The Swordswoman

by Malcolm Archibald

  Almost immediately one set of eyes vanished and the mist diminished and died. Melcorka saw one of the apprentice druids lying on the ground, rubbing at the back of her knees.

  Broichan had not moved. He nodded to her. 'You can think, Melcorka and I heard that you can handle men. How are you with the unexpected?' As he finished speaking he rubbed his crystal again.

  Melcorka stood at the top of a mountain. She was alone, unarmed and stark naked in the bright light of day. She looked around at a vista of mountain tops, peak and snow-covered peak as far as she could see, vanishing into the distance in every direction.

  She was ankle deep in snow and with every moment, the snow was crumbling so her perch diminished all the time. What was underneath the snow? Was there rock? Or did the snow extend all the way to the ground? Melcorka looked down as the last of the snow vanished and she was sliding down, down, down the steep side of the mountain at an ever increasing speed. She continued to slide until she was in a populated valley, with a town of square houses all neatly thatched. Men and women turned to stare at her, the women openly shocked, the men staring, pointing, laughing at her nakedness. Melcorka crouched, covering herself as they circled around her, poking, laughing, taunting; some lifting their hands or sticks in open violence, others with more sinister intent.

  'No!' Melcorka shouted. 'This is not real. You are not real!'

  The people vanished. She was in a thick forest, so dense she could hardly see five yards through the green foliage. She was still naked and vulnerable, still alone and still confused.

  The bear loomed through the trees. Nine feet tall, its front paws were spread, revealing huge claws ready to slash and rend her to shreds. Her scream was involuntary as the bear lunged at her; she ducked, twisted aside, fell to the ground and rolled, kicking bare feet in what she knew was pointless retaliation against a monster of those dimensions.

  There was no pain; the claws did not make contact, the great gaping, salivating mouth with the huge teeth did not close over her, the hot breath did not stink in her nostrils.

  'No!' Melcorka shouted again. 'There is no bear!'

  The sea closed over her head as she fell underneath the water. She saw her mother ahead, fighting that tall Norseman with the braided hair and tattooed face. The water scalded her throat, harsh and salty, choking her so she gagged and vomited, paddled with hands and feet as she sunk down toward the ocean floor. Through a film of water, she saw her mother lift her slender blade against that tattooed Norseman, saw the man lift his axe, saw an arrow thunk into her mother's chest, saw another sink itself into her stomach just as the tattooed Norseman swung his axe. Melcorka saw the axe descend slowly, then hack her mother's head in half and continue until it stuck deep inside her body.

  'Mother!' Melcorka screamed. And then she said 'no! This is not happening.' She stood upright, with her legs thrusting through cool water and her feet finding dry land.

  Broichan covered the crystal at the top of his staff.

  'You are a strong minded woman,' he said.

  'Is she the right strong minded woman?' Drest walked into the circle of stones with Athdara at his side. 'Is Melcorka the woman we seek?'

  'She will lead the prince on the path you wish,' Broichan pronounced. He turned on his heel and strode out of the stone circle, with his two assistants following closely behind.

  Athdara looked at Melcorka and smiled.

  Melcorka inclined her head. It seemed as if she had obtained her army to help free Alba and if she had to cope with Loarn, then he also had to cope with her. That was the way of the world.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The spring wind blasted chill from the sea, howled around the walls and whistled through the crannies and corners of the dun. An occasional spatter of salt spindrift crossed the wall to spray over the assembled throng without raising comment or complaint. The faced the stone platform at the eastern side of the courtyard, talking, gesticulating, speculating, laughing; men, women and children together, with the occasional bark of a dog to enliven proceedings.

  The two heralds mounted the platform, moistened their lips and sounded their trumpets, with the echoes no sooner fading than there was complete quiet from the crowd.

  'Silence for the king!' the heralds demanded.

  Drest's grey cloak ruffled in the wind, with the gold threads of the decorated hem catching the slanting rays of the sun. He stood in front of the crowd and raised his hands.

  'My people of Fidach,' Drest's voice carried around Am Broch without apparent effort. 'The Norse are knocking at our door. They have over-run Alba and we will be next.'

  There was a moment of silence, followed by a low growl such as Melcorka had never before experienced.

