Melcorka saw Egil amongst his men, as arrogant in defeat as he had been in victory. Pushing toward him, she lifted Defender.
'Fight me and die, you coward!'
Egil spread his arms. 'Your kings and rulers have given their word of quarter,' he mocked her. 'Would you make them out to be liars? Would you start another war?'
Melcorka poised Defender at his throat, 'you killed my mother,' she said.
The oystercatcher piped above them, its black and white feathers distinct against the mid-morning sky.
'Drop the blade,' the words were clear in Melcorka's mind and the voice belonged to Bearnas. 'Defender cannot be used for revenge.'
'Mother?' Melcorka looked around her.
'You have learned much but there is more to learn.' Bearnas' voice rebuked her. 'Sheath your sword!'
'Yes, mother,' Melcorka obeyed, and only then did the other voice intrude.
'It is time.'
The words entered Melcorka's mind unbidden and so gently that she was unsure if she was heard them correctly. She blinked as the scene of slaughter wavered before her eyes. The bloodied victors, the dead and wounded, the flapping banners, the swords and spears and Lochaber axes, the chariots and panting cavalry all vanished as grey mist soothed her.
'Melcorka.' She recognised that gentle, clear voice. 'It is time.'
'Time for what?' Melcorka asked.
'Time to embrace the next stage of your destiny.' Ceridwen emerged from the mist in her black and white dress. Maelona was at her side, bare headed and dressed in shimmering white silk.
The mist eased away as Ceridwen and Maelona walked softly through the army. The warriors stepped aside to let them pass, forming a corridor of tired men shorn of the killing-lust as they watched the two women glide through. Even the most battle hardened warrior stood in awe of Ceridwen, while Maelona was the most beautiful woman that Melcorka had ever seen. With her auburn hair flowing free around her neck and the face and figure of a goddess, she exuded nothing but purity and love.
'Aharn of Fidach,' Ceridwen's voice was soft and clear. 'You are in the presence of your bride-to-be.'
Aharn glanced at Melcorka. 'I know,' he said. 'And I am proud to know her.'
'This is she,' Ceridwen stepped back slightly so Maelona was closer to Ahern. 'Her name is Maelona and she is the rightful queen of Alba.'
Aharn only glanced at her before he shook his head. 'It does not matter if she is rightful queen or not, my lady. I have given my hand and my word to Melcorka.'
'You are indeed a good man,' Melcorka said softly. Compared to Maelona, she looked exactly what she was, a clumsy island girl, battered and travel-stained, while Maelona looked every inch a royal princess, ethereal, untouchable and unblemished.
'Maelona is the daughter of Olaf and Ellen. She is the Queen of Alba and of the Northlands in her own right.' Ceridwen stepped further back as Maelona stood next to Ahern.
'I am betrothed to Melcorka,' Ahern repeated, yet Melcorka saw his expression change as Maelona touched his arm.
'I think you two are well suited,' Melcorka said softly. Maelona slipped her hand inside that of Ahern. He did not pull away. They moved closer together so they stood hip-to-hip and shoulder-to-shoulder.
'Melcorka,' Ahern's voice was strained, 'I gave you my word.'
'I release you from any vows that were made in our name. Go with God, Aharn and reign well, Prince of Fidach.'
Ceridwen stepped further back. She looked at Melcorka. 'Go,' she said, 'and pursue your destiny. Your man awaits.'
'My man?' Melcorka heard the tapping of a staff on the ground.
'If you want me.' Bradan stood amidst the carnage of the battle. 'I am no prince.'
'And I am no princess,' Melcorka adjusted the angle of Defender in her scabbard. 'Where are we going?'
'Wherever the road leads,' Bradan said.
'Then let us find our path, man with a stick.'
About the Author
Born and raised in Edinburgh, the sternly-romantic capital of Scotland, I grew up with a father and other male relatives imbued with the military, a Jacobite grandmother who collected books and ran her own business and a grandfather from the mystical, legend-crammed island of Arran. With such varied geographical and emotional influences, it was natural that I should write.
Edinburgh’s Old Town is crammed with stories and legends, ghosts and murders. I spent a great deal of my childhood when I should have been at school walking the dark roads and exploring the hidden alleyways. In Arran I wandered the shrouded hills where druids, heroes, smugglers and the spirits of ancient warriors abound, mixed with great herds of deer and the rising call of eagles through the mist.
Work followed with many jobs that took me to an intimate knowledge of the Border hill farms as a postman to time in the financial sector, retail, travel and other occupations that are best forgotten. In between I met my wife; I saw her and was captivated immediately, asked her out and was smitten; engaged within five weeks we married the following year and that was the best decision of my life, bar none. Children followed and are now grown.
At 40 I re-entered education, dragging the family to Dundee, where we knew nobody and lacked even a place to stay, but we thrived in that gloriously accepting city. I had a few published books and a number of articles under my belt. Now I learned how to do things the proper way as the University of Dundee took me under their friendly wing for four of the best years I have ever experienced. I emerged with an honours degree in history, returned to the Post in the streets of Dundee, found a job as a historical researcher and then as a college lecturer, and I wrote. Always I wrote.
The words flowed from experience and from reading, from life and from the people I met; the intellectuals and the students, the quiet-eyed farmers with the outlaw names from the Border hills and the hard-handed fishermen from the iron-bound coast of Angus and Fife, the wary scheme-dwelling youths of the peripheries of Edinburgh and the tolerant, very human women of Dundee.
Cathy, my wife, followed me to university and carved herself a Master’s degree; she obtained a position in Moray and we moved north, but only with one third of our offspring: the other two had grown up and moved on with their own lives. For a year or so I worked as the researcher in the Dundee Whaling History project while simultaneously studying for my history Masters and commuting home at weekends, which was fun. I wrote ‘Sink of Atrocity’ and ‘The Darkest Walk’ at the same time, which was interesting.
When that research job ended I began lecturing in Inverness College, with a host of youngsters and not-so-youngsters from all across the north of Scotland and much further afield. And I wrote; true historical crime, historical crime fiction and a dip into fantasy, with whaling history to keep the research skills alive. Our last child graduated with honours at St Andrews University and left home: I decided to try self-employment as a writer and joined the team at Creativia . . . the future lies ahead.
Dear reader,
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