Fergus's grin was expected. 'Then that is what we shall do!' Wheeling around, he led his men back down the glen as the noise from higher up increased.
They met the farmers as they emerged from the glen.
'I am Melcorka of the Cenel Bearnas,' Melcorka announced to the bald leader. 'At present I am with the army of Fidach marching to the gathering place at the Dun of Ruthven.'
The farmers gathered in a noisy mob behind their leader, all shaking their make-shift weapons in the air and talking at the same time. 'We are clan Shaw,' the bald man said, 'the MacGregor sent the fiery cross and we are coming to join the fight!' He gestured with his thumb to the collection of bearded old men and beardless youths behind him. 'I should say that we are all that is left of Clan Shaw. The Norse attacked us when were at the spring sowing.'
'Aye,' Melcorka said, 'the Norse.' There was no need to say more.
'So this is what the Albans are like,' Lynette gave a little laugh. 'The Norse must be terrified of them.'
Loarn grunted. 'Are they worth fighting for? We'd be better going back to Fidach now and letting them fight their own wars.'
'Join us and welcome, Clan Shaw,' Aharn was more generous. 'We have a common cause against the Norse.'
Despite Melcorka's hopes that there might be Alban warriors gathered at Ruthven, the dun was empty. She stood at the remains of the camp fire she and Bradan had shared on that happy night he had made bannocks and they had laughed together, looked at the Fidach army that spread around on the flood plain of the Spey and wondered at her altered circumstances. For the first time in weeks she fingered her mother's broken cross and sighed. She had gained exactly what she wanted in Fidach, yet the price had been high.
Aharn is a good man, she told herself, and I should be happy to be his chosen woman. Yet … she looked at the blackened remains of the camp fire while the echoes of Bradan's laugher reverberated through her head. It was too late now: the bargain had been struck and the deal made. There was no more to say.
'Where are the men of Alba?' Aharn mounted the ramparts of the dun and peered around. To the west were the grey Monadhliath mountains; to the east and south the grim blue Cairngorm peaks. They were in a bowl amidst the hills, a thousand Picts with two score Alban farmers, waiting for armies that may never appear.
As the Picts waited, they prepared. They created earthworks around the dun, working with skill and energy to raise two defensive walls with interlocking gateways to baffle any Norse attack. They sharpened swords and burnished their mail; they paced out distances and built cairns of carefully selected white stones to act as range markers for the archers. They sent out mounted patrols in ever increasing circles until they knew the geography of the land. They trained for war and hoped for reinforcements until a patrol leader named Llew reported to Aharn.
'Norse, my lord, archers and axemen fifteen miles to the south.' Llew touched the hilt of his lance. 'They might be the men who murdered Brynmor.'
'How many?' Aharn asked.
'At least a hundred, my lord. Perhaps more.'
'Melcorka!' Aharn shouted. 'You are the only one here with experience of fighting the Norse. Would you care to come along?'
Melcorka was already in the saddle. 'Lead on, Aharn.'
'Both the heir apparent and his intended queen in the one battle?' Bradan tapped his staff on the ground. 'Is that wise? Would you not be better remaining here, Melcorka, and let the Fidach men fight as they know best?'
Melcorka stopped in the middle of tightening the reins. 'No, Bradan, I would not be better doing that.' She kicked her heels and trotted out of the camp, hating herself for hurting him even as she knew it would be worse if she allowed their feelings for each other to grow. Kindness could be cruel sometimes.
More cautious than Melcorka had expected, Aharn took two full companies with him, two hundred fighting Picts including outriders and scouts, with a mixture of spearmen and archers. Melcorka rode in front with Llew, feeling the now familiar mixture of tension and excitement.
'They were by the river,' Llew explained, 'hard beside their boats.'
'The Norse do love their boats,' Melcorka looked sideways at the fast-flowing Spey. 'I am surprised it's deep enough for them.'
The Norse were exactly where Llew had said, camped in a loop of the river with water on three sides and their three small boats hauled across the landward side to act as a defensive barrier. Two men sat on the hulls of the upturned boats, drinking from horns and exchanging casual conversation.
'Flat bottomed boats,' Aharn murmured, 'that's how they can navigate the Spey, but no scouts?' He glanced at Melcorka. 'Is that normal with the Norse?'
