Fergus nodded. 'All right, my lord!'
Melcorka saw the glee with which the Alban infantry surged forward. Free from the strictures of the disciplined army, they doubled their speed along the mountain track, ignoring the pounding rain as they chattered happily with no concern for the treacherous track beneath their brogues. She looked backward, just as a flash of lightning illuminated the centre of the column, bringing the wagons into high relief against the background of dark mountains and driving rain.
'It is quite surreal,' she said.
'Going on campaign is nothing like you expected, eh?' Aharn managed a smile. 'All graft and no romance.' He shook water droplets from his head. 'Leave the glamour and fame to the bards and sennachies. We will just do the hard work and the killing,' he gestured to the heads that were suspended from his saddle. 'And gather the trophies.'
'Let's get the wagons rolling,' Melcorka did not want to talk about the trophies.
With most of the infantry and all the available cavalry lending their muscle power, the speed of the wagons increased from a crawl to a slow trudge. Men pushed at the great spoked wheels, joined the oxen in hauling upward or put their backs against the body of the carts and heaved, swearing, sweating and cursing the wagons over the pass.
'I wonder where Loarn and Lynette are.' Aharn glanced around. The teeming rain reduced visibility so he could hardly see three hundred paces. 'I should send another patrol to bring them back.'
'Llew is a capable captain,' Melcorka reminded. 'He will look after them.'
Aharn scanned the grey-green slopes. 'All the same …' he looked at Melcorka. 'I know you and Loarn do not see eye to eye.'
The statement took her by surprise. 'No, we don't.'
'Do you want me to kill him?'
That was even more surprising from this quietly spoken, urbane soldier.
'No, thank you. I think we understand each other.' Melcorka said. 'Better to forget that incident.'
Aharn grunted and wheeled his horse to face forward. 'Let me know if he tries anything again.'
'I left him sore and humiliated,' Melcorka elaborated. 'I do not think he will wish to try again.'
Aharn gave a small smile. 'Remind me not to argue with you,' he said. 'I know Loarn better than you do. He may seek revenge.'
Melcorka nodded. 'I will be careful of him,' she said.
Between the rain and the wagons, it was nearly dark before they emerged from the pass and coiled down onto lower ground at a bleak place known as Dalnaspidal, where Fergus had established the remainder of the army. A long loch speared westward into more gaunt hills and the path rose again to the south. The land wept under the lash of the rain.
'This is a dismal spot,' Aharn looked around him. 'I would wish we were back in Fidach.'
'If wishes were gold we would all live in palaces, and then who would tend the crops?' Melcorka said, less than sweetly. 'We are not alone here, Aharn.' She touched the hilt of Defender. 'I cannot see anybody, but something is wrong.'
'The Norse?' Aharn looked to his men. 'Get those wagons into a circle with the horses and oxen inside! Fergus! I want patrols out on all sides! Has anybody seen my damned brother and sister yet?'
'I am not sure,' Melcorka tried to listen through the constant rain and the whistle of wind through the heather. 'There is something.' She looked at him. 'I am going out on patrol.'
'Not alone,' Aharn said at once. 'I am beginning to like you.' His smile was sincere. 'I don't want to lose you …'
Melcorka reached forward and touched his face. She had an overwhelming desire to kiss him, although with the Cwendoline twins on hand she suspected it would be a wasted effort. 'I won't get lost: I promise you.'
Mounting her horse, she kicked in her heels and trotted through the sodden encampment and onto the path south. After its brief respite at the sodden dip of Dalnaspidal, the path rose again into another hill pass. Longer and even bleaker than Drummochter, it greeted Melcorka with a screaming gale that blasted from the east with an accompaniment of unseasonable sleet that stung her face and hands.
Narrowing her eyes, Melcorka saw the shapes looming out of the murk on either side of her.
'Hold!' Melcorka drew her sword. 'I am Melcorka of Alba, come with the army of Fidach! Announce yourselves!'
'Oh I know you well, Melcorka,' Black Douglas emerged from the sleet. Despite the weather he was smiling, and Melcorka could not help admiring his poise and assurance.
Melcorka replaced her sword in its scabbard. 'Well met Douglas. Have you seduced any good women recently?'
