'Paddle toward the north,' Bearnas ordered. 'On my word: ready: stroke!'
Oars and paddles dipped into the water and pushed onward. The flotilla inched into the Forth, unwieldy and impossible to manoeuvre. Melcorka found her coracle spinning this way and that as she thrust with the paddle.
'Whoever thought that a circular boat would be a good idea?' she swore to herself as the boat moved in crazy circles; dipped her paddle in deeper, swore again as she splashed water uselessly and stopped with a start as the cable brought her up short.
'Stop! Keep quiet!' Bearnas voice sounded sharp across the splashing of oars and subdued cursing.
Melcorka lifted her paddle thankfully. The sounds of the flotilla died away so she heard the hushing of the waves, the call of a bird and something else further away. It was a more regular beat, such as the marching of disciplined feet or the thrust of a bank of oars in the sea. Melcorka took a deep breath: there was a ship in the Forth, moving fast from the east and here they were in a flotilla of tiny fishing boats, utterly vulnerable to any sort of attack.
The sound of a man giving orders was next, hoarse and low, speaking in Norse. The regular splash and beat of oars grew louder.
'They're coming this way,' Melcorka said.
'Paddle hard,' Bearnas ordered, 'all together!'
Lifting paddles and oars, the Cenel Bearnas tried urgently to force their mass of boats to the north shore, until Baetan unsheathed a knife and cut his coble free. 'Every boat for itself,' he shouted, 'get away as best you can!'
'No!' Bearnas warned but it was too late. With the connecting cable cut, the boats drifted apart on the Forth, as paddles and oars flailed at the water.
The Norse voice boomed a challenge and a torch flared, casting orange reflections on the steep waves. Melcorka saw the carved wooden head of a dragon rearing above her coracle; a tall mast rising and the gleam of torch-light on a row of circular shields. A man stood in silhouette in the bows, gigantic, with great spreading shoulders and a mane of long hair. The treacherous wind flitted a cloud away from the moon so light gleamed momentarily on the Norseman, showing a hard face despoiled with the spiral blue lines of a tattoo across the left side. Then the cloud returned and the man was in shadow, a dark shape on a ship that surged onward under the press of a hundred oars.
Melcorka realised that her coracle was drifting toward the dragon-ship, spiralling out of control whichever way she paddled. She glanced behind her, where the fires on the Lodainn shore were still distinct, while the northern coast was black under the dark sky.
There were more torches on the dragon boat, more men silhouetted. She heard them talking now and quite distinctly smelled the smoke from the rush torches. She lifted the paddle and tried to push the coracle further from the Norse and succeeded only in making it spin.
One of the Norse stood on the gunwale and held his torch out in her direction. Melcorka ignored his echoing challenge. A spear whizzed from the dark to splash a few yards away. She reached for her sword but even that small movement upset the balance of her coracle; it spun crazily so one second she was facing the Norse ship, the next the coast of Lodainn.
There was another roar from the dragonship and it suddenly altered course. To Melcorka's relief it surged, affording her a view of ranked shields, the hard faces of warriors and oars pulling in unison. The tall man still stood in the bows and for a second Melcorka looked directly at him; he stood a foot above the other men in the ship, with braided hair descending to his shoulders and that tattoo decorating his face. Then the dragon ship had passed; Melcorka heard the hoarse shouts of men and once the clash of metal on metal, then silence. She lifted the paddle and tried to make progress again, more slowly; this time the coracle responded, moving crabwise but roughly toward the north, she hoped.
Melcorka started when there was an outcry from the west and she distinctly heard Bearnas' voice shouting orders, and then there was again the clash of swords.
'Mother!' Melcorka touched the hilt of her sword, 'I'm coming!' The surge of power ran through her again as she grabbed the paddle and thrust it hard into the water, but once again the coracle only spun around. 'Mother!' she yelled as the sounds of battle increased. There was the roaring of men and the repetitive, sinister chant of 'Odin! Odin!'