'Not with the ones I have met,' Melcorka said. 'They are growing careless.'
'Or over-confident,' Aharn drew his sword and tested the edge with his thumb. A globule of blood dribbled down the blade. 'Let's make them pay for that.' His voice had lost any semblance of the sophisticated prince. They have trapped themselves in that camp. They cannot escape by water unless they launch their boats and that will take time, and we are on the landward side.' He glanced at the surrounding countryside. 'I want one section of archers in that clump of trees,' he indicated a copse quarter of a mile to the south of the Norse camp, 'and another section behind that knoll to the north. Spearmen, form up between the two, but stay hidden. You are only there to take care of any Norse that run.'
'How are you going to do this, Aharn?' Melcorka asked.
'I am going to lead the cavalry directly into the camp and kill all that I can. Any that escape will run the gauntlet of the archers or run into the spearmen.' Aharn's voice was grim. 'My men need a straightforward victory after the loss of Brynmor's patrol; nothing less will do.'
Melcorka nodded. 'I am with you,' she said.
Aharn led them slowly forward, fifty horsemen against double that number of Norse warriors. Melcorka felt her tension mount as the harnesses and bits jingled and the hooves thudded softly into the ground.
'The sentries have seen us,' Aharn murmured.
'They are confused,' Melcorka said. 'They don't know what to make of us.' She lifted her arm as if in greeting. 'Well met, warriors of Odin!' Her voice was clear and crisp.
One of the sentries waved back as the other shouted a challenge. 'Who are you? Identify yourselves!'
'Bjorn sent us!' Melcorka shouted. She lowered her voice. 'The first sentry is alerting the rest of them.'
Aharn raised his right hand. 'Sound the charge!' He lifted his voice in a roar. 'I am Aharn of Fidach! We are Fidaaaach!'
The sharp, urgent blare of the horn sounded across the floodplain of Spey.
'We are Fidaaaach!' the horsemen echoed and then broke into a shorter, sharper chant like the bark of fifty dogs: 'heads! Heads! Heads!'
While one of the sentries vanished as soon as Aharn roared his words, the other stood on top of the upturned boat and threw a spear. Melcorka saw it coming and pulled her horse to the side. The spear whizzed past.
'Fidaaaach!' Aharn roared. He reached out his left hand and grabbed Melcorka's reins, spurring mightily so that both their horses leaped at the same time. Melcorka felt a judder as her horse's hooves scraped the flat bottom of the boat and then she was in the Norse encampment with men scurrying before them, the drift of a camp fire, the smell of cooking meat and a handful of near-naked slaves screaming and running away.
'Heads! Heads!' The Fidach riders followed, jumping over the upturned boats as if intentionally displaying their skills, drawing sword or couching spears as they fanned out in formation to spread around the encampment. One horse stumbled over the boat and fell, tossing his rider onto the ground. A Norseman lifted his axe and chopped the Pict's head in two, then staggered as the next rider's spear spitted him clean.
'Heads! Heads!' the Fidach men yelled as they crashed into the scattered Norse defenders. 'Heads, heads!'
'Odin!' The Norse war-cry sounded as blonde Northmen appeared, snarling their defiance.
A pair of Norse warriors
ran toward Melcorka, one was tall, with his hair free-flowing around a clean shaven face. The second was older, scarred and bearded with a long sword. For the first time in weeks Melcorka drew Defender, leaned over the neck of her horse and stabbed the clean-shaven man through the throat before pulling back to parry the swing of the grey-beard's sword. The impact of blade on blade made the bearded man gasp in shock. He shouted 'Odin' as Melcorka twisted her wrist and sliced upward, gouging his arm from elbow to shoulder. Bright blood spurted as the bearded man looked foolishly at the wound. She rode on, knowing he was unable to fight with such an injury.
'Heads! Heads!' The Fidach riders worked in teams and in pairs, each supporting another as they used the advantage of their height and reach to slice and hack at the Norse.
'Odin!' The Norse stood in small compact groups, back to back as they defied the mounted death that rode amongst them. 'Odin!'