  'It has been many years since we have fought a war,' Drest said. 'Yet we are still the Picts of Fidach; we are the men of the bull, and like the bull, we are stubborn and skilful warriors.' He waited for the response as the previous growl changed to a cheer.

  The queen joined her husband. 'Some of you may know our guests Bradan the Wanderer and Melcorka the Swordswoman of the Cenel Bearnas.' She gestured for them to join her on the platform.

  Melcorka hid her discomfort as the faces stared up at her, a mass of eyes and mouths and noses, some with beards, some moustaches, some clean shaven, women with red hair, dark hair, brown hair, old and young and in between, all subjecting her and Bradan to intense scrutiny.

  'Melcorka brought us warning of the Norse attacks on Alba,' Athdara said. 'She is a renowned warrior of noble Alban blood who acted solely in our interest.'

  The cheers were muted as the people wondered what in the name of the gods this Alban woman with the long sword had to do with them.

  'Melcorka has experience of the Norse and their ways. She is helping organise Alban resistance to the invasion, and is making sure that Fidach is not the next to be attacked.' Athdara glanced at Drest, who took over.

  'The men of Fidach will not stand back and allow the Norse to take over their neighbours. We will send help to Alba; we will aid Melcorka in her fight.' He raised his voice. 'Fidach is going to war!'

  Used to the quiet discipline of these Picts, Melcorka was surprised at the enthusiastic cheers that rang out in that courtyard of Am Broch.

  'Heads,' somebody shouted, and others joined in, so the quiet, civilised Picts of Fidach began a wild chant of 'heads! Heads! Heads!' until Drest raised a hand to command silence.

  'I have more news!' Athdara announced when order was eventually restored. 'I have decided that our son, the prince of Fidach, needs a wife and who better than Melcorka, noble warrior of Alba?'

  Every eye in the courtyard focussed on Melcorka as the Picts scrutinised this foreigner who their king had chosen to be their future queen. Melcorka bowed to the crowd. Now she was used to the idea, she pretended delighted acceptance. She knew that whatever plans were made in the peace of Am Broch, surrounded by loyal Picts, things would be vastly different on campaign with the Norsemen facing them with swords and axes. At present she would smile and be pleasant, even to the obnoxious Loarn, who hopefully had learned some manners, and once the Norse were defeated she could exercise a woman's prerogative and change her mind. Of course, if the Norse won she would be dead and all the conjectures in the world were irrelevant.

  Anyway, Queen Melcorka of Alba and Fidach had a fine ring to it. But what did that chant of 'heads' mean?

  She felt Bradan's eyes on her and wondered why he looked so sad. They had come here to raise an army to regain Alba and now they had the nucleus of one. All the rest was only detail. He could see that, surely?

  Surely?

  'And now,' the queen announced, 'here is our son, the prince who will lead the army of Fidach south to face the Norse.'

  Lead the army? Melcorka shuddered at the thought of the pampered prince Loarn leading any sort of force against the Norse.

  'Prince Aharn!' the queen said.

  'Aharn?' Melcorka said, 'I thought it was Loarn?'

  'Oh God,' Brada
n said softly. Melcorka did not understand his reaction when it was obvious that Aharn would be a far better leader for the Fidach army.

  Aharn bounced up on the platform and raised a hand to his audience. They cheered him, shouting his name.

  'Aharn! Aharn! Aharn!'

  'Well met, Melcorka,' Aharn said.

  'Well met Aharn,' Melcorka greeted him. 'I did not know you were the son of Drest.'

  'I am the younger son,' Aharn's eyes were warm. 'And your man, it seems.' He linked his arm with hers, much to the delight of the crowd. 'Now, let's get the army organised and go and fight the Norse.'

  Melcorka felt a lift of relief that she would not be forced into marriage with Loarn, but she could not understand why Bradan did not share her happiness.

  Chapter Eighteen

  'Not only Fidach is fighting,' Melcorka said. 'The riders of the southern marches of Alba are gathering, and once we leave Fidach, Bradan and I will try to persuade the Isles to join us.'

  'Donald of the Isles?' Aharn nodded. 'I would not trust the Isles any more than I would trust the Norse. They are mighty warriors but fickle, apt to sway to whoever smiled to them last. I know nothing of the men of the southern marches.'

