The Shining One (The Swordswoman Book 2)

by Malcolm Archibald

  'Callanish is by the sea,' Melcorka said. 'Why not sail directly there?'

  Hector grunted. 'We know nothing about this Shining One,' he said. 'I don't want to leave my ships vulnerable to him. They are as safe with Ruari as they would be in Port-nan-loch.'

  The birlinns led the way into a sheltered sea loch in a long line, with Catriona bringing up the rear and great gaunt mountains looming over them all. Hector was first ashore, roaring for Ruari and greeting him with an outstretched hand and a shout of delight that seemed nearly genuine. Ruari was tall, with long blonde hair and a quiet voice that did not disguise his authority in the slightest. While the two chiefs exchanged news, the crews disembarked and hauled the birlinns up beyond the high tide mark.

  For an hour there was a scene of bustle and seeming confusion as the masts were shipped and stored alongside the oars, then the vessels were turned hull-up on the beach and secured against all that the worst of the weather could do. People from the nearby township gathered to watch this free entertainment, with many volunteering to help as the conversation flowed back and forth.

  'Despite Ruari being my foster-brother, I do not know Harris and Lewis at all,' Hector looked around at the unfamiliar surroundings, 'until recently there were as many Northmen here as Gaels.'

  'There are few Norse now,' Melcorka stamped her feet to regain her balance. She was as comfortable on land as at sea, but there was always a few moments of transition between the two elements.

  'They left after your victory over them,' Igraine said quietly. 'You are quite the heroine, Melcorka.'

  Was that jealousy in Igraine's voice? 'I am what I am,' Melcorka said. 'I am what nature and circumstance has made me.'

  Igraine said nothing. She lifted Alva and walked into the settlement. Melcorka looked around; the small township was based around a semi-circular natural harbour at the head of the sea-loch. Seabirds circled above and a gaggle of tousle-haired children gathered noisily around them. Surrounding a small patch of rough fields were bleak granite hills under a lowering grey sky.

  'So this is the island of Harris,' she stamped her foot again. 'Thin soil and bare hills. This will be a poor place to farm.'

  'We are not farming here,' Tuath caressed his axe, saw Igraine watching and put an arm around her instead. 'We are leaving the birlinns and marching northward.'

  'That is as well,' Melcorka said. 'If we stay here, we will eat these good people out of house and home.' The township looked poor, with heather thatch thick above dry-stone cottages and the cattle thin as they wandered between the houses. A scatter of sheep chewed half-heartedly at the seaweed that lay in dark strands above the beach.

  'The last Norse invasion hit them hard,' Tuath said. 'There are few men left here and many broken homes.'

  'Did you ever have a home Melcorka?' Igraine asked so sweetly that Melcorka knew there was animosity behind the question.

  'I did,' Melcorka said, briefly. 'Why do you ask?'

  'I do not see you as a home-maker with a husband, bringing up children and tending to your herds.'

  'How do you see me?' Melcorka was surprised by the tone of Igraine's voice and the tenor of her questions. She did not know how to respond. Growing up without a father or brother, she had been protected from the usual cut-and-thrust of family life, and living in a small community where she habitually treated all the adults with respect, she never had any need to hone her verbal skills. Since becoming a warrior, most of her companions had been men, slow of speech if fast with sword and spear. She had no experience of the subtleties of feminine verbal sparring with the double meanings and hidden poison behind soft words.

  'You are as you seem,' Igraine said.

  'And how do I seem?' Melcorka pushed for an answer as they left the township and marched northward into driving rain.

  'Like a warrior woman,' Igraine said.

  'That is what I am,' Melcorka nodded.

  'Then we agree.' Igraine turned away to check that Alva was all right, adjusted her hooded cloak against the rain and stepped on, head down and legs strongly thrusting.

  The long island that guarded the western coast of Alba boasted two names, with Harris being the hilly, rocky southern half and Lewis the flatter northern half. Most of the settlements were on the coast or alongside the sea lochs while the moorland interior was used for summer pasturage for the cattle. That would be a happy time, Melcorka thought, when the population moved into temporary settlements known as shielings and the children had freedom to run around the moors.