Melcorka reined up. She was a foot warrior, nor a horse soldier; fighting while sitting on the back of a horse was not for her. She dismounted, took a deep breath, held Defender two-handed and stepped forward. For a second the vision of her mother floating in the Forth came to her, the anger and frustration and horror of that memory. And then she concentrated on the task in hand: she was Melcorka, holder of the sword of Calgacus and Bridei. She was Melcorka of the Cenel Bearnas. She was Melcorka the avenger. She was Melcorka the defender of Alba. She was Melcorka the Swordswoman.
'Come on you Norse! Come and fight!' The power of Defender surged through her, increasing her strength, her skill and her speed. She saw a Norseman running toward her as if he moved in slow motion, and moved to block the swing of his axe. The Norseman opened his mouth in a roar as Melcorka's sword sliced through the handle of his axe so the head tumbled to the ground. Melcorka swivelled on her feet, ducked and altered the angle of her stroke, hacked through the Norseman's ribs and moved on. She saw Fergus throw his spear at a running man; she saw a Pict spit a Norseman clean on the point of his sword, and then three Norse burst from a thatched hut holding a slave before them as a shield. They shoved the slave toward Fergus as a distraction and crowded round, two with swords and one with a short thrusting spear.
'Fergus!' Melcorka saw Fergus hold his blow for fear of hitting the slave. The Norse spearman slipped behind him and poised for the thrust, just as Melcorka arrived. She killed the Norse spearman before he knew she was there, parried a wild swing from one of the swordsmen and nodded as Fergus sliced left and right with his sword, cleaving one Norse head in two and cutting off an ear of the other.
Melcorka finished off the wounded Norseman and ran on, hunting, killing, allowing Defender to guide her, losing herself in this exhilarating role of the warrior.
The blast of a horn sounded above the clash of steel on steel, the hoarse shouts of the warriors and the terrible screams of the mortally wounded. Melcorka glanced up to see Aharn signalling a withdrawal.
'Back,' he shouted, 'leave the camp.'
'We're winning!' Melcorka yelled.
'Withdraw!' Aharn turned his horse and led the way out of the encampment with his signaller blowing long notes on the horn.
Without demur, the Fidach cavalry wheeled around and withdrew. Swearing, Melcorka swung onto her horse and followed. 'We were winning!' she shouted.
As she jumped the boat barrier, she saw the Fidach horse retreating, with Aharn ushering the stragglers. 'Melcorka! Come on!' he waved her on, 'hurry!'
'What are you doing?' Melcorka did not attempt to control her anger. 'We had them beaten!'
Aharn faced her. With sweat running down his face to merge with the blood from a wound in his chin, he looked more like a warrior than a prince. 'We still have them beaten,' he said. 'Ride with me.'
Reining up beside her, Aharn placed a hand on her arm. 'Trust me, Melcorka; I am not only a captain of cavalry, I must also think of my infantry.' He gave a sudden grin. 'You fought well.'
'Were you watching?'
'Of course I was,' Aharn glanced over his shoulder. 'Now ride with me. The Norse are coming.'
Aharn was correct. Believing that they had driven the Picts away, the Norse roared out of their camp. Yelling 'Odin,' they swarmed over the upturned boats and ran after the cavalry, seventy or eighty men carrying axes, swords and spears.
'Come on!' Aharn ordered as a throwing spear thudded into the ground between them. 'They're getting too close.'
The cavalry trotted away, keeping just out of the reach of the jubilant Norse, except when one or other turned to exchange blows with the most forward.
'Here now,' Aharn ushered his men through the gap between the two trees and the hillock. Melcorka looked backward where the Norse were rushing on, yelling in triumph as they chased away the Picts.
'Where are the spearmen?' She asked.
Aharn nudged his signaller. 'Now!' He said.
The horn blasted again; a high, warbling note that lifted the hairs on the back of Melcorka's neck, and the spearmen appeared. They rose from the ground between the cavalry and the Norse, a double line of men; the front row kneeling and the back row standing, all presenting a twelve foot long leaf-bladed spear. Faced by the formidable barrier of sharp points, the Norse hesitated, just as the horn blared again and the archers opened up.