Melcorka stood in the coracle, staring to the west as the flaring torches on the ship flickered over the waves, allowing her to see brief vignettes of battle. The dragon ship had come into the heart of the scattered flotilla of the Cenel Bearnas and there was a battle underway, with Melcorka frustrated in her inability to take part. She saw the shape of men against the torchlight, heard a long drawn-out scream and heard the splash as somebody or something fell into the water.
And then the torches went out. The sounds continued, fading slowly into a number of isolated clashes that died away one by one. Silence fell, save for the hush and suck of the sea and the call of a night flying gull. There was another order and then the regular beat of oars began again. Then silence.
Melcorka replaced Defender in her scabbard, lifted the paddle and began to slowly, cautiously propel herself toward the place where the battle had taken place, hoping to find a survivor. There were bodies floating on the Forth, Granny Rowan with a gash in her face, dead, Aedon the potter trailing greasy blood, a Norseman with his intestines floating beside him, food for questing gulls. There were pieces of shattered coble, an upturned coracle and a Norse spear. There were no survivors; nothing to bring hope.
And finally Melcorka saw Bearnas floating face up with two massive wounds in her breast and her right arm missing. Melcorka reached for her, only for the body to sink slowly down into the Forth. She was alone and there was only darkness in the world. She fingered the half-cross her mother had given her.
'You knew it was a final farewell,' she said as the hot tears burned in her eyes. 'You were saying goodbye to me.' She felt her voice choke into silence. 'You should have told me, mother.'
'It is not yet time to grieve,' the voice was familiar; she had heard it on that great cliff island when she gained Defender.
'My mother …' Melcorka said.
'It is not yet time to grieve,' that voice repeated, quietly.
'Who are you?' Melcorka did not expect a reply.
'It is time to follow your destiny, warrior.'
Perhaps it was because of the clarity of the voice, but Melcorka felt an easing of her grief. She had other things on her mind; she had to somehow cross to the northern shore of the Forth, as Bearnas had intended. Lifting her paddle, Melcorka tried again. Once she had mastered the skill she found she made adequate, if not fast, progress. As the night drew on, clouds obscured the moon and stars and the fires from the Lodainn shore diminished and died and the water was dark, with only an occasional spark of phosphoresces allowing any relief from the stygian black. Melcorka paddled on, shifting from the left to the right side of the coracle with each successive stroke. There was no sign of progress, no friendly stars to guide her, no landmark or seamark, nothing except the endless night and the sough and swish of the sea.
The night eased on forever in a thick darkness that enfolded her, hiding the good of the past and the bitter sorrow of the present, allowing her to worry about her mother and the islanders she had known all her life, permitting her to recall the bloody events of the previous day's battle. Had that slaughter in Lodainn only been a few hours before? It seemed forever, a lifetime ago, an aeon filled with the screams of hideously wounded men and the death rattle of warriors already dead, with the vision of a banner that held a living raven and the sight of the blue boar of Alba falling, falling, falling into the ranks of victorious Northmen with their linen-board shields and stabbing swords and the broad bladed axes which cut the legs off brave men in a single sweep. And there had been that final and much worse horror of seeing her mother sink to the depths.
At last, far too late, Melcorka sensed the dimming of the night. It began with the faintest lightening along the eastern ridge of the world, a b
and of lighter dark that altered to a shimmer of pink which spread across the sea, slow and secure and then swifter as the sun was reborn. Melcorka sat in her coracle, now paddling mechanically with arms past pain and eyes too weary to open and too defiant to close.
Dawn brought no hope, only a vision of never-ending sea stretching as far as she could see in all directions. Wave followed surging wave, some blue as summer sky, others azure, and yet others of vicious green with their tops flicked off by half-felt wind.
'I am alone,' Melcorka said to herself, 'There is nobody here save me and myself.' She knew the ebbing tide had carried her out to sea, so the east coast of Alba must be there somewhere, beyond the horizon. She lifted her paddle, put the rising sun of dawn behind her and paddled to the west. It was the first time in her life that she had been truly alone. Always there had been her mother in the background and some of the islanders there to help or support her. Now there was nobody and nothing, not even a trace of land out here.
