“The crystal is known as the Clach Bhuaidh,” MacBain said, “the Stone of Victory.” Removing his sword, he handed it over without hesitation, accepting Defender in return. “Your sword is lighter than I imagined,” MacBain commented as he gave a few practice swings, “but very well balanced. What is your secret, Melcorka?”
“My skill is in the sword,” Melcorka instinctively trusted this man. “The People of Peace made it, hundreds of years ago, and it retains the skill of each warrior who wields it in battle.”
MacBain held Defender high, swung at empty air and peered along the edge of the blade. “She sings well,” he said. “My secret is in the Clach Bhuaidh,” he said. “As long as the Stone of Victory is in the pommel, I cannot be defeated. The Clach Bhuaidh was a Druid's stone from long ago, a protector of good from evil.”
Melcorka examined the crystal as it reflected the embers of the dying campfires and the glitter of the stars above. “It is amazing what power a small thing can have.”
“As the saying goes, good gear comes in small bulk,” MacBain said.
They handed the swords back. “I am glad we are on the same side,” Melcorka told him.
“As am I.” MacBain replaced his sword. “Let us hope it will ever be so.”
“Let us hope so, indeed,” Melcorka watched the Clach Bhuaidh glow as MacBain looked around the camp.
“Where will you be fighting tomorrow?” MacBain asked.
“I will fight wherever I am most needed,” Melcorka said. “I will not disrupt the battle formation to win glory for myself.”
“That is a soldier's reply,” MacBain said approvingly.
An hour before dawn, with faint grey streaks easing over the eastern horizon, the camp awoke. They rose silently, to find whatever food they could, pray for courage and success that day and check their weapons. Women scurried to make food or sought the sanctuary of trees to relieve their bladders, a piper made himself unpopular by blasting out a rousing tune, and a bard began a long monologue about the heroes of past battles. At the edge of the camp, a group of stalwart warriors who hoped to be champions practised swordplay while boasting to impress a group of watching women.
“All is normal,” Bradan fingered the cross on his staff, “yet things are not right. The sky awaits, and the animals are unhappy. There is not a single dog in the camp, despite an abundance of food.”
“Where are they?”
“They ran off last night.” Bradan tapped his staff on the ground. “Things are not what they seem, Mel.”
“The champions don't seem concerned.” Melcorka watched as Finleac kissed both his women, planted a small Celtic cross in the ground and knelt before it, while Black Duncan sharpened each one of his dozen darts. MacBain gave Melcorka a wink as he wandered over to the king.
“Gather round, captains, kings and chiefs,” MacBain”s invitation was more of an order. “The High King has intelligence from the scouts.”
“We are not sure who commands the Northumbrians,” Mael Coluim told the leaders as they congregated around his knoll. “It might be the veteran Uhtred, or it may be his brother Eadwulf Cudel. I hope it is Uhtred, for he repulsed my attack on Durham 12 years ago, cowering behind fortifications and afraid to fight us in the open. If not, then it is Eadwulf, who even his army called Cudel, cuttlefish, the coward. Either way, we shall be victorious.”
The captains were too experienced to cheer. They asked sensible questions about the disposition of their men and spoke to their supports on either flank.
“If anybody wants religious help,” Mael Coluim added, “the Church of St Cuthbert is over there. Go quickly as we'll be marching off the moment the men have eaten.”
As the captains organised themselves, MacBain checked the army, stalking around the fringes. Noticing the Butcher watching from a small rise, he stopped to glare at him. The Butcher, still astride his garron, did not move, while the grey man was as insubstantial as before.
“You lads,” MacBain gestured to a group of border horsemen, “go and see who that man is, and what he wants. If he's a Northumbrian or Danish spy, kill him. If he wants to join us, bring him to me.”
Melcorka watched the five horsemen trot off with young Martin in the lead. “I'd like to see what happens now.”
“Time will see all things,” Bradan lifted his head as a wolf howled. “The beasts know that something is wrong.”
“Of course something is wrong,” Melcorka said. “Thousands of men are going to be hacking at each other so one king or another can claim he owns a bit ground he'll probably never visit again in his life.”
