The warriors listened, with many openly sceptical of such wonders as floating islands of ice and great empires that worshipped a many-armed goddess.
“You tell a good story, Bradan the Wanderer,” Owen said when things had quietened down a little. “What are you doing in our beleaguered little Alba?”
“They are here to hunt down a rogue!” Mael Coluim shouted from the head of the table. “The Swordswoman is here to find and kill the Butcher who is causing such destruction in my realm.”
“I could do that, your Grace,” MacBain said, mildly. “As can Finleac or Black Duncan. We are ready to hunt down this man.”
“I need you, MacBain. As long as you are by my side, nobody will attempt to usurp my throne. No, this is a job for the Swordswoman.” Although Mael Coluim was drinking level with anybody in the tent, he was the soberest man there.
Bradan eyed the High King. Yes, Bradan thought, you think it will not matter if the Butcher kills Melcorka. You are not as friendly as you appear, Mael Coluim.
“I know of that man, the Butcher.” Owen was suddenly sober. “He is something of a mystery, Melcorka.”
“Tell me all you know about him, Owen,” Melcorka asked. “I like to find out as much as I can about people before I fight them.”
Owen lowered his voice. “There is a darkness there,” he said. “He is no ordinary warrior.” He stood up, swayed, and sat back down with a sudden crash. “I think that last horn of mead was very powerful,” he said. “I shall tell you all I know in the morning, but I will say this, Melcorka, watch for his familiar.”
“His familiar?” Bradan echoed.
“I will tell you tomorrow,” Owen said.
“That would be best,” Bradan agreed, “when you are sober enough to talk, and we are sober enough to listen.”
“I will tell you one thing.” Owen leaned closer to Bradan, smiling in drunken friendship. “The killer is not what he seems.” Owen gave an elaborate wink. “Not at all what he seems.”
“Who is ever what he seems?” Melcorka reached forward to catch Owen as he slipped to the ground, dropping his horn. The mead spilt to the ground.
“What a waste,” MacBain said, scooped up the horn and drained it, laughing.
“Come on, Brad.” Melcorka dragged Owen to the side, pushed a slender servant aside and arranged Owen as comfortably as he could. The servant stood up and left without a sound.
“Time for us to sleep as well,” Bradan said, smiling stupidly as the mead took hold of his senses.
“Too late – I already am sleeping,” Melcorka slurred as she slid to the ground.
Chapter Three
“Owen!” Owen, the Bald of Strathclyde!” The words travelled through the slumbering camp, waking men and women and setting a score of dogs to bark. “Where is Owen the Bald?”
“He's sleeping,” Melcorka muttered, turning over on the ground and holding her head. “So am I. Go away.”
“I am Owen the Bald.” Owen stumbled up and peered from the royal tent, still dazed from sleep and wearing only his leine. Unshaven and with rain dripping from his bald head, he did not look like one of the best warriors in Alba.
“I am the man you know as the Butcher.” The hooded warrior was still astride his garron, with the grey man standing featureless at his side.
“We've been looking for you,” Owen said as half a dozen Strathclyde spearmen hurried out in various stages of dress and undress.
“Will you fight me?” The hooded warrior asked as rain dripped from his cloak to add to the puddles on the ground.
“I will fight you.” Owen put a hand to his head.
“You're not fit to fight,” Melcorka said, emerging from the tent. “You're not sober yet.”
“Drunk or sober, I can defeat this hooded butcher,” Owen said. “Wait here,” he shouted, wincing at the pain of his throbbing head. “I will fetch my sword.”
“Owen, your Grace,” Melcorka warned. “I could fight him now. I drank less than you last night.”
“This man challenged me.” Owen's voice rose to a roar. “This is my word! This warrior has challenged me! We shall fight, and if he bests me, he will be allowed to leave unmolested. That is my word and my oath. That is the word of the King of Strathclyde!”
As his spearmen stepped back, Owen returned to the tent. “Fetch me water! A bucket of water!”
When a servant scurried up a moment later, Owen emptied the water over his head, shook the droplets around the tent and grabbed a hunk of cold pork from the table. “There,” he said as the water ran down his chest and dripped on to the ground. “Now, I am fit to fight the devil himself.”
“Perhaps you are,” Bradan said.
“Then may God have pity on the devil,” MacBain said, “for in practice bouts, that shiny-headed rogue has even bested me.”
“Aye,” Melcorka said, “when he was sober.”
Five minutes after he entered the tent, Owen emerged again in a coat of mail, sword in hand. He jammed a metal helmet on his head, stamped his feet in a muddy puddle and shouted: “Come then, hooded man.”
When the Butcher dismounted, the onlookers saw he was slightly taller than Owen, and armed in the Norse fashion, with a longsword in his right hand and a circular shield on his left arm. The shield was of undifferentiated grey, except for the two black ravens, one on either side of the central steel boss.
“That man is vaguely familiar,” Melcorka studied the Butcher with professional curiosity. “I believe I have seen him before.”
“It is difficult to tell when we can't see his face,” Bradan said.
“It's his stance and