'Only the best looking ones,' he said evenly.' Have you gained any good kingdoms recently?'
'Only a couple,' she replied. Despite their history she still liked this personable man. 'Have you come to join the army?'
'Somebody has to show your northern head hunters how to fight,' Douglas said. 'We have been watching you crawl over the pass for hours.'
'How many men have you brought?' Melcorka saw more lances appear among the heather when Douglas lifted his hand.
'One half of all that remained,' Douglas said. 'The rest remain to guard the southern marches. I don't trust the Saxon to remain peaceful when Alba is in trouble.' He wheeled his horse beside her and headed to the army.
Aharn greeted Douglas with a smile. 'Well met, Douglas. Your name precedes you, and the tale of your deeds is well known.'
'Lord Aharn of Fidach,' Douglas gave the briefest of nods. 'I lead three hundred Border lances from Liddesdale, Teviotdale and Ettrick.' He gestured to the fifty who rode at his back. Light horsemen all, they each wore a quilted leather jacket and a steel helmet, carried a nine-foot long lance and a broadsword. They looked young but tough, with the hardest eyes that Melcorka had ever seen.
'Are the remainder of your men camped ahead?' Aharn was always diplomatic.
'They are all around you,' Douglas raised a bull's horn to his lips and blew a long blast. Immediately he did so hundreds of horsemen appeared from the dripping heather on either side of the army and trotted to join Douglas's men. They sat there, eyeing up the camp, unsmiling and very formidable.
'I've heard that your Borderers are the finest light cavalry in the world,' Aharn said. 'Now that you are there, make yourself useful and see if you can find my brother and sister. They went hunting deer hours ago back in the hills.'
Douglas's grin brought out all his charm so Melcorka found herself responding with a smile. 'I will go myself. My lads will make themselves comfortable.' Wheeling his horse, he cantered through the camp and onto the now churned up track.
'I would be wary of him alone with your sister,' Melcorka said quietly to Aharn, who had been an interested observer.
Aharn grunted. 'I would be wary of my sister alone with him,' he said. 'Lynette can take care of herself with men. She drains them dry and discards them for the next.'
Melcorka gave a small smile. 'They are well suited then.' She looked into the darkness where Douglas had disappeared, fighting a treacherous stab of jealousy at the thought of him alone with Lynette.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The eagle circled twice before swooping low above Aharn and then rising away. He looked up with something between a smile and a grunt of exasperation. 'That is one of Loarn's silly games,' he said. 'He likes to announce his arrival with his eagle.'
'At least Lynette is safe,' Melcorka tried to disguise the discontent in her voice as she saw Lynette riding shoulder to shoulder with Douglas, showing him how to train her golden eagle. 'She has found somebody to share her interests.'
'Fornication and hunting,' Aharn gave a cynical little smile. 'My poor elder brother now has to hunt alone.'
'It will do him no harm,' Melcorka said sourly. 'He can always find his friend Bryan and look for lone women; at least he can share the fornication.'
Aharn frowned. 'You are in a foul mood this morning. What's the matter?'
About to launch a vehement reply, Melcorka stopped. What was the matter? It was not Aharn's little affair
with the twins; she expected that from a prince. So what was it? Was it watching Douglas make verbal love with Lynette? Or was it something else?
'There's a splendid place ahead,' Loarn reined in so his horse reared up, hooves flashing in the autumn sun. 'There is flat land beside the River Tummel, with space for all the army to camp, fresh water and a route south to Dunkeld.'
'What do you think, Fergus?' Aharn asked.
'It is a good place to camp,' Fergus agreed. 'There are no Norse there.'
'It looks like excellent hunting country,' Loarn added.
'All right,' Aharn said. 'How far ahead is it?' He looked back as the army coiled through the Pass of Killiecrankie, the third successive pass on their march south.
'About three miles. After today we are through the mountains and in the low country.' Fergus answered.
They debouched onto the plain beside the Tummel in the shadow of the granite peak of Ben-y-Vrackie. By now they were expert in campaigning and set to work on creating their camp.
'Douglas: take some of your men and scout to the east and south,' Aharn ordered. 'Llew, you and Fergus check the west.'
