“That is the best idea I've heard,” Finleac said, suiting action to words in a manner that made even Breana open her eyes wide with astonishment.
* * *
The harsh call of black-headed gulls broke the dawn, with a thin mist drifting along the face of the peaks, gathering in the gulleys, shredding on the shoulders and hiding the plateau where the Butcher waited. Standing beside the lochan, Finleac stretched, eyeing the slopes all around. “Now I have to get up there and kill this Butcher.”
“The climb will be harder than the killing,” one of his servants said.
“That may be so,” Finleac returned with a grin. “So I think you should take my place and fight for me.” He laughed at the expression on the servant's face. “Aye, it's always easier to be brave for somebody else than to be brave for yourself.”
As the early sun burned the mist away, Finleac saw a deer path leading up the side of the corrie to the plateau. Sending a man ahead as a scout, he checked his swords, soundly kissed the sleepy Breana and led his garron upwards.
“Come, Finleac,” the Butcher”s voice invited. “Death is waiting.”
“It will have to wait,” Finleac said, slipping on a loose stone. “I can't go any faster. Why do these braggarts have to talk like that? They don't know how stupid they sound.”
“They think it makes them sound tough and clever,” Breana said.
“Oh, do they?” Finleac slipped again and swore. “I might try it sometime if I survive this day.”
“I'll teach you.” Breana put a steadying hand on Finleac”s arm. “If you survive this day.”
“I'm more likely to fall off this bloody hill than to die by a sword,” Finleac said. “Even the mountain goats shun this blasted path.” He slogged on, slipping and swearing until he reached the top.
Erik waited there. He sat on a smooth rock near the centre of the plateau, sharpening his sword with a stone, while his grey-clad servant stood 10 paces away, examining the contents of the grey bag that hung in front of him.
“Are you the Butcher?” Finleac asked.
“That is one of my names.”
“Oh, for God's sake, man, don't try to sound so dramatic. Just say yes or no,” Finleac said. “We both know why we're here. I want to kill you for the murdering hound you are. You want to kill me so you can continue murdering and raping. There's no need for any posturing.”
“I got this sword from Loki.” Erik held up the blade as Finleac stepped closer. “I think I have killed 18 warriors with it and a further 47 men. I don't know how many women and children.”
Finleac shrugged. “A swordsmith in Fidach made my swords, and I've never kept score of the men I have killed.” He drew his swords. “Come on, boaster. Fight or flee.”
Erik lifted the circular shield that rested at the side of his stone. “We will fight.” His shield was grey, with a pair of black ravens facing outward and a spike protruding from the central boss.
“My servants are inviolate,” Finleac said. “If I fall, you will not hurt them.”
“My fight is with you,” Erik clashed the blade of Legbiter against the boss of his shield as the sun burned away the last of the mist. “Not with nobodies.”
Finleac nodded and ran forward, confident of his speed. When he approached within four paces of Erik, he threw himself in the air, slashing double-handed, with his right hand aiming at Erik's head and his left at Legbiter. It was a manoeuvre that had gained him victory in a dozen battles against warriors with good reputations. However, Erik lifted his shield, blocked Finleac's right sword and parried his left with Legbiter, while stepping rapidly to the right. His counterattack came a second later, shield covering his upper body and lower face and Legbiter sweeping low at Finleac's shins.
“You're good,” Finleac acknowledged, matching Legbiter with his left sword.
After their initial probes, the warriors circled each other, alternatively feinting, attacking, parrying and withdrawing, with neither able to gain an advantage over the other. After half an hour, both men bled from a dozen small cuts, and both were breathing heavily. Erik's shield was scarred, with the top third sheared off, while Legbiter had heavily notched one of Finleac's swords.
“You are better than Owen the Bald, Melcorka the Swordswoman or Black Duncan,” Erik said. “Yet I defeated all of them.”
“You shall not defeat me,” Finleac said, dodging to the left as he attacked to the right. Chopping at Erik's shield, he sliced off another quarter, then trapped Legbiter by crossing his swords in the air as Erik hacked downward. He grunted for he had used this move in previous encounters. He knew if he exerted sufficient pressure, he could bend back Erik's blade until it snapped.