Bradan nodded. “Aye; maybe that's all it is. I think we had better see the holy men. I fear we may need their help today.” He nodded as Finleac passed them. “Even the king's champions agree with me.”
Finleac moved like a shadow, moving lithely across the ground on his way to the church, still with a woman clinging to each arm. Only when he was at the door of St Cuthbert's Minster did he disengage himself, give the brunette on his left a hearty kiss, land an equally hearty slap on the backside of the buxom redhead on his right and attempt to look solemn.
St Cuthbert's Minster at Carham stood within 100 paces of the fast-flowing Tweed, a wood and wattle creation of the Celtic Church, a symbol of Christianity and humanity in a borderland only partially tamed.
Urging his women away, Finleac handed his swords to a tired-eyed priest and walked in. Kneeling before the simple altar, he asked the head priest for a blessing. “May God forgive me for what I am about to do,” Finleac said. “And forgive me if I forget you during this day, for I will be busy smiting hip and thigh.”
The priests welcomed his words, shook their heads at the slaughter to come and blessed him. Rising, Finleac left the small church, accepted his swords back from the priest and strode to the front of the Alban army. In the distance, Melcorka heard the deep-throated singing of the enemy, hard-edged voices roaring out a battle hymn that had nothing to do with gentle Christianity.
Mael Coluim marched them onward towards the Northumbrians, a long column of Albans and Strathclyde British, with the High King, Owen the Bald and the three champions at their head. Carried by eager young standard-bearers, a score of banners and flags announced the various groups of the Alban army, with the twin banners of St Andrew's cross and the Blue Boar of Alba to the front.
“Melcorka,” Bradan said urgently, leading Melcorka away from the main array, “look.”
At first glance, Melcorka thought that the five horses that were cantering towards the Alban army were riderless. But then she saw the occupants. Each man had been placed face down on his saddle. Blood wept from the deep wounds in their legs as the horses arrived at the head of the Alban army. Young Martin still lived, moaning softly as his life seeped away.
“Those were the border riders MacBain sent to challenge the Butcher,” Bradan said.
“Aye.” Melcorka hitched Defender higher up her back. “At least we know now that the Butcher is not going to join the army.”
“Whatever he wants, it will have to wait,” Bradan said. “The Albans have more to worry about than a single rogue warrior, however fierce he may be.”
Sunlight glinted on the swords and axes of the Northumbrians and gleamed from the array of bright circular shields as the enemy battle line waited for the Alban advance. The Northumbrians had positioned themselves along a grassy ridge, with the River Tweed guarding one flank and a patch of dense woodland the other. Above the army, banners and flags drifted in the light wind.
At the sight of the Northumbrian array, the Alban army stopped. Each side stared at the other for a few moments, and then gave a great roar of defiance, with the flags lifted higher and weapons brandished aloft.
“Here we go again,” Bradan tapped his staff on the ground. “How many battles have we seen, Melcorka?”
“Too many,” Melcorka touched the hilt of Defender. “This fight at Carham will be one more to add to our list.”
True Thomas appeared a
t their side, with a sad smile on his face. “This battle will decide the shape of a frontier for centuries to come,” he said, “yet you must not take much heed of the armies.”
“Then why are we here, Thomas?” Bradan asked. “You have guided us from the sea to a battle. There must be a reason.”
When True Thomas nodded, there was infinite weariness in his eyes. “A battle will determine a frontier and which king may neglect his subjects. I have brought you two here for something more important than kings or nations.”
“I wish you would tell us what it is,” Melcorka said. “Why do seers always talk in riddles?”
True Thomas smiled. “You have freedom of choice, Melcorka. I can guide you, but ultimately the decision lies with you. I will say this to you, Bradan: evil's smiling arrogance will reveal the light.”
Bradan shrugged. “That is another riddle, Thomas.”
“It is a riddle that may help you if you decipher it.”
“I will remember it,” Bradan said. “Evil's smiling arrogance will reveal the light.”
