The axeman laughed. “Well met, Swordswoman. You will fare well in Valhalla.”
“You can wait for me there,” Melcorka said, running forward with Defender held in front of her like a lance. Instinct warned her that the man on her left would thrust at her leg, so she sidestepped right, knowing the man on her right would swing at her neck. Blocking his attempt, she twisted Defender upwards, unbalancing the swordsman so she could slip past to the axeman.
The axeman waited for her with his axe ready and a smile on his face. “Who are you, woman? I like to know the names of my enemies before I kill them.”
“I am Melcorka Nic Bearnas of the Cenel Bearnas,” Melcorka said, slashing behind her as she heard one of the other Danes running up. She felt Defender's blade slice through human flesh and knew she had given a mortal wound.
“I am Thorkill,” the tall man stepped back a single step to give himself more room.
“Well met, Thorkill.” Melcorka stopped abruptly, knowing Thorkill would swing his axe right to left. She felt the wind of the blade as it passed her, then chopped up with Defender, cutting the handle in two, leaving Thorkill with only a few inches of wood.
Thorkill looked at the remains of his axe. “I'll wait for you in Valhalla,” he said, drew a dagger and lunged forward. Melcorka impaled him on the point of Defender.
“You died well,” she said to Thorkill's corpse. “You will live well on the other side.”
The third Dane was staring at her. White-faced, he turned to flee, only for a border horseman to kill him with a quick thrust of his lance. Wherever Melcorka looked, the Northumbrian line had broken, and the allied warriors were surging forward, killing those who resisted, enslaving those who surrendered and chasing the panicking fugitives.
“Not many will get away,” Bradan stepped over the axeman's corpse, watching the Albans chase the fugitives. “A battle won is nearly as bad as a battle lost.” He pointed to the mounds of mutilated dead and the screaming, hopeless wounded. “Who would think there is anything glorious about this carnage?”
“There is glory for the courage in it.” Melcorka wiped the blood from Defender's blade. “And honour for those who died well.”
Bradan shook his head without replying as True Thomas strode towards them.
“The High King wants you,” True Thomas said. “He noticed what you did. Now your mission will begin.”
The messenger was lithe, handsome and clean, a courtier rather than a warrior. He gave an elaborate bow as he approached Melcorka.
“My Lady of the Sword,” he said. “The High King, Mael Coluim himself, wishes to speak to you.”
“The wishes of a king is a demand for ordinary mortals,” Bradan murmured. “I'll be within hailing distance, Mel.”
“Thank you,” Melcorka replied to the courtier. “Please escort me to the king's presence.” She noticed that True Thomas had disappeared, although his oystercatchers were circling, keeping clear of the flocks of rooks that were already descending to feast on the battle casualties.
Close to, the High King was different from what Melcorka had imagined. He was tall, clean-shaven and with a surprisingly weak chin. Only when she met his gaze did Melcorka sense the power beneath. Mael Coluim's eyes seemed to bore right into her, seeing into the depth of her thoughts.
“Who are you,” the High King asked, “to dispose of three Northumbrian champions on your own?”
“I am Melcorka nic Bearnas of the Cenel Bearnas. Some call me the Swordswoman.” Melcorka stood erect, holding the king's gaze.
“A name well earned, I wager,” Mael Coluim said. “I sent some of my best young warriors against these Northumbrians, and they died.” He eyed her, taking in every detail of her worn blue cloak and the cross-hilt of the sword above her shoulder.
“They were Danes, your Grace, not Northumbrians.” Although Melcorka knew it was not wise to contradict a king, she wished to test his character. “The tall hero called himself Thorkill. I do not know the names of his companions.”
For a moment, Melcorka saw intense rage behind the High King's eyes. “Thorkill! His name is known. He is one of Cnut's champions. So the Danish conqueror of the English has tried to test my mettle, has he?” Mael Coluim's smile contained as much humour as the grin of a hunting fox. “Well, even my women can defeat his best, it seems. Come with me, Melcorka, the Swordswoman.”
“May my companion come too?” Melcorka indicated Bradan, who stood 10 yards away, leaning on his staff. “We have journeyed many miles together.”
“You are companions, yet he did nothing to help when you fought three Danes.” The High King's gaze swept over Bradan as if he did not exist. “My invitation is for you, Swordswoman, and you alone.”
“As you wish, your Grace.”
Mael Coluim grunted as if there was no doubt that everybody would follow his wishes. “I have some business to attend to, Swordswoman. You may accompany me.”
As Melcorka followed the High King into the nearby church of St Cuthbert, Owen the Bald led the three champions who closed up behind her. The first spots of rain fell from the heavy sky, splattering on the blood-soaked ground.
“Are these three needed?” Standing a dozen paces away, Bradan nodded to MacBain, Finleac and Black Duncan.
“The High King does not know Melcorka,” True Thomas said. “He will have his champions close by in case she attacks him. If she behaves, she is in no danger.”
“In that case, she is in no danger,” Bradan said. “And if she chooses to misbehave, the three champions had better watch out.”
Like all Celtic churches, the one at Carham was small and austere, with the priests living in pious poverty. Some were tending the wounded of both sides, others praying for the souls of the dead.
“Here,” the High King lifted a cross and kissed it, smearing the holy artefact with blood. “Here is a gift for you, priests.” Snapping his fingers, he gestured to the servants who had followed him. The
