“Shall we follow this unborn man?” Melcorka asked. “He seems interesting.”
“Unless you have something else planned,” Bradan said. “Catriona will be safe here if Thomas is as good as his name suggests.”
Shaking her head, Melcorka followed True Thomas. “Why do we do these things, Bradan?”
“Because it's in our blood.” After a few moments, Bradan glanced over his shoulder. “Look.” He pointed to the ground. “There are three of us, yet only two sets of footprints.”
“Perhaps Thomas is true after all.” Melcorka adjusted her sword. “A man not yet born won't leave any impression on the ground.”
“I wonder what an unborn man wants with us in a battle that nobody has yet fought, but where he must already know the outcome?” Bradan tapped his staff on the ground. “I am confused already.”
“We'll soon see what Thomas wants,” Melcorka said.
They met the first party of warriors within half an hour, dour, unsmiling borderers, riding on shaggy ponies as they carried lances and swords towards the south. Ignoring True Thomas as if he was not there, they nodded briefly to the unarmed Bradan and paid more attention to Melcorka's sword than to its bearer.
“That's a heavy burden for a woman,” one young man said.
“I'm used to it,” Melcorka said.
“Are you carrying it for your man?” The borderer glanced at Bradan.
“No.” Melcorka treated him to a smile that would have warned a more experienced man to take care.
The youth looked to his companions as if he were about to say something smart. “You must be carrying it for me then.” He rode close to Melcorka and reached for Defender.
Melcorka stood still. “If you are riding to fight for the king, youngster, you had better leave my sword alone and hurry before death departs without you.”
The other borderers laughed as the youngster lifted his lance. “If you weren't a woman, I'd challenge you for that.”
“And if you were a man and not a child, I'd accept,” Melcorka said.
“I'll show you how a man fights!” Hefting his spear, the youngster kicked in his spurs, rode 20 yards away, turned and trotted towards Melcorka while his two companions watched with interest. Sighing, Bradan sat on a rounded boulder with his staff thrust out before him. He began to whistle, rubbing his thumb over the cross at the top of his staff.
Melcorka waited until the young man was 10 feet away before she drew Defender. Immediately she did so, all the skill and power of the sword's previous owners flowed into her hands, up her arms and through her body. She took a deep breath, savouring the thrill, for however often she drew Defender, the feeling never paled.
When the young man came close and thrust out his lance, Melcorka sliced it in two, turned the blade, and struck the man across the shoulders with the flat. The borderer fell from his horse, landed face down on the ground, bounced and faced Melcorka.
“You'll die for that,” the youngster snarled, drew his sword and rushed forward.
Sidestepping, Melcorka swung Defender once, catching the youngster a stinging blow across his backside. “I call that move Melcorka's greeting,” Melcorka said as the youngster yelled, spun around, and stopped as Melcorka placed the tip of Defender under his chin.
“A small lesson.” Melcorka kept her voice level. “Before you start a fight with somebody, find out who they are. Now go.”
When the youth backed away, Melcorka replaced Defender in her scabbard.
The other borderers had watched with interest. “Sheath your sword, Martin, and mount up,” an older man with the eyes of a basilisk said. “I hope you fight better against the Northumbrians.” Lifting his hand in acknowledgement to Melcorka, he turned his horse towards the south, with the others following.
“Martin,” Melcorka called after them. “Keep that spirit! Just think what you are doing and don't rush so much.” She watched the borderers ride away. “Come on.” True Thomas had been a silent spectator.
“Nobody spoke to you, Thomas,” Bradan pointed out.
“They can't see a man who is not yet born,” True Thomas explained patiently.
“We can see you,” Bradan pointed out.
“You see what I wish you to see,” Thomas said. “Nothing more.”
As they headed south and east through the fertile, settled countryside, Melcorka and Bradan saw more men gathering, in small groups or larger companies. Some were on foot, hefting a variety of agricultural implements that a charitable observer might have classified as weapons, while others rode small, sturdy horses and carried spears. Only a few were warriors with padded leather jackets or chain mail and proudly sporting swords. A small entourage of supporters accompanied each warrior.
“Who is gathering an army?” Bradan wondered, “It cannot be Queen Maelona. She is the least warlike woman alive.”
Melcorka nodded. “I was thinking the same thing myself. I hope Maelona is well.”
“I think we are nearing the army's camp,” Bradan nodded to a line of sentries who stood on a grassy ridge, either talking to each other or studying the countryside all around. One pair of spearmen watched as Melcorka led Bradan up the slope to the top of the ridge. They eyed Melcorka in her hooded blue cloak with the patches that told of hard usage, and the great sword whose hilt protruded behind her left shoulder.
“Does the woman carry your sword?” the taller of the spearmen asked.
“She carries her own sword,” Bradan replied as they stopped on the summit of the ridge.
When the spearman opened his mouth to say something, his companion nudged him into silence. Both turned their attention on to anything except Melcorka.
Beneath them, in a bowl in the undulating countryside, were hundreds, perhaps thousands of men and scores of women walking around or sitting in groups around campfires. Blue smoke formed a haze above the gathering, with the occasional drift of harp music or burst of laughter rising to the ridge.
“Aye, here we are,” Melcorka said. “Another war.”
“Somebody”s called up the army from the four quarters of Alba,” Bradan