Alone. Melcorka thought of the yells and screams of the night before. She hoped that at least some of the Cenel Bearnas had reached the north shore of the Forth in safety. She wished she had been able to remain with them. She wished her mother was there. She wished she had been killed in place of her mother. She wished anything other than what was.
She did not see it come until it landed at her side, a black and white bird with red legs and a long beak of the same proud colour.
'You are an oystercatcher,' Melcorka said. 'My totem bird and the one I follow.'
The oystercatcher perched beside her on the narrow bench, its eyes bright and hard, the cross on its breast a reminder of the old story that it had once helped conceal Christ when he hid from the Romans in the Western Isles of Alba, now the domain of the Lord of the Isles.
'You are my guide,' Melcorka swayed with exhaustion and lack of food and water. The bird did not move. 'Well then,' Melcorka chided, 'you had better do some guiding then, before I die here.' She lifted the paddle again, dipped it into the sea and thrust forward. 'If you don't guide me, then I must make my own judgement.'
The oystercatcher took off again, circled around the coracle and flew away, south of west.
'That way, is it?' Melcorka asked, wondered briefly what to do, sighed and altered course to follow the black and white bird. When a sudden squall brought rain, she leaned her head back to drink what fresh water she could, regretted that she had brought no food and paddled on. She ignored the cramp in her legs and back from her unusual squatting position, ignored the pain in her arms and shoulders and continued chasing that always receding horizon.
Behind her and to her right, the sun ascended, growing in heat as the day wore on. Her thirst increased as her arms grew weaker. She continued to paddle as the oystercatcher circled above her, flew quarter of a mile ahead and returned, again and again, encouraging her onward.
As the sun reached its noon zenith and began the long inexorable slide downward, Melcorka saw something to the west and south; something like a dark line across the sea. The sight gave her renewed strength so she paddled harder as the something gradually took form to a coastline with a range of low hills blue in the background.
The oystercatcher circled again, flew lower until it almost touched her, then altered course slightly and waggled its wings. Melcorka followed again, paddling hard as daylight began to fade. Was it only twenty four hours since that battle had begun?
The orange glow was little more than the size of a pin when she first noticed it, and as she paddled it grew to a pinkie-nail and she realised it was a fire. She could no longer see the oystercatcher and had to follow its piping call through the deepening dark.
Melcorka heard the shush and suck of breaking surf before she saw the silver streak, while the fire was full sized now with flames flickering through the dark. She paddled into the surf until the coracle grated on something, clambered out with her limbs stiff and weary, and stepped knee deep in cool water.
The man emerged from the side of the fire and watched her drag the coracle up a beach of shifting shingle above the line of dry seaweed that marked the high tide mark.
'I wondered what the oystercatchers were guiding in,' he said calmly. 'I have nettle tea, fish stew and porridge ready.'
When Melcorka tried to speak, her voice came as a dry croak. She stepped forward, only for all strength to drain from her legs. She did not feel herself falling, only the strength of the man as he caught her before she hit the ground.
'I've got you.' His voice was reassuring. 'You're safe with me.'
Chapter Seven
The world was spinning around her, trees and bushes and sea merging into a constant whirl that she could neither control nor comprehend. She blinked, closed her eyes and opened them again. A man's face appeared amidst the confusion; a stranger she did not know.
'Who are you?'
'I am Bradan the Wanderer.' The man's voice was clear and slow.
'I am Melcorka nan Bearnas.'
'Well met, Melcorka nan Bearnas, child of the ocean.' Bradan was crouching at her side, his long face serene. 'You did not eat last night so you must be hungry now. Do you remember where you are?' He indicated the still smouldering remains of his fire, with the soft surge of the breaking sea a few yards away and the coracle upside down beside a tangled bramble bush.
She took his arm and pulled herself upright from a bed of freshly cut ferns. 'You cared for me,' she said.
'You needed cared for,' Bradan told her simply.
