the blood-polluted soil of the Lodainn plain.

"Odin!" That single word, barked out in triumph, cracked above the noise of battle. "Odin!" To Melcorka, the chant sounded like the beat of a drum. Then it changed to the ominous, "Odin owns you all!"

The Norse horns sounded again and the shape of the shield-ring altered. It opened at the rear as the warriors there began to step out, left and right, without ever breaking the line. As they moved outward, the cavalry that had been standing beside their horses for the duration of the battle mounted. They rode forth in two double columns that cantered around the now-extended lines.

Some of the Norse arrows flew wide of the mark and thrummed into the ground on the knoll where the Cenel Bearnas lay. Melcorka heard a stifled gasp and saw one of the older men plucking at the arrow that had sprouted from his chest. He slid slowly downward and died without another sound.

Melcorka reached out a hand until Bearnas gently pulled her back.

"Watch the battle," Bearnas said, "watch how not to fight."

"Get back!" Melcorka screamed a futile warning. "The cavalry is coming!"

"Lie down!" Bearnas ordered sharply. "Everybody lie down and keep still." Taking hold of Melcorka"s shoulder, she forced her down. "You haven"t met cavalry yet, Melcorka and you don"t want to meet them now."

Lying on her face, Melcorka"s view of the end of the battle was necessarily limited. She saw enough. The Norse shield ring had opened up to a long double line that advanced on the seething mass of Albans, while the cavalry circled and attacked the vulnerable flanks and rear.

Melcorka expected the undisciplined mass of Albans to panic and break. Some did. Some dropped their weapons and ran, but the majority tried to fight as long as there was hope. They formed into little clumps, or stood back to back and traded blow for blow with the Norse cavalry in uneven contests that invariably ended with the s*******r of the Albans, although Melcorka was glad to note that the Norse casualties were higher now than at any time during the battle.

"They are taking prisoners," Melcorka noted. "They are knocking some down and tying them up."

"God help them," Baetan said. "Better dead than a slave of the Norse."

"Lie still." Bearnas spoke quietly. "For the Lord"s sweet sake, lie still, or we will join their prisoners."

The Norse cavalry went about their business in a leisurely manner. They prodded the Alban bodies with their lances, killed the grievously wounded and ushered the remainder to the clearing between the wooded hillocks, where spear-carrying warriors greeted them with taunts and mocking laughter. Melcorka saw the dark-haired youth dragged over with the rest, bleeding from a wound in his scalp.

"Those that died were fortunate," Baetan said.

"We will leave at nightfall," Bearnas ordered. "Until then, we"ll lie still and remain unseen."

"Can we rescue them?" Melcorka demanded.

"No," Bearnas decided. "We stay until it is safe and get out." She took a deep breath and looked over the field of s*******r. "And when we move, we move quickly."

The t*****e started as the sun neared the western horizon. Melcorka watched the Norse set up a framework of poles before stripping one of the prisoners n***d. They tied him, bleeding and defiant, legs and arms apart, between two upright posts and gathered round as a tall man stepped forward with an axe. As the Northmen cheered, the man with the axe chopped the prisoner"s ribs from his spine, one by one, before hauling out his lungs and spreading them across his back.

"The blood eagle," Baetan said quietly. "He will be thankful to die."

"They will all be thankful to die," Bearnas said. "It is time we were away. We will catch the last of the light while they are entertaining themselves."