Too engrossed in fighting Erik, Finleac did not see the grey man dip his hand inside his bag. He only felt Erik apply more pressure to Legbiter, slowly sliding his blade down Finleac's crossed swords. Finleac stepped back, with the sweat beading on his face as he felt his strength draining. Looking directly into Erik's eyes, he saw a dark shadow there, a hint of horror far deeper than any warrior facing an honourable death should feel.
“Who are you?” Finleac asked, just as both his swords snapped and Erik sliced Legbiter downward. The tip of the blade scored Finleac from his cheekbone to his chin, opening a deep cut. Finleac gasped and rammed outward with the broken blades of his swords. One went home, scraping along Erik's ribs, while Erik blocked the other with Legbiter.
Erik twisted Legbiter, disarming Finleac, and followed his advantage with an extended cut to Finleac's left thigh. As Finleac staggered, Erik thrust Legbiter into his right thigh and twisted, opening the wound.
“You fought well,” Erik touched the wound on his ribs. “Now watch as I kill your servants.”
“You gave your word,” Finleac said, as his blood pumped on to the ground.
Smiling, Erik lifted the remains of his shield and ran towards Finleac's shocked followers. Aiming low, he chopped the legs from the first three men before the remainder could react. One man drew his dagger and threw himself at Erik, who brushed him aside with his shoulder and sliced upwards at his groin.
Only one woman did not run. Breana waited for Erik with her mouth slightly open. “You are all man, aren't you?”
Erik halted, splashed with blood from head to ankles, and with blood dripping from Legbiter, he smiled at her. “I've killed your champion.”
“I know,” Breana said. “That makes you my champion now.”
As Finleac died, he watched Erik prove his manhood with Breana, both of them splashing in the servants' blood. Only when Erik was satisfied did he stand up. The last thing Finleac saw was Erik slash both of Breana's legs with his sword and leave her there, screaming, as he killed the horses.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The pass stretched before them with the track winding to the head of a granite ridge. Melcorka walked in front, ready to draw Defender, but the way was clear. There was no mist and no grey men, only the sough of the wind over sparse heather and the tinkle of small burns across the granite. Above, a golden eagle circled beneath a cold blue sky.
“That was easier than I expected,” Melcorka said as they crested the ridge and looked northward. “There was a prosperous glen last time we were here.”
“The Grey Glen,” Bradan said.
Astrid shook her head. “There has been no prosperity here for many years, perhaps for a century or more. Picts, Albans and Norse have fought over this glen too often. Now it is a wasteland.”
“It is,” Bradan agreed. The glen was empty, with weeds choking what had once been productive farmland and herds of wild deer roaming where domesticated cattle once grazed. Low walls of rubble marked where homesteads should have harboured smiling families. “We will pass through. When the scourge of war and evil is lifted, people may return and farm this desolate place.”
“Perhaps.” Astrid glanced at Defender. “Although, as long as women and men worship violence, war will reign happily.”
Melcorka grunted, sai
d nothing, hitched up her sword and strode on, northwards, towards the coast of Caithness.
Beyond the glen was another loch, long and narrow, between bleak moorland where herders avoided the travellers and whaups cried in a lonely sky. “We are near the land of the cats,” Astrid said. “The land of Moruir Chat, the Great Man of the Cats, as the Albans style him.”
“Is he still here?” Bradan asked.
“You may meet him,” Astrid said. “But first, we have to pass the vast marsh.”
“I've seen enough of marshes to last me for ever.” Bradan said. “I hope there are no Moss-men waiting to attack.”
“Don't worry,” Astrid said. “I'm here to look after you.” She looked away, smiling, as Melcorka glared at her.
Bleak, flat and dull under a grey sky, the marsh waited for them. Pathless, it was a formidable barrier to their progress, made worse by the grey men who stood on the edge.
“Now that's familiar,” Bradan said. “I'm becoming a little tired of these grey men.”