  Melcorka gave a bitter smile as they thought of Douglas. 'I saw some fight at the battle of Lodainn Plain,' she said. 'They were brave warriors even although they fought on foot and not on horse.'

  'We will see if they arrive,' Aharn said.

  Melcorka nodded. 'We can only hope.' She wondered if she should mention her dalliance with Douglas and decided to say nothing. No doubt he had known a woman or two in his time. 'In the meantime, while you call up the army of Fidach, I hope to raise what is left of the manpower of Alba.' The Isles could wait until she saw how many men the combined army of Alba and Fidach contained.

  'How do you do that? With the Norse everywhere that will not be easy.'

  'I may have a way,' Melcorka said. 'How powerful is your druid, Broichan? I know he can play with my thoughts; can he call down the weather in truth?'

  'We use him to bring rain in times of drought,' Aharn said, 'so he can.' He smiled, 'that is one reason Fidach is so fertile.'

  'If he is as powerful as I hope he is,' Melcorka said, 'then I can send messages the length and breadth of Alba north of the Forth.' She decided to release a little of the truth. 'A man named Douglas of Douglasdale will raise the March riders.' Her smile was more than a little twisted. 'Or the female part of it at least. He is good with women.'

  Aharn raised his eyebrows. 'A man like that can be useful, or very dangerous.' He eyed Melcorka for a few moments without speaking. 'We can try Broichan and see if he has the power he claims,' he said. 'It might be interesting to test the tester.' Melcorka liked the quiet humour of his smile.

  Melcorka and Bradan spent two days making arm-length wooden crosses, dipping one arm of each cross in a bath of blood and attaching combustible wool to the opposite arm. Sending a fiery cross was the traditional method of raising the clans in the event of war or invasion, but after the defeat at the Plains of Lodainn and the ravaging by the Norse, there was no sure way of knowing how many warriors remained, or how much desire to fight what must have seemed like a doomed campaign.

  'Have faith,' Melcorka spoke with a confidence she did not feel.

  Bradan looked at her and opened his mouth, but closed it again when Aharn appeared. Whatever was in Bradan's mind passed unsaid. 'Call Broichan to us,' Melcorka said as they stood in the centre of the stone circle, waiting for the clouds overhead to clear. An owl called nearby, its cry eerie in the dark.

  'Can you not use your power to blow the clouds away?' Melcorka asked.

  Broichan snorted. 'You may be a ferocious warrior, Melcorka, and a traveller of note, but when it comes to the spiritual world you know nothing.'

  'So what happens next?'

  'That,' Broichan pointed upward as the clouds rent open and the moon appeared. He raised both hands, with his apprentices copying him.

  Greeting to you, gem of the night!

  Beauty of the skies, gem of the night

  Mother of the stars, gem of the night

  Foster-child of the sun, gem of the night

  Majesty of the stars, gem of the night.

  They had waited eight days for the full moon and now it strengthened, lighting the earth below like a celestial lantern so that every stone of Am Broch was distinct, every shadow vanished in a light as strong as midsummer.

  Broichan reached into the pouch he wore around his waist and lifted a handful of dried herbs, which he placed on the recumbent stone that lay in the centre of the circle. As his assistants chanted a complex rhythmical incantation, Broichan applied a flame to the herbs so the smoke rose skyward, spiralling up and up until it formed a thin column that reached as far as Melcorka could see. She watched as it rose and when it blocked out the light of the moon, Broichan shouted a single word and spread his arms wide.

  Melcorka gasped as the smoke spread, becoming a blue-grey mist that extended further and further across the night sky. She saw no end to it as it moved outward and ever outward.

  'You asked me for a mist to cover all of Fidach and Alba,' Broichan sounded exhausted. 'Well there you have one.' He bowed his head. 'It will not last, Melcorka of Alba, so make whatever use of it you can while it does.'

  Melcorka took a deep breath. Hoping that her plan would work, she took the whistle that MacGregor had given her so many weeks ago and began to blow it. At first there was no sound, and then, faint in the stillness, there was a faint, high pitched peeping just at the periphery of her hearing. As she listened it lengthened, stretching to a long drawn out blast that sounded for mile after mile as it journeyed the length and breadth of the country.