“Good.” Thomas nodded. “Now wait; your time will come soon.”
The Northumbrians greeted the advancing allies with a great roar and a volley of arrows, stones and spears.
“Out! Out!” they yelled, shaking their weapons in the air. “Out! Out!”
“They sound like the barking of a thousand dogs!” Owen said, with a dark sun reflecting on his bald head.
“These same Anglian dogs have murdered and plundered half the island of Britain since they first invaded,” Mael Coluim replied. “They are a disease sent by the devil for our sins.”
“Then let us be the antidote.” Owen unsheathed his sword. He stood erect, broad-shouldered and tall. When he slid a steel helmet on, he looked every inch a British warrior, facing the Angles, the enemies of his blood.
“Out! Out!” The Northumbrians barked. “Out! Out!”
Owen stamped his feet. “Give the word, my king!”
“Good man, Owen!” Mael Coluim's grin was fierce. “Form line of battle! Archers and spearmen to the front! Skirmishers advance!”
Melcorka watched in approval as the allied army formed up, with Owen's Strathclyde men on the right, the post of honour, and the spearmen and archers stepping forward to harass the Northumbrian line. The warriors wore quilted leather or padded linen, with a few of the champions in chainmail, while some had a metal helmet to protect their head. The majority fought in their leines, the long linen shirt common to all the Celtic peoples, with perhaps a rudimentary coat of deerskin as protection. Only the wealthy carried swords, for they were expensive weapons that took great skill to make. Most men carried spears or dirks, the long fighting knife, or arm-length darts they could throw with terrifying force and accuracy.
Uhtred responded in kind, sending forward his skirmishers to face the Albans, so volleys of spears and arrows passed back and forward, with the light infantrymen of both armies in between. Occasionally a missile found its mark, with an Alban or Angle falling or grunting in pain. A scatter of bodies littered the ground, and the groans of the wounded rose to the circling rooks.
“The Northumbrians hold the high ground,” Melcorka said, “so they have the advantage. Now both sides will form a shield wall and it will be about resilience, muscle power and strength.”
Bradan tapped his staff on the ground, wordless, watching the bravery and the suffering.
As Melcorka had said, Mael Coluim formed his men into a formation identical to that of the Northumbrians. For half an hour, the two armies faced each other, with the rival warcries rising and the skirmishers firing arrows and spears. Men fell in ones and twos, with the casualties on both sides beginning to mount.
Twice Black Duncan stepped out of the Alban array to challenge the Northumbrian champions to single combat, without result. The Northumbrians hearth carls, the professional soldiers, remained in their ranks, much to the Albans' disgust.
“Cowards!” The Albans yelled. “Tailed English dogs!”
Melcorka sighed, reaching for Defender. “I think I should get involved here before we all fall asleep.”
“No.” True Thomas laid a hand on her arm. “This is the High King's battle. Let him win it. Your time will come.”
When Mael Coluim roared an order the allied army formed into a wedge, with the long Lowland spears thrusting out behind a line of circular shields. The allies moved slowly up the slope towards the Northumbrians, who responded with renewed cries of, “Out! Out!” and a frantic volley of spears, while hundreds of arrows descended on the advancing allies. MacBain was at the forefront of the Alban array, marching with as little concern as if he were in his home village. Black Duncan and Finleac were nearly level with him, one a little to the left and another a few paces to the right, Duncan with his perpetual scowl and Finleac whistling a song of love.
The two armies met with a grunt from the allies and a roar from the Northumbrians. The Lowland spears probed, thrusting at half shielded faces, bare legs and thighs. Northumbrian axes and swords chopped at Alban spear-shafts and Strathclyde heads. Men died or fell hideously wounded, with spear wounds in groin or belly. Uhtred, the Northumbrian king stood in the centre of his shield wall, with his hearth-carls, his picked fighting men, all around. They fought with the stubborn, unimaginative courage that the Northumbrians always displayed, big men with longswords, axes and circular shields killing and dying together.
“Out! Out!” The Northumbrians barked.
“Aigha Bas!” The allies responded. “Battle and die!”
