“I can't breathe,” Thyra gasped.
“The air is very heavy,” Bradan agreed, “like the feeling before a thunderstorm.”
“Swim,” Melcorka urged, fighting the apathy. “Don't look back, just swim!”
The shore seemed to be further away than ever as they pushed toward it, forcing themselves through the bitingly cold loch as the darkness eased toward them. Crying, Thyra began to splash at the water. “I can't go any further. Just leave me here.”
“No,” Melcorka knew her apathy was part of the attack. Taking hold of Thyra, she dragged the young woman behind her, urgently aware they had to escape from the cloud. “Keep going, Thyra. Don't give up.”
They reached the shore five yards in front of the dark cloud. Thyra lay on the beach, sobbing and gasping until Melcorka grabbed her shoulder and pulled her roughly to her feet.
“Run,” Melcorka said, pushing Thyra in front of her. “Get inland quickly!”
“I can't,” Thyra said.
“You must,” Bradan insisted. “Look behind you.”
The dark cloud had covered the surface of the loch and was creeping inland, flattening the grass and heather as it had levelled the surface of the waves. “If you stay here,” Bradan said, “that thing will reach you. It will crush your soul, erode your spirit and leave you an empty shell.”
“How do you know?” Thyra said. “It might just pass over us.”
“I know because I saw what that darkness did to Melcorka.”
Thyra looked, shuddered and rose reluctantly to her feet. Taking her hand, Bradan pulled her behind him, ignoring her pleas to stop, with Melcorka in the rear, watching the dark cloud creep the length of the loch.
They ran for a full five minutes before Bradan stopped to look behind him. “It's not following,” he said, panting. “It's stopping on the periphery of the water.” He took a deep breath to calm his racing heart. “So that's the monster of the loch, is it? I prefer something with scales and fire.”
“So do I,” Melcorka said. “Has it always been here, Thyra?”
“When we arrived here, the old folk talked about it,” Thyra said, “but as a memory, not something that still existed. It came back about a year ago.”
“About a year ago.” Melcorka gave Bradan a meaningful look. “As we thought, Brad, about the same time as that other dark spirit was revived.”
“The Book of Black Earth?” Bradan said.
“The Book of Black Earth,” Melcorka said. “We have to find that thing and destroy it.”
“At the minute,” Bradan said, “we have something else to worry about.”
Melcorka looked up. A score of Norsemen surrounded them, spears and swords pointing at them and with a score of arrows aimed ready.
“Oh, dear God.” Melcorka said. “Is there no peace in this land?”
Chapter Eighteen
“Albans?” The speaker was tall, with long blond hair and a beard that descended nearly to his chest.
“Albans,” Bradan agreed. “I am Bradan the Wanderer, and this is Melcorka Nic Bearnas of the Cenel Bearnas.”
“And you? The speaker addressed Thyra.
“I am Thyra, daughter of Frida, daughter of Estrid,” Thyra answered with some pride.
“You're Norse. What are you doing with these Albans?”
“These Albans rescued me.” Thyra stood very erect, unafraid despite the arrows and spears pointing at her. “Take me to my father.”
The bearded man laughed. “Of course, your ladyship. And who is your father? Odin himself?”
“You may have heard of him,” Thyra said. “Jarl Thorfinn.”
The laughter stopped. The men who pointed spears at Thyra lowered them at once, while the archers directed their missiles towards Bradan and Melcorka.
“We'll take you to the Jarl,” the bearded man said. “If you are who you say you are.”
“Who are you?” Thyra accepted the Norsemen”s respect as if it were her due.
“I am Arne Ironarm,” the bearded man said.
“These two Albans saved me,” Thyra said. “They are my friends and are not to be harmed, Arne Ironarm.”
“You heard the lady,” Arne said. Reluctantly, the Norsemen lowered their spears and arrows, although there was suspicion rather than friendliness in their faces. “We”ll take you all to the Jarl,” Arne said, “and he will decide.”
* * *
Jarl Thorfinn welcomed his daughter with open arms and a surprisingly wide smile.
“Thyra! I thought we had lost you!”
Thorfinn was a large man, broad-chested and bearded, who proved as generous with his hospitality as he appeared.
“Come in, Melcorka and Bradan!” He bellowed the welcome. “Your name is known, Melcorka, and your deeds travel before you. I have heard of you killing three Danes at the Battle of Carham in the south of Alba, and how, long ago when you cannot have been more than a child, you repelled us at the battle of the River Tummel near Pitlochry.” He laughed again. “I was at that fight! A glorious day, although the wrong side won!”
“And now you are back in Alba, Thorfinn,” Melcorka was not yet prepared to like a Norseman.
“And here to stay,” Thorfinn said. “This is our land, now.”
“Perhaps.” Melcorka embraced the Jarl as an equal as Bradan watched, leaning on his rowan-wood staff.
“Join us,” Thorfinn led them into his large timber hall, where food and drink stood on a long table, and men and women looked up at their arrival. “This is Melcorka Nic Bearnas, and Bradan the Wanderer,” Thorfinn announced. “They saved my daughter Thyra from death and are my guests. Treat them well.”
The Norsemen roared approval, with one jovial scoundrel passing over a horn of mead. Melcorka wondered who gave him the scar that disfigured his face from the corner of his ruined left eye to his jaw.
“Sit and join us, fellow warriors!” the scarred man invited.
“I am no warrior,” Bradan said. “I carry neither sword nor spear.”
“No.” Thorfinn looked deeply into Bradan's eyes. “You battle demons in your own way, seeker after truth.”
Bradan nodded. There was more to Thorfinn than just a jovial fighting man. “Thank you for your welcome, Jarl Thorfinn.”
“Make