“So am I,” Melcorka agreed.
“Follow me,” Astrid said, walking boldly on to the moss. “Put your feet where I put mine. Ignore them – I have protected you from their evil eye.”
“I'll go next,” Melcorka said.
Forming a semi-circle, the grey men waited until Astrid was close before throwing back their hoods. Melcorka shivered at the concentrated power of their stare. Despite her dislike, she glanced at Astrid, who walked on without any hesitation.
“Their evil eye cannot hurt us,” Astrid reminded. “We are protected.”
Melcorka touched the hilt of Defender. “Perhaps I should walk in front.”
“You don't know the path.”
The grey men continued to stare.
“Who are you?” Melcorka demanded.
“I can't see the grey woman this time,” Bradan said. “I think she leads them.”
“Most men need a good woman to lead them.” Astrid spoke quietly. “Or a bad one,” she added with a smile.
Although he could not see her, the grey woman's voice slid into Bradan's mind. “I am who has always been, Bradan the Wanderer. I am who you seek.”
“That makes no sense,” Bradan said.
“What makes no sense?” Melcorka asked.
“The grey woman,” Bradan tried to push the voice from his head. “She is inside my head.”
“Don't let her stay there,” Melcorka said. “Think of something else.”
“What?” Bradan asked. “The grey woman is in my thoughts, pushing herself forward.”
“She is grey,” Melcorka said. “Think of colours, bright colours. The grey things want to reduce you to monochrome, to dispel your individuality.”
“I will try,” Bradan gasped as the concentrated force of the grey men hit him.
“Remember your staff is blessed,” Melcorka said. “See if that helps.”
“Blessed?” Astrid looked confused as Bradan stepped to the front. Grasping his staff, he pointed the Celtic cross forward, while thinking of the bright berries of the rowan tree, the purple of autumn heather and the glories of an east coast dawn.
The greyness shifted as he pointed his staff. A corridor appeared, with the grey recoiling on either side.
“Like Moses crossing the Red Sea,” Melcorka murmured, with one hand on the hilt of Defender. “The priest's blessing worked again, Brad.”
With Melcorka a pace behind Bradan, they moved cautiously, until the men in grey vanished and they stood in a flat landscape of stony fields under a vast sky. From side to side, the horizon was a hard line between land and air, with only the drift of smoke to show where habitations squatted.
“This is a strange land,” Melcorka said.
Bradan tapped his staff on the ground. “Can you hear something?”
Melcorka shook her head. She touched the hilt of Defender to sharpen her senses. “Yes,” she said. “I can.”
They could not say from where the sound came. It seemed to be all around them, low and sinister, as if the ground itself was speaking.
“The earth is growling at us,” Melcorka said. “Or something within the earth.” She touched the hilt of Defender, knowing the Cu-Saeng made the noise.
“I haven't heard the like before,” Bradan tapped his staff on the ground.
“Nor have I.” Astrid said. “Let's keep moving.”
They walked across a desert of flat stones and broad patches of bogland, where wildfowl exploded from reeds and insects clouded around their heads. Above them, the sky was a pale grey, although they could not see a single cloud.
“That's another sound now,” Bradan said. “It's like a cat.”
“More than one cat,” Melcorka said.
The howling had started so softly that Melcorka barely noticed, but as they walked northward, it increased in volume until it permeated all their senses.
“This is the land of the cats,” Astrid reminded them.
“Do cats live here rather than people?” Bradan thought of the cat-creatures that had killed Halfdan. “We might find out more in that settlement.” He pointed to a cluster of houses built in the rectangular Norse style. “We might find out more there.”
“We might.” Melcorka did not relinquish her grip on Defender.
There were five houses in the settlement. Built of loose stone slabs and roofed with reed thatch, they seemed to cower under the oppression of the vast sky. As they approached, Bradan saw the movement on the roof.
“Somebody is working with the thatch,” he said. “Repairing it after the storms.”
“No.” Melcorka shook her head. “Nobody is working with the thatch. That is not a man on the roof.”