By the time full dark crept in the army was settled in with sentries posted and small mobile parties riding around the perimeter.
'We scouted ten miles westward,' Fergus looked tired as he reported to Aharn. 'There was no sign of Norsemen.'
'Get some rest now, Fergus, you and your men have earned it.' Aharn surveyed his army. 'Now that we passed the hill country we'll move faster and the countryside is more suited to my men.' As the camp fires blazed into life, flickering light highlighted the deepening lines of responsibility on his face.
'Come on Aharn,' Melcorka took him by the arm. 'You need some rest.' She helped him off his horse. 'You can leave the Cwendoline sisters in peace tonight.'
Aharn coloured, 'I haven't …'
'Yes you have,' she said. 'Come on, Prince of Fidach.'
Melcorka was not sure what woke her up. She lay in the dark, listening to the camp sounds that were now so familiar, the restless tramp of tethered horses, the challenges of the sentries, the occasional voice upraised in revelry or argument. She identified each sound, mentally catalogued it and laid it aside, knowing that whatever was left was unexplained and therefore dangerous.
'Aharn,' she rolled over and whispered in his ear. 'Aharn!'
'Not again, Delyth,' he turned on his side.
Melcorka grunted. Delyth was the more active of the Cwendoline twins. She poked a hard finger in his ribs. 'Aharn!'
The attack came without warning. There were three men inside the tent, dark shapes against a dark background, smelling of sweat and blood. It had been the smell that had woken her, not an out-of-place sound.
'Aharn!' Melcorka grabbed for Defender at the side of the couch, fumbled it in the dark and rolled aside as somebody lunged at her with an axe.
Naked as a new-born baby, she unsheathed Defender, grateful for the now-familiar surge of power. 'Aharn!' She blocked a half-seen thrust at the prince, twisted her blade and cursed the dark that hid the intruders from view.
At last Aharn rose, swearing and groping for his sword.
'Three of them!' Melcorka gasped. For the first time she found that Defender was a disadvantage; it was too long for the confined space.
Two of the attackers concentrated on Aharn, gasping as they stabbed at him with long knives. Melcorka heard Aharn curse, shortened Defender so she held it two-thirds of the way up the blade and used the hilt as a club, crashing it down on the man opposed to her.
The man swore but remained standing so Melcorka threw herself at him, with their combined weight smashing into the other two intruders and then falling on top of Aharn. In the confusion she kept hold of Defender, stuck the point into an exposed neck and blinked as blood spurted into her face.
Then the flap of the tent was ripped open, torches lit up the interior and a flood of men rushed in, knives and stabbing spears busy.
'My Lord,' Llew pushed aside a dead Norseman, 'Aharn; are you all right?'
Aharn stood up. He looked at the blood that flowed from two wounds in his thigh and nodded. 'Melcorka saved my life,' he said. 'How did they …' he prodded one of the Norsemen with his foot, 'get past the guards?'
'The guards are dead, my Lord,' Llew said. 'Their throats were cut.'
'What's this?' Ahern lifted a small bundle from the side of the Norse. 'A rush torch and a packet of flints.'
'To start a fire, perhaps?' Llew guessed.
'Why would they do that?' Aharn asked.
'As a signal,' Melcorka said quickly. 'They wanted to murder you and then send a signal to somebody outside the camp.'
'Why?' Aharn was still dazed with lack of sleep and the shock of the attack.
'I can only think of one reason,' Melcorka said. 'With you dead, and probably me as well, there would be nobody to lead our army or to organise resistance. They plan to attack tonight.'
Aharn took a deep breath. 'Then let's send their signal and greet them as they deserve.' He began to stride toward the exit until Melcorka took hold of his arm. 'Your army may prefer their leader in clothes,' she said tactfully. 'You are naked.'
Aharn laughed. 'So are you,' he said. 'I think the men would be more interested in seeing you like that than me.' He dressed quickly, 'now let's get the army organised and set this tent ablaze.'
Chapter Twenty-Five
'No sign of Douglas,' Ahern said, 'or my beloved sister.'
'Or Loarn,' Melcorka added.