  'How far is this temple of yours, Bradan?' Melcorka asked.

  'I am not sure,' Bradan said. 'Not far. Thirty miles perhaps.'

  'One day's march for us,' Melcorka said with a smile. 'Two days with this rag-tag army.' She gestured over her shoulder at Hector and his men who straggled in a formless mob, staring about them at this new island as if they were in a different world.

  'They are used to travelling by sea, not marching on land,' Bradan said.

  'Our men of Fidach would rip them apart,' Melcorka said.

  'The Fidach men were professional soldiers. These men are not.' Bradan glanced around him. 'I see what you mean though. They are not well disciplined.'

  The ground levelled out into an undulating moor, with each footstep sinking into squelching mud, and men avoiding the many patches of deep bogland that were marked with brilliant green moss and a scattering of reeds. White bog cotton waved to them as they scattered to locate the firmest path.

  'This is a dismal place,' Bradan used his staff to probe for firm ground. It was the first they had spoken since they left Catriona.

  'Grey days like this make everything dismal,' Melcorka did not lift her head from the bog, in case she ended up sinking. 'I have no love for walking across this kind of countryside.'

  'It is not only the weather that is grey,' Bradan found a passage through the next section of bog and stepped on, swearing when his foot sunk ankle deep in a hidden patch of black bogland.

  'What was that supposed to mean?' Melcorka asked.

  'Whatever you wish it to mean,' Bradan strode ahead and said nothing the next time he splashed into a bog.

  Melcorka followed with her emotions in turmoil. She did not know how she felt or how to voice her feelings. She knew she wanted to scream at Bradan, even slap him, although she was not sure why, or what good that would do except release her own inner tension. She hated this unfamiliar feeling of uncertainty so it was almost a relief when the first arrows sang down among them.

  She heard the faint whistle of the flight a second before the arrow thudded into the ground a long stride ahead.

  'Arrows!' She yelled, glad of the distraction. Enemies and fighting she understood; an enemy was honest and definite; emotions and relationships caused turmoil and insecurity.

  Somebody away to her right screamed, 'I'm hit!' and then a man on her left crumpled, spitting blood as an arrow embedded in his throat.

  'Archers!' Tuath roared, and stepped closer to Hector, as was his position in battle.

  'Use your targes!' Hector yelled.

  Most of the men had targes strapped to their backs. These were the round leather shields that were common in the Highlands and Islands. Melcorka drew Defender and stepped closer to look after Bradan. It was a natural movement she made without conscious thought. She did not comment on it, or on the fact that Bradan did the same for her, so they stood back to back in the middle of the bogland, with their previous misunderstanding was forgotten in the midst of this new danger.

  'I can't see them,' Bradan held his staff in front of him.

  'Nor can I,' Melcorka said. Belatedly she saw Igraine and Alva ten paces behind them, dashed over and pulled them close. 'Keep between us,' she ordered.

  'But…' Alva began.

  'No buts!' Melcorka snapped, and resumed her defensive position.

  Another man yelled and grabbed at his leg, from which an arrow had spouted, and then another fell with an arrow in the thigh.

  'They are
firing low, whoever they are,' Melcorka said. 'I still can't see anyone.' She thought of the MacGregors, with their ability to melt into the mist, but there was no mist here; the air was as clear as it ever would be.

  Save for Hector's men, the moor seemed empty. It was not flat, but undulating, with the bogland in large pockets between the gentle slopes and with peat holes of undetermined depth scattered anywhere. Now she looked, Melcorka saw that there were small patches of mist drifting, condensing and thinning but never dense enough to conceal the MacGregors.

  'Move to that high ground,' Melcorka gestured to the nearest ridge. 'We can see better from there.'

  'They can see us better too,' Bradan pointed out.

  'They are shooting low.' Melcorka reminded.

  They moved as a single unit, step by step across the treacherous moor where any tussock of heather could hide an enemy and Melcorka and Bradan acting as a human shield for Igraine and Alva.

  'Arrow!' Melcorka shouted, and swept Defender in a half circle that sliced the arrow in half. 'Alva!' she yelled as the child made a dive for the broken halves, 'leave that! It might be poisoned!'

