Rather than recoil, the mass of Norsemen set up a mighty roar and pushed harder to reach their tormentors. The sheer force of their attack forced some of the spearmen back one pace, then two, and Aharn stepped forward.
'Hold!' He ordered. 'Hold fast!' He took an audible deep breath. 'Are your Albans ready?'
'I hope so,' Melcorka looked at the men gathered behind her and the savage faces of the Norse in front, dimly seen in the intermittent light of the boundary torches. 'Oh God I hope so.'
'Then release the hounds,' Aharn ordered.
The Albans would not recognise the Fidach horn signals so Melcorka gestured to the pipers instead. These men had been impatiently silent since the battle began, waiting with their bags inflated and throats suitably moistened with whisky and mead. Now they spat into their chanters and began to play. Melcorka knew that the sound of even one of the great war-pipes was stirring, so she had gathered together the pipers from all the clans in one great musical gathering.
Now the accumulated music of over thirty bag-pipes sounded above the screams and shouts and roar of battle, the clash of spear on sword, the thunder of charging feet and the sickening thump of spears in living flesh.
With Mackintosh and Clan Chattan leading one side and Cameron the other, the clans of Alba moved around the rear of the encampment, circled around and charged into the flanks of the Norsemen, screaming their individual clan slogans to add to the hideous din of battle.
Aharn,' Melcorka touched the hilt of her sword. 'I cannot let my Albans fight while I stand and watch.'
'I know,' Aharn gripped her arm. 'May God go with you, Melcorka.'
'May He hold you in the palm of his hand,' Melcorka said. She unsheathed Defender, feeling that immediate surge of power and strength. She raised her head, 'Alba!' she yelled, hearing her voice merge with the screaming lilt of the great war-pipes. 'Alba gu brath! Alba for ever!'
Running around the left flank of the defences, Melcorka plunged into the fight, pushing through the rugged ranks of the Albans until she reached the forefront, where Mackintosh roared and swung a mighty claymore against the Norse.
Melcorka allowed Defender to take control. She threw herself into the battle, hearing the grating of swords against bones, the brittle cracking of bones being hacked, seeing the blood gushing from gashed bodies, the chopping of arms and legs, the slide of intestines as bellies were ripped open and the pink-grey splurge of brains as skulls were crushed. All the time the war-pipes screamed and the hoarse slogans of the clans battled the dog-bark shout of 'Odin' from the Norse and the long drawn out 'Fidaaaach' from the Picts.
Melcorka was not aware of individual acts; only of a succession of men facing her, of Defender turning in her hand, of sword strokes and parries, yelling faces and howling mouths, of a film of blood over everything and of constant horror that she had to block out of her mind forever.
'Melcorka!' Mackintosh was at her side, 'Melcorka! Look!'
Panting, bloodied from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet, she stopped. Slowly, step by step, the Norse were pulling back. The men in the centre of the mass had formed a shield wall behind which the most forward warriors were retreating.
'We have them on the run!' A Cameron roared, and followed with the slogan of his clan: 'Sons of the hounds, come here to eat flesh!'
'No!' Mackintosh thrust him back with a single swing of his arm. 'Look over there.'
Melcorka joined the Cameron in looking. They had fought through the night and until dawn, so grey light illuminated the horrors of the field of battle. Now, advancing across the river was a second force of Norsemen. It was not as large as the first, perhaps two thousand strong, yet it moved with a grim determination. At the head strode a man taller by a head than all the others in the ranks, a man that Melcorka recognised even at this distance by the long braided hair and the tattoos on his face.
'I know that man,' Melcorka said. 'He killed my mother.'
'That is Egil,' Mackintosh said. 'The name means horror.'
'I am going to kill him,' Melcorka said. She was not boasting. She was merely stating a fact.
As the first Norse army withdrew, the Picts cautiously advanced behind their wall of spears.
'Now the Norse army that won the battle of the Plains of Lodainn has merged with the army that invaded from the north,' Aharn was as bloody as Melcorka. 'It seems that they have chosen this River Tummel as their meeting place.'
'It seems so,' Melcorka did not take her eyes from Egil.
