'Mackintosh!' she yelled the name. 'Do you have a long pole, a spear, anything like that?'
Mackintosh grinned when he saw the standard. 'Cameron has,' he said, and returned with his rival, the chief of clan Cameron.
It took two minutes for Cameron to fit the standard between two long-handled Lochaber axes and have a pair of stalwart volunteers, one from Clan Chattan and one from the Camerons, walk in front of the Alban army.
A roar came from the ranks as they changed from the various slogans of their clans to one that encompassed the entire nation.
'Alba!' they shouted, 'Alba Gu Brath! Alba for ever!'
The carnyx horns sounded their terribly bronze clatter and the combined army moved forward behind their flags. It was rather beautiful, Melcorka thought, with rays from the rising sun catching the great banners, glinting on helmets and swords, glittering on spear points and casting long shadows from the horsemen. She saw the colour and splendour, heard the roar of fighting men and the high yells of the slogans, the neighing of horses and the jingle of equipment, the screams and groans of the wounded and the flick-whizz of flying arrows and stones.
This was war. And this would be her last day alive. Convinced that she could not survive without the magic of Defender to support her, Melcorka suddenly gained a new recklessness. It did not matter what she did; she would die today, so it was best that she left a good name behind her, a name fitting for the last of Cenel Bearnas. Lifting her voice she shouted: 'On them, men of Alba! Albaaa Gu Braaaaath!'
They echoed her call, still moving forward, quickening their pace as the arrows fell on their ranks, killing, wounding, maiming so the men in the rearward ranks were stepping and stumbling over the writhing bodies of their friends and colleagues. The Alba and Fidach archers fired as fast as they could and then suddenly they had covered the ground and were at the Norse shield-wall, face to face with the flicking spear points and waiting, lunging axes.
'Follow me!' Melcorka shouted. Knowing that she would die today was liberating; there was no need to fear what was inevitable. Drawing her sword, she jumped high in the air, slashed downward as she landed on top of the Norse shields. She had a vision of a tall man with elaborately braided hair, a raised axe and the thrusting spears of ranked men, a row of shields with the sunlight glinting on iron bosses and then she was slashing at the man with braided hair, yelling with a mixture of anger and exultation.
'Alba! Alba gu Brath!'
The Norse had their own battle cry, the 'Odin' that sounded like the sharp barking of dogs, but now that battle was joined, men on both sides were only grunting and roaring incoherent sounds, or screaming as axe or sword or spear plunged into vulnerable flesh. Blood rose in clouds, so Melcorka was washed in scarlet and saw everything through a film of red. Every cutting sword stroke, every blow of an axe, every thrust of a spear produced a fountain of blood, while the wiry dirk-men of the clans rolled under the shield-wall of the Norse to thrust upward in the savage groin-stroke that tore through the femoral artery or sliced at the manhood of no-longer brave warriors.
In two places on the Alban front the dirk men created panic among the Norse, who backed off, slashing downward in desperation. The massed clans followed through with the Camerons using the hooks at the back of their Lochaber axes to haul away shields so the swordsmen could kill the holders; or to grab at the necks and arms of Norse axemen to allow the dirks or broadsword to get to ugly work.
Melcorka looked to her right, where the soldiers of Fidach were pressing against the Norse lines, shield pushing against shield as the spears on both sides licked and lunged and axes fell and rose, smeared with blood and brains and fragments of human bone.
This was glory; this was the work of heroes; this was what hell would be like.
Oh God but she was scared beneath the bravado, petrified underneath her rigid smile of inevitability.
One man screamed high pitched and long; Loarn was down, with his left forearm hacked off by a Norse axe. He writhed on the ground as the Fidach spearmen stepped onward, crashing into the Norse shields.
In front of her she saw only Norse, pushing, thrusting, gasping, shouting and dying. There was movement on her left as a host of huge Norsemen stripped themselves naked, grabbed their long swords and poured out of the enemy ranks to try and take the Alba men in the flank.
'Berserkers!' Mackintosh was blood smeared and wounded. 'They know no fear!' He looked over his shoulder. 'They are drugged with some potion so they fight even if their arms and legs are chopped off.'
