“You'll see his face soon enough,” MacBain said. “Owen will cut off his hood and head at the same time.”
“I wish Owen were more sober,” Melcorka said.
The warriors of Alba and Strathclyde formed a ring, with MacBain and Finleac watching. Black Duncan shook his head and walked away.
“Are you not going to watch?” Melcorka asked.
“I am not. Killing and dying is a serious business, not a sport for people to gawp at.” That was the longest speech that Melcorka had ever heard Black Duncan make.
“He has a point,” Bradan said. “It is a ghoulish business, watching one man kill another.”
“It is a method of admiring skill, courage and technique,” Melcorka said. “We will disagree there, Bradan.”
Bradan nodded. “That is what we will do.”
Owen had a shorter sword than the Butcher, with a leaf-shaped blade, and an oval shield with an ornate swirling pattern around the boss. “Come on then, Butcher,” he said, with the rain running off his round metal helmet and on to his shoulders.
“You watch the Butcher,” Bradan murmured to Melcorka as the two men circled each other. “I will watch that creature in grey.” Almost unnoticed in the crowd, the Butcher's servant held the garron, his eyes like pits descending into unyielding darkness.
“He is only a servant.” Melcorka dismissed the grey man with a glance.
“Aye, but whose servant is he?” Bradan asked.
Owen was first to attack, shoving his shield into the Butcher's face, twisting to the side and thrusting upwards with his sword. The Butcher fell back slightly, parried the sword stroke and stepped away.
“You see? He's not so good,” Finleac said cheerfully. “Owen is his master. We won't have to worry about the Butcher again.”
“Perhaps.” MacBain was not so easily convinced. “I think he is testing Owen out to see how skilled he is.”
“It will be a short test, then,” Finleac said. “Owen will destroy him.”
“Perhaps,” MacBain said again.
Melcorka said nothing, watching the footwork of the hooded man with a frown on her face. “I am sure I know this Butcher,” she said to Bradan. “There is something about the way he moves.”
“You've seen many warriors,” Bradan said. “Perhaps we fought alongside him, or against him, some time in the past.”
“That could be the answer,” Melcorka said.
The crowd cheered as Owen attacked again, feinting left and right, then high and low before advancing with a slow, deliberate pace that left his footprints deeply impressed in the trampled grass. The storm was directly overhead now, thunder grumbling and crashing simultaneously with blinding flashes of lightning. The rain grew heavier, hammering down on the fighting men, bouncing from the battered canvas of the tents, forming puddles on the already muddy ground.
The audience greeted each of Owen's blows with a cheer, and each of the Butcher's parries with whistles and insults, with Finleac shouting with the best of them, although MacBain and Melcorka tried to analyse the movements of both men.
The Butcher had held three of Owen's attacks and now began a counter-attack. Using the metal edge of his shield as a weapon, he stepped sideways, thrust the shield against Owen's and pushed hard. Owen staggered, ducked and sliced at the Butcher's ankles with his sword. The Butcher leapt back, limping, with blood flowing from his ankle. Sensing victory, Owen moved forward with his shield up and sword ready.
“Owen's got him now,” MacBain said.
Melcorka could only nod agreement. With the Butcher wounded and retreating, the experienced king of Strathclyde was favourite to end the struggle.
“Two minutes and it's done,” MacBain said.
Perhaps it was the influence of the mead in his blood, but Owen moved forward with too much confidence, raised his shield to chin height and the Butcher roared in. Crashing against Owen's shield, he forced it high, then stabbed his point on to Owen's foot. As Owen instinctively hopped back, the Butcher hooked his shield behind that of the Strathclyde man and jerked it back. Unbalanced, Owen momentarily exposed his right leg. That moment was all the Butcher needed; he shifted his stance and slashed his sword down the outside of Owen's thigh, opening a deep wound that immediately gushed out blood.
Owen fell, still slashing with his sword, and the Butcher parried with his shield and cut downward, opening a parallel wound on the inside of Owen's left thigh. As Owen gasped, the Butcher stepped back, cleaned his sword on the bottom of his cloak and walked back to his horse.
“The fight is over,” the Butcher said. “I have defeated your champion.”
“Owen,” Finleac was first to reach Owen.
“I'm dead,” Owen indicated his legs, from which the blood was draining to join the rain-puddles on the ground.
“I'll avenge you.” Finleac drew both his swords and stepped toward the Butcher.
“No!” Owen spoke strongly for a man who knew he was dying. “I gave my word. The word of a king!”
“The last word of a king,” the Butcher said as he mounted his garron, pulled at the reins and kicked in his heels. The horse walked towards the angry, shocked crowd. The grey man looked directly at Owen as the audience reluctantly parted to allow him passage.
“So that is the Butcher,” Melcorka said. “He managed to defeat a half-sober man.”
“Aye,” MacBain said. “Owen was also a superb warrior. One of the best. The Butcher is a man to watch.” He touched the crystal in his sword hilt. “It will take a good man to defeat him.”
“Or a good woman,” Melcorka said.
MacBain looked at her. “Let us hope it does not come to that. I would not like a woman to do my fighting for me.”
* * *
They sat around the table, with Mael Coluim at the head, tapping powerful fingers on the arm of his elaborately carved chair. “I would have killed the Butcher,” Mael Coluim said. “He is too dangerous to live. You should have killed him, MacBain. You should have ordered the archers shoot him.”
“Owen gave his word,”
