“They call this the Lammer Moor,” Bradan said. “I've been here before, many years ago.”
Although it was bleak, the walking was easy with heather springy underfoot and the cool wind caressing their faces. Twice they heard the howl of a wolf, but the only animal they saw was a cautious dog-fox that snarled at them from a distance before deciding that discretion defeated valour when dealing with a woman carrying a sword.
They found the dead body that evening. He had been a young man, strong and handsome, until somebody had cut deep rents in his legs and sliced him in two from the top of his head downward. Now flies, insects and crows feasted on the two halves of his body.
“He looks like a farmer, not a warrior.” Melcorka viewed the body dispassionately.
“The warriors are with the king's army,” Bradan said.
“This was not part of the war with Northumbria then,” Melcorka said. “It could be a stray killing, or it could be the Butcher.”
“Look,” Bradan pointed upward, where a lone bird circled high above them. “That's a raven, the bird of ill omen.”
“Aye,” Melcorka said. “It is foretelling the end of the man we hunt.” She pointed to a second raven that joined the first. “And that bird is doing the same.”
“Rooks attacking men and wolves growing ever bolder,” Bradan said. “Something has disturbed the nature of this land.”
Melcorka tapped the hilt of Defender. “Then we'll try to rectify matters.”
They moved on, faster now, searching for signs of human activity in the bleakness of their surroundings. Twice they found lonely farms hidden in a fold of the moor, and each time the occupants were dead; the men with their legs sliced open and the women violated before being decapitated.
“Truly, this man, if it is only one man, is evil,” Bradan said. “He had his servant, remember.”
“His servant was a nothing,” Melcorka decided. “Killing the Butcher will rid the world of great evil.”
“This blood is still warm,” Bradan knelt beside the body of an elderly woman. “It has not yet had time to congeal.” He looked up. “The killer was here within the last hour.”
“Then we have him.” Melcorka glanced at the low grey clouds above the dullness of the moor. “We can finish this by nightfall.”
“That will be your last killing,” Bradan said.
“This will be my last killing,” Melcorka gestured at the two ravens circled above. “They are waiting for a death.”
“If that is so,” Bradan tapped his staff on the ground, “they could find it here, or on the last ravaged farm we found, or on the battlefield at Carham. Ravens can smell blood many miles away.”
Melcorka nodded. “They have another reason for following us, then.”
“They are messengers,” Bradan said. “Messengers of death. They are hunting us, Melcorka, guiding the Valkyries, the choosers of the slain to us.”
“I am no Norsewoman to believe such things,” Melcorka said.
“No.” Bradan tapped his staff on the ground. “You are not, but the ravens might be. Or they may be guiding us along a trail of death to the Butcher.” He tapped his staff on the ground again. “All this killing might be for our benefit, a scent luring us to a trap.”
When Melcorka looked at him, said nothing and stepped on, Bradan knew that she was worried.
A track led from the farm northwards into the heart of the moor, fording two slow-running rivers, then down a steep heather-clad hill to a plain of sweet farmland. Melcorka halted at the rim of the slope, ignoring the circling ravens as she examined the land ahead.
“The Lothian plain,” Melcorka said. “The killer may be heading for Dunedin.” She shuddered at the thought of the Butcher loose in the tightly packed town with its hundreds of unarmed citizens.
“He”s not,” Bradan said. “Look. He is still luring us onward.”
Rather than head northeast to Dunedin, the trail led directly north. Even as they watched, Melcorka and Bradan saw a column of smoke rising from a farmstead a mile in front of them.
“The ravens have informed him we are coming,” Bradan said. “He's marking his passage. Be careful, Mel – I feel that this is no ordinary man.”
“I have seen him fight, remember, Bradan. He is a man. He bleeds, and anything that bleeds can die.” Melcorka stared across the Lothian plain. “To leave such an obvious trail means one of two things – he is a fool, or he is very confident in his ability.”
“Let's hope he is a fool,” Bradan said.
“He has not met Defender yet,” Melcorka said.
“No, and you have not met him, yet.” Bradan reminded her. “He killed Owen with some skill.”
“He has not met Defender yet,” Melcorka repeated. She lifted her voice. “Halloa down there!” The words bounced from the low clouds to carry far in the still air. “I am Melcorka, the Swordswoman and I am going to stop your murdering spree.”
They listened for a long minute before deep laughter came in reply. As the sound rose from the low ground in front, the ravens joined in with harsh calls that upset all the birds in the area, so they rose in unison, each one calling and flapping until they filled the air with their cries. When the birds eventually returned to their trees and the noise ended, two feathers drifted down from above. Bradan lifted them.
“Raven feathers,” he said, “and look at this.”
On the tip of each, a drop of blood gleamed ruby-red.
“Aye,” Melcorka said. “You are right, Bradan. This Butcher is no ordinary man.” Hitching up Defender, she peered across the darkening plain. “We are coming for you!” she shouted.
This time there was no reply, only silence so deep that Melcorka felt it pressing on her.
“Come on, Bradan, we're wasting time.”
Descending from the plateau of the moor, they entered the fertile plain. “Where are all the people?” Bradan asked. “This place should have 100 small farms. Instead, it is empty.”
Even although the autumn air was brisk, there was no friendly tang of smoke in the air, no bright