'So cut off their heads and they will charge blind and deaf,' Cameron roared, and proved his words with a swing of his Lochaber axe at the first of the berserkers. 'Good God in heaven,' he laughed as the man ran on, headless. 'They really do charge even without a head!'
'Oh my Lord!' In a moment of sanity through her battle rage, Melcorka saw the naked men form into a yelling mob, lift huge swords and charge at the ragged ranks of the Shaws, the farmers she had posted in what she had thought was the safest part of her army.
There was a lull in the fighting in front of her as the Norse recoiled a step and the Albans pausing to take breath, ready for the next onslaught, so she could see the charge of the berserkers against her most vulnerable men.
Surprisingly many of the Shaws lifted their rustic weapons and turned to face their attackers, and then Douglas led his Border lancers in. They took the Norse in a flank attack that must have been a complete surprise as the slender lances thrust at kidneys and groins, faces, throats and all the tender, vulnerable places that the berserkers' nakedness left exposed. For all their vaunted courage and undoubted savagery, the Norse could not stand against the lances of the most skilled light horsemen in Europe. Their attack staggered under the force of the Borderers, and when they turned to charge, Douglas withdrew his men, leading the Norse away from the battered but still defiant Shaws, to lunge forward, jabbing, wounding and killing whenever they saw an opportunity.
'Melcorka!' Macintosh shouted the warning as the Norse shield wall moved forward again, Norse feet stamping on the ground and Norse voices chanting 'Odin!' as the warriors thrust in a determined counter attack.
'Alba!' Melcorka took a deep breath. Although that small break in the fighting had given her fresh energy, it had also allowed her time to think. The fear returned. She was not yet ready to die.
'Melcorka!' Mackintosh threw himself forward, with his clansmen following in a howling wave of tartan and saffron, linen and steel.
It was then that she saw him standing on his own and holding Defender in both hands. Baetan noticed her at exactly the same time and squared up to her, with Defender held at his left shoulder, blade pointing to the sky.
'You traitorous, lying hound!' Melcorka ignored the fighting Norsemen as she moved toward him. 'I am going to enjoy killing you!' That was true. This was not just the lust of battle; this feeling was deeper and much more personal. She felt a surge of such hatred as she had never felt before as she stepped forward with her sword held high.
And then Baetan smiled. 'I think all the dying will be on your part, Melcorka. I have your magic sword and you have … that.' He pointed to Melcorka's functional but plain blade. His laugh was not pleasant.
'I should have left you on the beach to die,' Melcorka circled around him, seeking an opening. She knew he was skilled with the sword; in all their practise bouts she had never laid a blade on him.
'Instead you took me home,' Baetan said. 'What was it like to see a real man for the first time in your life?'
'You are no man, Baetan. You are a coward and a brute,' she made a lunge that he avoided with ease.
He feinted left, grinned when Melcorka reacted and sliced at her with Defender. The blade hissed through the air half an inch from her right arm. 'You are too easy to kill,' he said. 'I will make this slow, Melcorka, and kill you by inches.'
Melcorka said nothing. Even with an ordinary sword, Baetan had always been far too skilled for her. With Defender he could do exactly as
he pleased and there was not a thing she could do about it except try to die well.
'Wait for me, mother,' she said softly, 'I will be joining you soon.'
Baetan feinted left, then right, and then swung low so Melcorka had to hop to avoid the gleaming steel of Defender's blade. 'Dance for me, Melcorka,' he said. 'I think I will cut off all your toes first, and then all your fingers, and then …'
'I will cut you there!' Melcorka interrupted by lunging forward in a two handed thrust that caused Baetan to double up to avoid her blade.
'You little bitch!' His good humour evaporated when he realised that Melcorka was not going to give up tamely. He moved forward, eyes narrowed and feet soft on the ground. Snarling, he swung Defender in a sideways swipe that would have taken her leg off had Melcorka not parried frantically. The clatter of steel on steel rang around the battlefield as the shock of contact nearly numbed her arm. She gasped and stepped back, wide eyed as Baetan grinned with renewed confidence.
'You're not so brave now, little girl!'