The Northumbrian shield wall quivered as men from the second rank stepped forward to replace the casualties in the front, and then Mael Coluim gave the order:
“Caterans! Get over!”
As soon as the words were uttered, the second Alban rank laid their shields horizontally on their shoulders, and 50 of the lightly armed skirmishers leapt on top. Using the shields as a springboard, the caterans jumped over the three ranks of the Northumbrians, turned, and attacked with their long dirks. They used the terrible Highland groin stroke, drawing their arms back and thrusting upward with the single-bladed dirk so if the point did not maim the groin or slice through the femoral artery, it penetrated the belly or stomach.
Under this fresh assault from the rear, the Northumbrian battle line weakened. Some men turned to face the caterans, others continued to fight the advancing allied wedge, and a few turned and ran.
“Now!” Owen pushed forward, and the Strathclyde men increased their efforts, hammering at the shaken Northumbrian shield wall with sword and axe. At that moment, with the allies on the point of victory, a horn sounded in the undulating country behind the Northumbrians, and three men strode forward. One was taller than any man in either army, with a double-bitted axe balanced over his shoulder and his dark hair braided over his shoulder. The other two were nearly as tall, with naked longswords in their hands.
“Here's trouble,” Melcorka said. “These lads mean to fight.”
“Wait,” True Thomas said, “and you will be noticed.” When he turned toward her, Melcorka could see the force behind his smoky eyes. “I have not summoned you here merely to kill a warrior or two.”
“Then why am I here?” Melcorka touched the hilt of Defender. “I've had sufficient of your hints, Thomas. Tell me plain or leave us in peace.”
“I have a much more onerous task for you, Melcorka the Swordswoman.”
By the time True Thomas had finished speaking, the three newcomers had arrived at the allied line. They attacked at once. “Odin claims you!” the tall man said as he decapitated a lithe cateran with a casual swing of his axe.
“King Cnut of Denmark!” The second roared as his longsword sheared through an Alban shield and sliced off the arm of its wielder.
“Thor!” The third shouted, hacking through a Lowland spear.
“Now?” Melcorka wrapped her fist around the hilt of Defender.
“No.” True Thomas's eyes were smokier than ever.
The group of young hopeful Alban champions that Melcorka had noted earlier ran to oppose the three advancing warriors. The Albans were laughing with the prospect of worthy adversaries, eager to prove themselves. The tall Angle met them on his own, blocking the swing of the first man with the head of his axe, turning the blade and swinging sideways. His axe took the first champion's left leg off at the knee, and he finished the man with a quick hack that broke his spine. Meanwhile, his supporting swordsmen held the second and third champion back.
“You are mine,” the second Alban champion leapt over the still-twitching body of his companion, sword swinging.
“Odin claims you,” the tall man said, quietly, as he sidestepped the sword thrust and cut the champion's head in two. “You will fare well in Valhalla, brave warrior.”
The third young Alban hesitated for only a second. “I'll kill you, Northumbrians!”
“We are Danes!” The axeman roared. “We fight for King Cnut!”
“They are Danes,” Melcorka said. “They are not Northumbrians.”
The remaining young Albans charged forward, full of courage but lacking in guile as the Danes killed them in seconds.
The three Danes advanced further, with two hacking at spears and shields so the third could dispose of the bearer. After a few moments, they had made an ominous bend in the Alban line so that Mael Coluim was pointing in that direction. The Alban advance began to creak as men looked over their shoulder at the Danes who were chopping a bloody furrow towards them.
“Now, Melcorka,” True Thomas said. “Now's your time. The High King will observe all that you do. Fight well, Swordswoman.”
“Take care, Melcorka,” Bradan said as Melcorka at last unsheathed Defender and trotted forward.
Chapter Two
As always, Defender's power ran from the blade of the sword into Melcorka's hand, up her wrist and through her whole body. Brushing aside a hopeful jab from a Northumbrian spear, she killed the owner with a thrust to his chest and shouted as she ran.
“You three champions! The Swordswoman is coming for you!”
Loki's Sword Page 3