They stepped on, with Bradan tapping his staff on the ground and Melcorka ready to draw Defender.
The movement on the roof increased. “There are animals on the roof,” Bradan said.
“Cats.” Astrid's voice was flat. “These are cats.”
The howling increased in volume as the cats noticed the three travellers. Tumbling from the cottage roof in a confusion of fur and claws, they bounded towards them, spreading out as though they were in a military formation.
“How many are there?” Bradan stood in a half-crouch with his staff held ready as a weapon.
“Twenty, perhaps,” Melcorka said. “Or a few more than that.”
“I see 23.” Bradan swung his staff.
“Men!” Melcorka shook her head. “Why must men reduce everything to figures?” Drawing Defender, she stepped slightly in front and to the left of Bradan. “Use your cloak as a shield, Bradan. Wrap it around your left arm. You too, Astrid.”
“Cats have never bothered me,” Astrid sounded very calm.
Led by a one-eyed tom-cat with an evil face, the cats launched their attack on Melcorka, who swung her sword left and right, disposing of the first three with a single swipe. Two came for Bradan, who knocked them back with his staff and, when Melcorka came at them with Defender, the remainder decided to hunt for less aggressive prey.
“That was easier than I thought,” Melcorka said. “You were right, Astrid. They did not attack you.”
“I've never been bothered with cats.” Astrid had not moved during the skirmish.
“They might be more trouble.” Bradan nodded to the house. “Are these not the same creatures that killed Halfdan?”
“What in the name of the wee man are they?” Melcorka asked. “They look like a cross between a cat and a man.”
“That's what I thought.” Bradan said. “We are now in their territory.”
The creatures that emerged from the house were the size and shape of men, but ran forward in a half-crouch, with the head of a cat and long talon-like claws protruding from each hand. Five of them bounded across the ground, howling, and leapt straight at Bradan.
“I'm coming!” Melcorka shouted.
When the cat creatures came close, they were even more menacing than Bradan had thought, with long fangs protruding from their mouths and c
at fur over the top half of their body. Melcorka swung Defender at the first, chopping off its hind legs, and thrust at the second. Her sword impaled the creature, but when she tried to withdraw, the blade stuck. A third creature ran toward her, slashing with its claws. It would have ripped Melcorka's throat open if Bradan had not unbalanced it with a thrust of his staff. As it was, the creature twisted in mid-air, with its claws missing Melcorka, only to rake down Bradan's arm.
With that parting shot, the cat-creatures picked up their casualties and fled at speed.
“Bradan? Are you all right?”
“Aye, it's only a scratch,” Bradan said, holding his arm. “I never did like cats much.”
“They don't like you much, either,” Melcorka said. “Sit down.”
Casting around for sphagnum moss, Melcorka gathered sufficient to make a pad and pressed it into Bradan's wound. “Let's hope you're not poisoned.”
“Thank you,” Bradan said. “It's better already.” The antiseptic qualities of sphagnum moss were well known to everybody in Alba, so every warrior carried a quantity when he went into battle. Bradan tied the pad in place with the wiry stem of a heather shrub.
“What were these things?”
“This is the land of cats.” Astrid sounded remarkably calm. “Perhaps they were the reason for the name? A hybrid race of part-cat, part-human creatures.”
“That might be what they are,” Bradan lifted the pad from his arm, saw the blood was continuing to seep out and replaced the moss. “I only know they are dangerous.”
“They bleed,” Melcorka scuffed her feet over a smear of blood the creatures had left, “and I can kill them like any other creature.” She shrugged. “If you are ready, Bradan, we can look inside the cottage.”
Blood had trickled from inside the house under the door to form a spreading pool outside. When Melcorka pushed open the door, they looked on a scene of slaughter with two adults and three children lying on the floor, all slashed to bloody shreds and partially eaten.
Bradan turned away as Melcorka and Astrid exchanged glances.
“Aye,” Melcorka said. “I don't much care for these cat people.”
“Nor do I,” Bradan said. “Nor do I.”
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