Stepping back for balance, he swung again, a mighty blow that would have cut her in half if it connected. She raised her sword and yelled as the blade snapped when Defender crashed down on it. She staggered back, tripped over the arrow-punctured body of a Norseman and sprawled face up on the bloody ground.
'Now what will you do, little girl?' Baetan stood over her. He altered his grip on Defender so he held it like a dagger, point down and poised above Melcorka's belly. 'Your army is folding around you, your family is all dead and I am going to gut you like a fish.'
The oystercatcher was circling above, its black and white feathers distinct in the clear morning air. Melcorka looked up; her lucky bird, but there was not much luck today. Or was there? She remembered her mother's words about Defender. She will not fight for injustice, or for the wrong. Remember that Melcorka.
Melcorka looked into Baetan's eyes. If she was killed now, then she had chosen the wrong fight and she deserved to die. If some miracle saved her, then she was in the right. She laughed openly and saw the doubt in his eyes just as the oystercatcher swooped.
Baetan flinched at the blur of movement. He jerked sideways to avoid the bird, just as Melcorka put out her arm to block Baetan's blow. The point of Defender stabbed against her forearm but did not penetrate the skin. Melcorka laughed again and took hold of the blade, confident that the viciously sharp edge would not cut her.
'My sword, Baetan,' she said, twisted it from his grasp without effort, reversed the blade and thrust it straight through his heart. He died instantly and when Melcorka looked upward the oystercatcher had gone.
She looked around, fended off a Norseman with a casual flick of Defender and watched the progress of the battle. The Norse wedge in the Islesmen's camp was deeper; they pushed the Islesmen back, step by step although at great cost in dead and dying. Her Albans had penetrated the Norse lines in three places and were fighting furiously, yet the Norse held them and their shield wall was also retaining the men of Fidach, although it had been forced to retreat a good hundred paces. The battle was poised in bloody stalemate: one more advance on either side could decide it. She saw Egil in the centre of the Norse lines, a pivotal figure with his gigantic height and tattooed face.
'I will kill you yet,' Melcorka promised.
She saw the blue boar floating above the Alba ranks; saw the bull of Fidach, head down and defiant near the front of the Picts, and saw the black raven of the Norse, wings aloft as if it was alive.
Every time the combined army pushed forward, the raven lifted its wings higher and the Norse took renewed strength from the banner and surged again, axes and spears hungry. In that raven lay the source of their power. If she could reach it, the Norse would have lost their most potent weapon. Melcorka looked ahead; there must have been five hundred Norse warriors between her and the Raven Banner; even with Defender she knew she could not face such odds.
She saw the shadow cross the heads of the struggling men, passing over the helmets and raised weapons. The shadow was surreal, a creature of four legs and a massive wingspan, twice the size of a man, silent, ominous, intimidating.
Melcorka screwed her eyes up against the rising sun. 'It's a dragon,' she breathed. 'Bradan was wrong; there are dragons in Alba.'
She tightened her grip on Defender. It was bad enough fighting the Norse without facing a dragon as well. She wished that Bradan was here; he would know what to do.
When a cloud blocked the glare of the sun Melcorka looked up and laughed. There was no dragon, no fabled beast of mythology flying above the battling armies. Instead there was a pair of golden eagles flying so close they were like a single entity as they circled, circled and then swooped down.
'If you are going to fight a raven,' Melcorka said to herself, 'then use a bird of prey.'
Calling harshly and with talons fully extended, the eagles ripped onto the Raven Banner, beaks slicing into the silk. The raven raised its beak to retaliate as one eagle kept it occupied and the other tore the banner into long shreds.
'Who?' Melcorka looked over at the ranks of the combined army, to see Lynette on a white stallion, standing in her stirrups as she directed her birds with blasts from a short whistle. For a second she met Melcorka's gaze, then looked away in disdain. Whatever Melcorka's status as a warrior and future queen, Lynette would never see her as anything other than a poor island girl.
The Norse flailed at the eagles with long swords and axes, uselessly wasting energy as the birds dodged their clumsy blows. Only a few seconds after they plunged down, the eagles had completed their work and flew skyward, followed by despairing flights of arrows.