'The destiny of all Alba as well as Fidach will be decided here, when we fight again.' Aharn said.
'I am going to kill that man,' Melcorka repeated. At that second she did not care about the destiny of Alba. She only wanted to avenge her mother. Nothing else mattered.
Chapter Twenty-Six
'Were you looking for this?' Douglas did not look even slightly abashed when he rode into camp an hour after the Norse withdrew. He had somebody tied face down over the back of his horse. Lynette reined in behind him, unsmiling as always, and much more dishevelled than usual.
'What happened to you?' Aharn had his hand on the hilt of his sword. He gestured to two of his guards to take Douglas's prisoner. 'Where were you when we needed you?'
Douglas shrugged. 'We got trapped behind the Norse lines and had to wait until the fire and furore died down.'
'It's Loarn, My Lord!' The older of the guards stared at the bloodied prisoner. 'Shall I free him?'
'If you do, you would be freeing a traitor,' Douglas said. 'We found this prince of yours talking with those Norse fellows.' He jerked a thumb toward the Norse armies on the opposite side of the Tummel. 'In a very friendly fashion.'
'We?' Aharn did not look at Loarn.
'Lynette is with me,' Douglas reminded.
'So I see,' Melcorka stood beside Aharn as they supervised the cleansing of the camp. The Fidach and Alban bodies had been gathered in preparation of a Christian burial while the Norse had been dragged closer to the river to be burned. With that done swords and spears were being sharpened, horses cared for, arrows gathered and made and all the other hundred-and-one things that an army needed were being made ready by men already so tired that they could hardly stand.
Douglas grinned to her. 'Well met, Melcorka. I did not see you there.'
'I am here always,' Melcorka told him. 'Aharn and I are to be married, you see.'
'And he could not find a finer bride,' Douglas said stoutly.
Aharn stirred Loarn with his foot. 'What was this creature doing with the Norse?'
'He was making a pact,' Lynette said directly. 'He wants to be king of Fidach, but you stand in his way.'
'What sort of pact?' Aharn asked coldly.
'The Norse kill you and her,' Lynette did not make any secret of her dislike for Melcorka, 'and defeat your army, then conquer Fidach as they have done to Alba and install Loarn as their sub-king.'
'That's not true,' Loarn sailed. 'It's a lie.'
Melcorka touched the handle of Defender, just slightly. 'No,' she said quietly. 'It is true. That is why Loarn came with us.' She looked at Douglas. 'You let us down, Douglas. You were cavorting with Lynette instead of scouting for the Norse and they nearly took us by surprise.'
Douglas laughed and began to deny it, until Lynette placed a small hand on his arm. 'She has no say over us, Douglas.'
'That is correct,' Melcorka said. 'I have no say over you.' She smiled. 'And you do not care about my opinion.'
'Do you care for this dark Borderer, Lynette?' Aharn pushed Loarn back down to the ground.
Lynette guided her horse closer to him and dropped her voice. 'He told me that he is in love with me.'
Melcorka winked at Douglas. 'Did you say: “dear Lynette, I think I am falling in love with you”?'
'It usually works,' Douglas said.
'We will have need of your Border riders the next time we fight the Norse,' Melcorka said. 'I don't care about your amorous adventures, as long as you leave Egil for me.'
Melcorka smiled. It would do Aharn no harm to have competition in his love life.
'You have proved yourself a traitor,' Aharn said to Loarn, 'and I should hang you out of hand. Instead I will give you a chance to redeem yourself. The next time we face the Norse you will be in the forefront of the army. You will die a hero and sennachies will tell tales of your bravery.'
Chapter Twenty-Seven
They heard the wailing of the pipes before anything else. The sound carried on the breeze, raising the small hairs at the back of Melcorka's neck and bringing a smile to the faces of many of the Albans.
'That's the pipes,' Mackintosh's feet were tapping on the ground in response to the music. 'The great highland pipes, and many of them.'
'How many?' Melcorka asked.
'A score at least, maybe more,' Mackintosh said. 'Listen to the music: that is no amateur. There is a master directing that.' He clambered to the summit of a small knoll and raised his head to the wind. 'I would swear that is MacArthur … no, wait, the grace notes are too subtle even for MacArthur. That is MacCrimmon himself, the piper of MacLeod of Dunvegan.'