'Or Loarn,' Ahern sounded grim. 'I'll deal with them later. We'll defeat the Norse first.' He checked his men. 'Set the fire,' he ordered.
They watched as flames flicked up the sides of their tent, rising orange and yellow to the night sky as a signal that would be seen for miles around.
The first of their scouts panted in within a few moments. 'They're coming from the slopes of Ben y-Vrackie, my Lord.'
'Where Douglas should have scouted,' Aharn said grimly. 'How many?'
'Thousands I think,' the scout said. 'I can't tell in the dark.'
A second scout arrived within a few moments. 'They're fording the river, my Lord.'
Only when she listened intently could Melcorka hear the subdued thumping of thousands of feet on the ground, and the constant splashing of men crossing the River Tummel. 'They're moving very quietly.'
'If they had not tried to assassinate us, they could have caught us totally by surprise.'
'That was Bjorn's big mistake,' Melcorka said.
'I suspect that somebody else was behind it,' Aharn sounded grimmer than she had ever heard before.
Melcorka felt the breath catch in her throat. 'Who do you mean?'
Aharn's answer was delayed as a third scout limped in. 'They're across the river,' he said, 'and a hundred paces from the first marker.'
'Right,' Aharn counted slowly to ten, took a deep breath and gave an order. The sound of the horn travelled around the camp. 'Loose!
Every archer in the combined Fidach-Alba army knew what to do. That blast of the horn informed them that the Norse had reached the outer marker, the extreme limit of the archer's range. The longbow-men pulled the bowstring back to their chins, leaned back and released. Melcorka heard the hiss of hundreds of arrows rising into the air and the whine as they plunged down in a deadly rain.
'Loose!' Aharn called again, so before the first volley landed, the second was in the air.
A chorus of screams and yells came from the direction of the river. For a moment Melcorka pictured he Norse army. One moment they were advancing against what they thought was an unprepared camp in which the inhabitants were shocked at the death of their leaders, the next, hundreds of arrows were landing on them out of the dark, killing and maiming.
'Loose!' Aharn gave the order again and a third volley hissed upward.
Melcorka heard a roar from the darkness and guessed that the Norse had broken into a charge.
'Next marker,' Aharn shouted, and the bla
re of the horn altered, ordering the archers to shorten their range.
'Loose,' Aharn roared, and then 'cross-bows and long-bows: independent firing!'
Melcorka sensed the ripple of excitement as the Fidach and Alban bowmen chose their own range and fired at their own speed, so the arrows blanketed a wider area of the ground between the river and the encampment.
'Torches!' Aharn said, and a score of volunteers ran into the dark, toward the charging Norse. One by one a line of torches flared into life, bringing life to the outer dark. For a moment Melcorka could see nothing beyond the flames and then she saw a mass of screaming, roaring faces made pale by the torchlight, and the glitter of flames reflected on the blades of thousands of axes, spears and swords.
'How many would you say, Melcorka?' Aharn sounded very calm as he watched the Norse charging toward his position.
'I could not say,' Melcorka wondered if the ragged ranks of Albans would hold out in their first test. The Fidach Picts were used to acting as a disciplined team; the various clans and groups of Albans were not.
'Three thousand,' Aharn estimated. 'Maybe four thousand.'
The arrows were doing their job, thinning the Norse attackers in ones and twos and small groups but in far too small numbers to even slow the Norse down.
'Is it time yet?' Melcorka asked.
'No,' Aharn shook his head.
The Norse were closing. Five hundred paces; four hundred; three hundred and the archers were firing vertically now as the attackers swept past the line of torches and raised a howl of hatred that changed to their war cry as they closed with the combined army's camp.
'Odin! Odin! Odin!'
'Now!' Aharn said, and the horn blared again.
As the Norse closed, a line of Pictish spearmen rose up in front of them, with a second line behind them and then a third. The leading Norse faltered, and the Picts stepped to meet them, lowering their spears to slice into the leading Norse.
There was a screaming confusion of dead and dying men as the charging Norse warriors met the stubborn Pictish spearmen. Sharp leaf-shaped blades thrust into stomachs and bellies and chests, gutted and ripped and tore so most of the leading rank of the attackers died in seconds.
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