'Don't you want to know where I came from?' Melcorka asked. She noticed that he was a head taller than her, and slimly built, with a long face framed by shaggy brown hair.
'You will tell me if you wish to,' Bradan said.
'Are you not curious? A girl floats in from the sea and you don't ask?'
'You will tell me if you wish to,' he repeated. His smile was slow but worth waiting for.
'We were crossing the Forth,' Melcorka felt obliged to tell him. 'And a Norse dragon ship caught us.' She waited for him to ask more. He stood opposite her, eye to eye as the sea breeze ruffled their hair and flapped her linen leine around her body.
'Defender!' she gasped, amazed that she could have forgotten, 'where is my sword?'
'Here it is,' Bradan pointed under the bush. 'Beside your chain mail and the dirk.'
Melcorka lifted Defender and held it close to her before she frowned. 'I was wearing that chain mail.'
'I know,' Bradan said. 'Next time you row a coracle you might find it easier without the mail. It must have been tiring.'
'Thank you for the advice,' Melcorka said. 'You took the main off me?'
'There was no need for it and you were more comfortable without it.'
'You had no right to take off my clothes!' Melcorka felt the anger surge over her.
'Absolutely none,' Bradan agreed, 'except the right to help you all I could.' He held her gaze calmly.
It was instinct that made Melcorka cross her arms to protect her linen-covered breasts. She stepped back as embarrassment battled her anger.
'Now,' Bradan said, 'while you put on the chain mail you do not need I will get some porridge for you.' Ignoring her glare, he bent to a pot that was suspended over the embers of the fire. 'Whatever you plan to do today, you will need food.' He stirred the embers until they glowed brightly. A little flame spurted.
'I am heading for Castle Gloom,' Melcorka said.
Bradan spooned porridge into a wooden platter and added milk from a small gourd. 'That's a bit of a walk,' he said. 'Best eat first.'
With the chain mail covering her, Melcorka found it easier to control her emotions. 'Who are you?'
'I told you. I am Bradan.' He lifted a long staff from the ground and stirred the embers of the fire until more flames appeared.
Melcorka looked around. 'Do you live here?' She tested the porridge, found it edible and spooned it into her mouth.
Bradan winked at her, lifted a second small gourd from near to the fire, twisted off the
lid and poured the contents onto the porridge. 'Honey,' he said. 'It adds a bit flavour.'
Melcorka tasted it cautiously, discovered that she liked the sweetness and smiled. 'I've never had that before,' she said.
'Never had honey?'
She shook her head. 'Never in porridge.'
'Well you have now,' his smile was broad.
'Where is it from?' Melcorka tried some more of the honey-sweet porridge.
'Bees make it,' Bradan told her solemnly.
'I know that!' Melcorka said. 'I can't see you keeping bees somehow.'
'There are wild bees as well as tamed,' Bradan said.
She looked at him. 'What do you do, apart from making honey and taking the clothes off stray women you meet on the beach? Where do you live?' She looked around. 'Is this your home?'
He shrugged. 'I live wherever my feet touch the ground and I walk wherever the road takes me.'
'You have no home? No family? No kin?' Melcorka could not conceive such a thing. All her life she had been surrounded by people, ready to help her or give advice whenever it was wanted. She had only been alone for one night and one day and had not enjoyed the experience. The thought of living alone all day and every day was terrifying … Melcorka shook her head. 'How do you survive?'
'I am a wanderer,' Bradan said simply.
'Alone?' Melcorka stared at him. 'Are you not afraid? Wait …' She lifted his staff. 'Is this your weapon? It is a magic staff? Does it have special powers?'
'It is a wooden stick,' Bradan said, 'made of blackthorn.'
'How do you defend yourself?' Melcorka asked.
Bradan smiled. 'There is no profit in thieves robbing a man with nothing valuable to steal, and no honour in a warrior defeating a lone man walking with a stick.'
Melcorka touched the hilt of Defender. Although it was only a few weeks since she had carried it, she could not imagine life without its comforting presence. 'You are a brave man,' she said.
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