They fired in volleys, aiming at the rearmost of the Norse, forcing the men in front to move forward toward the waiting spears. Melcorka watched as warrior after warrior fell, punctured with arrows, while others lifted their circular, colourful shields as some protection from the descending arrows. The archers had obviously expected that, so every third man aimed low and straight at the now unprotected legs and lower torsos of the Norse. Finally, with a roar of pure frustration, the Norse charged forward into the stabbing points of the spears.
There was a few moments of pressure as the force of the charge nearly buckled the Pictish line, and then the spears began a deadly game, with the kneeling men thrusting for the groins of the Norse and those standing aiming for the throat and face. The Norse responded by hacking at the shafts so the points were shorn off and the Picts left with only a length of wood. The spearmen dropped the now useless spear shafts, drew their sword and faced the Norse blade to blade.
The horn sounded again and the arrow hail halted, allowing Aharn to divide his cavalry into two, thread through the trees and attack the Norse on the flanks.
Faced with a double row of mutilating, thrusting spears in front, decimated by the archers and with this new threat on their flanks, the Norse broke and fled.
'Now! Now's your time, boys!' Aharn shouted. 'Fidaaach!'
Setting up a mighty shout, the entire Pictish force charged in pursuit, with the archers picking off Norseman who seemed to be getting away.
'Keep one alive!' Aharn's shout was lost in the frenzy of killing as the Picts descended on the fleeing Norse.
'Heads! Heads!' The Picts yelled, and 'Remember Brynmor!'
Melcorka watched as the men of Fidach descended on the Norse with a bloodlust she had not expected. The proud, disciplined soldiers transformed into rampaging savages as they butchered the Norse without mercy and laughed as they hacked each head from the dead Norse body.
Aharn was panting, with blood dripping from the blade of his sword and smearing his chain mail and the heaving flanks of his horse. He grinned at Melcorka, his eyes wild. 'The Romans called this Furor Celtica,' he said, 'the rage of the Celts. Now the Norse have once again met it, they will not be eager to murder my men.' He raised his voice. 'Fidaaaach!'
The word was repeated by his men in a deep throated roar that echoed to the frowning Monadhliath Mountains. 'Fidaaaach!'
When Aharn wheeled his horse and returned to the slaughter, Melcorka saw the Norse head that swung from each side of his saddle-bow. Each of the Picts took a trophy, with the infantry tying a head to their belts and the cavalry hanging it from their saddle. Melcorka took a deep breath as the significance of their battle cry of 'heads' was now revealed.
'You see why I feigned a retreat?
' Aharn asked later as they returned to the Dun of Ruthven. 'I am no longer just a captain of cavalry but the commander of a quarter of the host of Fidach. All my men must share in the battle and glory. All my men must have the opportunity to take the head of an enemy.'
'I have much to learn about fighting,' Melcorka looked at the Picts relaxed around the dun. They were laughing, joking, some singing, many cleaning their weapons as they spoke of the recent skirmish, boasting of their exploits as the tension of the battle gradually subsided. Tonight they would be sober and disturbed as the memories of death and agony returned to haunt their dreams, but at present they enjoyed the highs of victory. Loarn and Lynette were moving around the soldiers, with Lynette staring at the dripping trophies of war. She moved closer to Fergus, with her servants at her back.
'Successful hunt I see,' Bradan did not mention the heads that bounced from belts and saddles, or the blood that still trickled from many.
'We massacred them,' Melcorka did not feel much like talking. She slumped into a corner of the lean-to hut Bradan had constructed against the wall of the dun. 'No prisoners and no survivors. We did free a few slaves though; very young girls that the Norse used for their pleasures.'
'It was successful then,' Bradan repeated.
'It was,' Melcorka agreed. She felt the exhilaration of the day diminish as tiredness washed over her. The battle lust was entirely gone and all she could see was the gaping wounds and headless bodies of the day; all she could hear was the slogans of the warriors and the screams of the mortally wounded.
'Melcorka,' Aharn poked his head through the entrance of the shelter. 'You are to be my queen. It is not fitting that you spend your nights with another man,' he looked at Bradan, 'even although he has been your travelling companion for some months.'
'What are you saying, Aharn?' Melcorka asked.
'I am saying you have to share my tent.'
Chapter Twenty-One
Melcorka shook away the dark images from her mind to concentrate on this new problem.
The Swordswoman Page 21