'MacCrimmon?' The bald headed Shaw whistled. 'If that is MacCrimmon then MacLeod himself is here, and if MacLeod is here, then the Isles are marching.'
'The Isles?' Melcorka said. 'Do you mean Donald of the Isles himself?' She joined Mackintosh on his knoll, but a ridge of high ground still rose between them and any sight of the pipers. 'Come on, lads!' She led the way, scrambling up loose scree, ignoring the stray boulders, leaping over the ankle-trapping heather holes until she reached the top of the ridge and there before her stretched a view that took her breath away.
They marched in formation from the west with the pipers at the fore and the great banner of the Isles, a single black galley on a field of yellow, plain, unvarnished and uncompromising, floating above them.
A small group of men rode proudly just behind the pipers.
'That is Donald of the Isles,' Mackintosh's voice was hushed with recognition. 'That is Donald himself.'
Donald of the Isles was much younger than Melcorka had expected. Little more than a youth, he had a wispy moustache and bore himself deliberately erect, as if to compensate for his lack of years. Tall and slender, he looked slightly ill-at-ease for a man who wielded so much power. The man on his right was nearly as tall and twice as broad, with a woollen hooded cloak covering his head and concealing his face. To his left was a slight figure in a close fitting leather jacket and trousers of dark tartan. 'And that is Rory MacLeod of Dunvegan,' Mackintosh said.
The army of the Isles marched in order, rank after rank with broadswords and the circular nail studded shields known as targes, or wore long chain mail coats and carried broad axes. Mackintosh read out the banners that proclaimed the individual clans in the army. 'MacLeod of Dunvegan; MacDonald of Sleat; MacLean of Duart; MacMillan; Morrison, the pirate MacNeils,' he gave the names of all the fighting power of the Isles and their associated clans.
'Thank God,' Melcorka closed her eyes. 'Thank God.' She watched MacDonald's army march a further quarter mile, ford the Tummel and then form a circular camp a bare two miles away.
On the opposite side of an intervening ridge and still on the lower slopes of Ben-y- Vrackie, the Norse remained, licking their wounds, counting their dead, sharpening the weapons that had served them so well.
'There is Egil,' Mackintosh said.
At mention of the name Melcorka felt her anger rise. She touched the half-cross around her neck and reached for the handle of Defender, desperate for that surge of power and skill, desperate to rush down the long tangled slope to where Egil stood so she could lift Defender and cleft him in half, slice his head from his body so she could join Aharn in decorating her belt with the head of a defeated enemy.
'No, Melcorka.' She looked up, surprised at the familiar voice.
'Bradan!' She did not attempt to hide her pleasure or the huge smile that spread across her face. 'What are you doing here? I thought you were long gone, wandering away and forgetting all about me!'
'I think we both know that I will never forget you,' Bradan held her arms in his hands. 'And I could not let you fight alone.'
'Have you been following me?'
'Of course I have,' Bradan said. 'I see that Black Douglas has a new love in his life.'
'Lynette,' Melcorka confirmed. She gave a deep and very false sigh. 'Oh the heartache …'
'Hardly that, I hope.' Bradan's voice sounded strained.
'Melcorka!'
That was Aharn's voice. By the time Melcorka had picked him out as he pushed up to the ridge, Bradan had vanished. The knowledge that he was not far away was very comforting. Ignoring Aharn she said: 'Bradan … I have so much to say to you.'
There was no reply.
'Melcorka,' Aharn joined her on top of the ridge. 'So that is the army of the Isles,' he said. 'There must be two, three thousand men there. That is more than enough to tip the balance between us and the Norse.'
'I think so,' Melcorka agreed. She hoped that Bradan was not too far away. 'The combined Norse force must number seven thousand; they still outnumber us.'
Aharn touched her on the arm. 'Shall we make ourselves known?'
Melcorka nodded. 'That would be best, I think. We can tell Donald of the Isles that the Norse army is over that ridge as well.'
'I will join you,' Mackintosh said.
'No,' Melcorka said. 'If we were all gone, who would care for the army? You are the most stabilising chief we have.'