  In her mind's eye Melcorka could picture the whistle as if it was a physical entity, a sound that probed into every hidden glen and every mountain corrie, that followed the course of the rivers and wound through the great Caledonian Forest, that hunted through scattered clachans that smouldered after the wrath of the Northmen and delved deep into the dark caves that tunnelled underground and into the bowels of Alba and Fidach.

  In her mind's eye Melcorka could see the message hidden within the high whistle. 'Gregorach' it said, 'MacGregor; Melcorka, daughter of Bearnas needs you.' And still the whistling continued, summoning the Gregorach, the men of Clan Gregor, the Children of the Mist, to Melcorka as she stood within the sacred circle of stones in the druid-created mist.

  'Bearnas?' Macgregor himself slid out of the mist, his chest heaving with exertion. In the faded glow of the moon, diffused by the mist, his features were hard to ascertain but there was no mistaking his presence.

  'Bearnas is dead,' Melcorka told him quietly. 'The Northmen killed her.'

  MacGregor nodded, his face expressionless. 'That news is hard to hear.'

  'I am Melcorka, daughter of Bearnas.'

  'I know,' MacGregor looked her up and down. 'You have grown since last we met. You are full woman now.'

  'I need your help, MacGregor,' Melcorka did not respond to the compliment.

  'Name it,' MacGregor said.

  'Aharn of Fidach and I are going to fight the Norse,' Melcorka said. 'I need to rally what is left of Alba to our cause.'

  'It will be a hard task to rally a scattered people without a leader or hope.' MacGregor was blunt.

  'Aharn and I will act as leaders,' Melcorka said, 'until the real monarch appears.'

  'Any daughter of Bearnas will be a fine leader of men or women,' MacGregor said. Melcorka realised that MacGregor was not alone. Others of his clan had joined him, shadowy shapes that waited in the fringes of the stone circle, vague, undefined men and women; MacGregors all.

  'I want to ask if the Children of the Mist could carry the Fiery Cross for me,' Melcorka asked. 'I know of no others who know the byways and highways so well as the Gregorach, or who could pass the Northmen without being seen.'

  'The Gregorach can do that,' MacGregor said. 'Where is the gatheri
ng to be?'

  'At the Dun of Ruthven on midsummer's day,' Melcorka told him. 'It has level ground around for the warriors to gather, and the Monadhliath hills to escape if the Norse muster before we have sufficient numbers to resist them.'

  A faint wind rose from the northern sea. It stirred the mist so it thinned, with tendrils breaking off; patches of the night sky were faintly visible above. Immediately that happened, the men of the Gregorach stepped backward, away from Melcorka.

  'How long will this mist last, Broichan?' Melcorka asked.

  'Not long,' Broichan said.

  'Could you work your magic and extend its life? The Gregorach have a lot of territory to cover and they need the mist.'

  Broichan looked at Aharn, who nodded.

  'Try, Broichan, for Fidach.'

  'Try for Fidach,' Broichan repeated. 'It is always for Fidach and never for Broichan. He sighed. 'All right then, but don't expect miracles.'

  'I always expect miracles with you,' Aharn winked at Melcorka, 'and you always deliver them.'

  'Come on, you two,' Broichan nudged his assistants. 'We have work to do.' Once more he raised his arms to the now-nearly faded moon, with his assistants following his lead and chanting an incantation. The wind died and the mist thickened as Broichan stood there.

  'I can't hold this for ever,' Melcorka heard the strain in Broichan's voice. 'Send the Gregorach on their mission and tell them to hurry!'

  'Thank you, Broichan,' Melcorka said, 'and thank you Clan Gregor. Only you can do this.'

  When MacGregor stepped forward to speak, his voice boomed through the mist. 'Go, Children of the Mist; go and raise the men of Alba. Go to Clan Cameron, fiercer than fierce; go to Clan Chattan, the cat people of Badenoch; raise the men of the Braes of Atholl, call on the wry-mouthed Campbells and the horsemen of Gordon, give the cross to the Grahams, who burst through the Roman wall, raise the Grants of Strathspey, cousins to our own name; raise the MacFarlanes whose lantern in the moon, and the MacRae's, Mackenzie's shield and armour.'