  Igraine pulled Alva back, while Melcorka carefully lifted the top of the arrow and held it as they reached the ridge and step by slow step moved to the top.

  From here the view stretched out around them with the moorland seeming never-ending to the east, although in the west it ended at the hard grey of the island smudged sea while in the south the stark mountains of Harris lunged upward to the clouds.

  Scattered among the moor were Hector's men, moving slowly northward or cringing for cover amidst the tussocks of heather and reeds of bog-cotton. Five lay still, pierced by multiple arrows.

  'There,' Melcorka pointed downward; 'something is moving amidst the moss.'

  'I see it,' Bradan said, 'what is it?'

  'It's some sort of animal,' Igraine said. 'It's floating on top of the bog.'

  'It's a monster,' Alva's voice was high-pitched.

  Melcorka put a hand over her mouth. 'Speak soft little one, or don't speak at all. If you attract attention the enemy will look for you.' She stood beside Alva, sword drawn and balanced over her right shoulder, ready to strike at whoever or whatever attacked. She focussed on the creature on the moor.

  'I see you,' she said softly, 'and if I can see you, I can kill you.'

  The creature was the same colour as the moor, brown specked with purple, and its fur was spiky, like reeds. It seemed to glide across the bog on huge flat feet, and then crouch to fire a small arrow. If it was a man, it was misshapen, but if it was a monster it was not large.

  'It's not a monster,' Melcorka said. 'It's a man with something on his feet.'

  'It looks like a monster,' Alva insisted.

  Melcorka nodded. 'It does indeed.' Now that she knew what she was looking for, she could see more of the bowmen in the bogland. There were dozens, crawling or crouching among the heather and reeds, firing whenever they found an opportunity and then ducking down again.

  She looked at the arrow she had broken. The shaft was very light and the head was of bone, sharpened to a point. 'There is no power in this,' she said. 'It will not penetrate thick clothing yet alone even quilted armour. That is why they aim mainly at the arms and legs, the places least protected.'

  'You said it was poisoned,' Alva said.

  'I said it might be poisoned,' Melcorka corrected. She held the arrow-head to the light. 'I can't see anything on it, nothing except the bone of the arrow and honest mud of the moor. It is not poisoned.'

  Bradan looked down on the moor. 'These strange creatures are picking off Hector's men one by one. What are we going to do?'

  'You are going to stay here and look after Alva and Igraine,' Melcorka said. 'I am going to get rid of the archers.' She gave a grim smile. 'Or as many of them as I can reach in this bog-land!'

  'I'll come too,' Alva scrambled forward until Igraine grabbed her and shook her.

  'You'll do no such thing! You'll stay by my side and do as you're told!'

  'You three lie down and keep covered as much as possible.' Melcorka sliced at the heather with Defender, cutting great swathes. 'Pile that around you; it might disguise you or even stop an arrow. Bradan, if you see any of these archers come close; attack them with your staff.'

  'You take care,' Bradan said. His eyes were more worried than he knew.

  Nodding, Melcorka covered herself as much as she could with her travelling cloak and loped down the hill, Defender in hand. Remembering where the archer had been, she headed in that direction, careless of arrows but wary of stepping into a bog.

  'Be careful Melcorka!' That was Tuath's voice, coming from a tussock in front. Melcorka waved her acknowledgement and reached the bog where the archer was hiding. Close to, she could see nothing, yet she knew the archer was concealed here somewhere, amidst the heather and reeds. Crouching down, she swept Defender in a circle around her, watching the keen blade slice through reeds and heather stalks, and then she moved on, still crouching, gradually clearing the area with her sword. If the creature was hiding here, Defender would destroy it.

  After a minute she saw movement in a shrub of heather and the creature leaped out, shapeless and ragged. It slid onto a dark pool and glided across the surface, due to some large plate-like objects that it had attached to its feet. As it reached the centre of the pool, out of Melcorka's reach it turned, pulled back its bow and fired.

  Melcorka swung Defender and knocked the arrow out of the air. The creature quickly fitted another arrow to its bow and shouted something in a voice so high pitched it sounded like the call of a vixen.