'Melcorka is right,' Aharn said. 'We need you to keep peace among the Albans.'
The pipes were singing again, the soul-stirring sound rising from the Islesmen's encampment, mingled with laughter and singing, the clatter of metal as armourers and blacksmiths prepared the weapons, and the scent of cooking meat.
The challenge rang out as they descended. 'Hold! And identify yourselves!' Half a dozen islanders emerged from the heather, each man carrying a round leather targe and a broadsword. They circled around Aharn and Melcorka, asking a score of questions and probing with their swords.
'I am Aharn of Fidach,' Aharn said calmly. 'I am come to see Donald of the Isles. And this is Melcorka of the Cenel Bearnas, leader of the army of Alba.'
'And I,' the taller of the island men said, 'am Angus MacDonald of Colonsay.' Medium height and stocky, he was about forty years old with grey flecks in his neat beard. He peered closer at Melcorka. 'Who did you say you were?'
'I am Melcorka of the Cenel Bearnas,' Melcorka confirmed.
'This is the woman!' Angus said. 'We know all about you, Melcorka. My chief wants to greet you himself.' His smile made him look years younger. 'Will you come with us?' He waved his hand to his men. 'It's all right, lads, this is Melcorka. You won't need your swords.'
The men sheathed their swords, slung their circular targes across their backs and formed a loose escort as they strode down the slope with more ease than Melcorka had ever seen before.
More islesmen came to see them, faces full of enquiry until Angus shouted out cheerfully. 'This is Melcorka of the Cenel Bearnas and Aharn of Fidach.' He laughed at their expressions of disbelief. 'I am taking them to see the chief.'
The camp was centred on a small clachan, with a group of heather-thatched cottages and a small thatched church. Great fir torches flared to combat the encroaching dark, while the carcasses of deer and boar were spitted above roaring fires surrounded by laughing warriors.
'The chief's in the church,' Angus lowered his voice. 'He's a very religious man, is the chief.'
Stopping at the door, he unfastened his sword belt and laid it outside. 'The chief does not like weapons in the house of God,' he glanced at Defender. 'Best do the same.'<
br />
Melcorka glanced at Aharn, who unfastened his sword belt without hesitation. 'We have to respect a religious man,' he said.
Less confident, Melcorka hesitated. 'Are you sure, Aharn?' she asked.
'We need the manpower of Donald of the Isles,' Aharn said. 'A show of trust costs nothing.'
Melcorka nodded and unfastened Defender. She had grown up with stories of the power of the Lord of the Isles. Now she was about to meet him, she reverted once more from the brave warrior to a young island girl. Taking a deep breath, she followed Aharn inside the church.
Three men stood inside. One was a burly, moustached man with the dress of a captain of gallowglass, the heavy infantry of the Isles; the second was the tall man in the hooded Irish cape and the third had a tattooed face and braided blonde hair: Egil.
'What?' Melcorka reached for Defender, realised she no longer carried her sword and turned for the door, to find the point of Angus's dirk was held right underneath her throat.
Aharn swivelled around, drew a short, leaf-bladed knife from up his sleeve and launched himself at Egil. When the gallowglass captain stepped between them, Aharn slashed at him, only for the blade to scrape across the chain mail. Egil merely watched as the hooded man stepped forward and smashed the hilt of his sword on to Aharn's head. Aharn dropped to the ground, unconscious.
'Where is Donald of the Isles?'
'Talking to his allies,' Angus pushed the blade deeper into her throat so she had to withdraw a pace. 'Our friend, Bjorn of the Norse.'
'You can't trust the Norse!' Melcorka said.
'I prefer to trust the Norse than you, Melcorka,' the hooded man unveiled himself. It was Baetan.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
'Bind them securely,' Baetan ordered. 'Tomorrow we will hand them over to the Norsemen. A prince of Fidach and his bride are fitting gifts to cement an alliance. Then we will smash the mongrel army of Alba and Fidach and make our conquest complete.' He stepped forward and slapped Melcorka full in the mouth. 'They may blind you and use you a slave, or make a blood-eagle of you both.'
The Swordswoman Page 24