There was a moment of shock from the Norse as they viewed the tattered remnants of their talisman, and then, even as Melcorka watched, Aharn stood tall in his saddle and waved a hand. Lynette rode to his side, arms extended for the return of her hunting eagles. For a moment Melcorka stared straight into Aharn's eyes. She lifted her sword in salute and then stared as something burst from the rear of the Fidach lines and rattled around the ranks of the combined army. They were light vehicles with two large wheels, each drawn by two armoured horses and carrying two men; a driver and a warrior. Long blades glinted in the morning sun as they extended from the wheels.
'That's a chariot,' Melcorka said to herself. 'I didn't know they still made them! That must be what the closed wagons held.' She watched as half a dozen chariots wheeled around the combined army, changed direction and headed into the Fidach ranks. Disciplined even during the midst of a battle, the Picts separated to allow the chariots access and then closed ranks behind them. Melcorka saw the chariots wheel round with the warrior firing arrow after arrow at the Norsemen and then her view was blocked as a surge of Norsemen pushed toward her.
'Kill her! That's one of their leaders!'
There were ten of them, tall men in chain mail and they came roaring toward her. Melcorka looked past them to the man who had given the order. Egil stared at her from his nearly seven feet in height, his tattooed face immobile yet his eyes full of hatred.
'Egil!' Melcorka heard her words rise high above the roar of battle. She stepped toward him, holding Defender in a two handed grip. 'You killed my mother!' The ten men between her and Egil did not matter; she would flick them aside as she would brush crumbs off a table.
'I have killed a great number of people,' Egil said. 'And now I will kill you.' Using the flat of his sword, he pushed his own men out of the way. 'Stand aside; this one is mine!'
There was a sudden noise behind her, a rattling, roaring growl augmented by the rapid drumbeat of horses' hooves. The chariots had punched their way through the shield wall and were wheeling into the heart of the Norse ranks, with the wheel-blades hacking through legs like a man with a sickle harvesting corn. A column of Fidach soldiers followed, thrusting spears and swords at the crumbling Norse formation. As Melcorka raised her sword to face Egil, the Fidach men rushed past her in a great flood, with the Albans at their flanks.
; 'Egil!' she shouted, her voice now unheard amidst the din of the triumphant army. 'Face me, you coward!'
'Fidaaach!' The slogan rose above the noise, and then altered to the sharper, more insistent: 'heads! Heads! Heads!' as the Picts began to slaughter the fleeing Norse. From the other side, the Islesmen had held the final Norse attack and now pushed them back, so the gallowglass were crashing through what remained of their defences.
A press of retreating Norse slammed past her, separating her from Egil. She saw him pushed back by the crowd, his eyes glaring at her, his tattooed face ugly above the wreckage of his army. Melcorka lowered Defender. She was surrounded by slaughter; dead men, dying men and men killing others. There was no concept of mercy as Albans and Islesmen butchered all they could and the Picts hacked off heads as trophies.
'Egil!' She yelled his name. 'Stay alive, Egil! I want to kill you!'
The long blast of the horn made everybody stop. Donald of the Isles had stepped onto a small knoll near the centre of what had been the Norse lines. The horn blasted again, sending its sonorous notes across the killing zone.
'I am Donald of the Isles,' he announced, 'and my men will give quarter to any Norseman who surrenders and gives his oath never to wage war on the Isles , Fidach or Alba.'
'Well met, brother of mine,' Melcorka said quietly. She raised her voice. 'I ask the men of Alba to grant the same mercy.' She was unsure how much power she had over these men, and hoped their chiefs would back her up.
Bloody from head to foot, and carrying a Norseman's head in his hand, Aharn added his voice. 'Never let it be said that Fidach did not show Christian mercy,' he shouted. 'We will join our friends of Alba and the Isles.'
The massacre did not stop immediately, but gradually the killing ceased and the remaining Norsemen were rounded up, surrounded by hundreds of grinning Albans, Islesmen and Picts.
'Well met Aharn of Fidach,' Donald embraced him. 'You kept your word and your faith.'
'As did you, my friend,' Aharn greeted him.
The Swordswoman Page 27