  Taking a chance on the depth of the pool, Melcorka plunged in, still swinging Defender. The archer backed away, dropped its bow and quiver and fled across the surface of the water, which reached only to Melcorka's thighs. Lifting the floating bow, Melcorka aimed at the creature and fired. She was certainly no expert with a bow, but in her girlhood had hunted birds for food, so her arrow flew true.

  The archer squealed high pitched as the arrow struck it in the leg. It stopped to grab at the wound, overbalanced and fell sideways, sufficiently close to the far edge of the pool for Melcorka to run around the side and drag it ashore.

  'Who are you?' She asked. 'What are you?'

  It was a man. It was undoubtedly a man, dressed in a strange costume that blended with the moor. He stared at Melcorka through frightened hazel eyes as Melcorka ripped off his shaggy cape. Made of heather fronds skilfully woven together, it had reeds and bracken thrusting from it so the wearer would be virtually impossible to see against the moor.

  'What a clever little creature you are,' Melcorka looked at his feet. The man wore huge shoes of heather stalks and hollow reeds woven to form floats that could bear his weight without sinking into the bog.

  'Now what shall I do with you,' she said, just as an arrow thumped into her cloak.

  Now knowing what to look for, she spotted the archer almost immediately, lifted her wounded victim's quiver and ran after the second attacker. The man ran into the depths of a bog and turned around, daring her to follow.

  'I know that game,' Melcorka said to herself. 'I would wager that bog will be deep enough to drown me.' Fitting an arrow to her bow, she fired at this new attacker, at exactly the same moment he released an arrow at her.

  The man ducked away the second he fired, so he did not see his arrow catch harmlessly in the folds of Melcorka's cloak. Melcorka's had aimed at his face, but as he turned it landed on the side of his throat, slicing open his jugular. He died in a fountain of blood, emitting that same high pitch shrilling as his wounded colleague.

  The sound carried all across the moor, attracting many more of the little archers, who emerged from behind thickets or the midst of peat holes with bows at the ready, staring toward the source of the sound.

  'They're going to attack us!' Tuath roared, readying his great axe.

  'No; they are running away,' Bradan shouted from his position on top of the ridg
e.

  'Kill them!' Hector said.

  'No!' Melcorka countered his order. 'There is no need; we have won.' She watched as the moorland was filled with the little men, twenty, thirty maybe forty of them, all running to a second ridge that rose from the most low-lying part, surrounded by a natural moat of peat-pools and areas of reeds and quaking bog. There were many more than she had at first counted and all vanished into the bog land. A portion of the ridge opened before them like a door into a mound of heather and they ran in with high-pitched squeals.

  'Here, my little friend,' Melcorka lifted the man she had wounded. 'You are no threat to us.' The man looked at her, his eyes terrified. 'Come on; I'll take you home.'

  'He's one of the enemy!' Hector shouted.

  'He stopped being my enemy when he stopped trying to kill me,' Melcorka said. She carried the small man to the edge of the deep bogland. 'You know the way from here,' she said, putting him gently down and handing him back his bow and arrows. 'I'm sorry about your friend but he attacked me first, you know.'

  The man turned away and vanished into the bog. Melcorka waited until the strange door in the ridge opened again and the man slid inside, and then she turned away.

  'They won't thank you for your mercy,' Hector said.

  'I did not give mercy to gain gratitude,' Melcorka lifted the huge shoes from the feet of the man she had killed. 'Do you think these work with people our size?'

  'Can I try it, Melcorka?' Alva asked eagerly, pulling at Igraine's hand to lift the shoes.

  'No,' Igraine said. 'You might fall and drown.'

  'Those little monsters did not drown!'

  'You are not them,' Igraine said. 'Best not, Melcorka, in case they don't take your weight. You are not as light as they are.'

  Melcorka wondered if Igraine was trying to say that she was overweight. 'I'll try them,' she decided, more to spite Igraine as out of curiosity. There were cords of twisted heather that fastened around her ankles feet and then she stood, feeling very clumsy as she shuffled forward.

  'Go on Melcorka! Try and walk on water!' Alva sounded wildly excited.

  Melcorka looked around. Igraine was restraining Alva from jumping after her while Bradan was leaning on his staff. Melcorka could not read any expression in his face.