When Mael Coluim lifted his arms, silence descended except for the barking of a single dog. A woman's voice rose in the background, only for her neighbours to shush her into silence.
“Warriors of Alba and Strathclyde!” The king's voice sounded strong. “Today, we march to face the Angles of Northumbria.”
The army cheered, with men brandishing swords and spears in the air. Melcorka raised her eyebrows to Bradan – she had heard such enthusiasm before and had seen the bloodied, broken casualties writhing on the ground in the aftermath of battle.
“For years the Northumbrians have defiled our borders, raided our farms and stolen our livestock and women. Their southern neighbour and overlord, Cnut, the Danish conqueror of the Angles, has threatened to add Alba to his realms. Let us show him our answer. Let us show him the strength of Alba and Strathclyde.”
The men cheered again, with shouts of, “Alba! Alba!” and, “Strathclyde! Strathclyde!”
“The king's fired them up for bloodshed,” Bradan said.
“These Northumbrians are not children to face lightly,” Mael Coluim warned. “They are a savage breed. When I was a youngster, new on the throne, 12 years ago, I led an army against them.” The silence was tense as men nodded at the memory. “They defeated us at the walls of Durham and…” he waited, drawing out the drama, “the Northumbrian women washed the faces and combed the beards and hair of our dead and decorated their walls with their heads.”
A low growl came from the combined army.
“What kind of men would dishonour the dead? These people are not like us!” Mael Coluim said.
“He's raising the fighting spirit.” Bradan tapped his staff on the ground.
“Alba!” the warriors yelled, lifting spears and swords in the air. “Strathclyde!”
“Wait!” Owen the Bald joined Mael Coluim on the knoll, to further cheers from the allied army. He lifted his hands for silence. “We will not fight under different battlecries. We should have one slogan that unites us as one force under Mael Coluim, my king and the High King of Alba!”
Owen lifted his hand until silence descended. “As from today, our cry will be Aigha Bas – battle and die.”
There was a moment's silence as the men digested the idea, and then: “Aigha Bas!” Men of both armies roared. “Aigha Bas!”
Standing beside the High King, one man stood out among the three champions. Shorter than the man in black, less cheerful than the Pict, he had traces of grey in his neat beard, with a crystal in the pommel of the longsword across his back.
“Who is that?” Melcorka sensed the power of the man.
“That is MacBain, the king's personal champion and bodyguard,” True Thomas said. “He has never been defeated in combat and is the king's right-hand man.”
“I am interested in the sword he carries,” Melcorka said.
“It is not the sword that should interest you,” True Thomas told her. “It is what the pommel contains. You will ask him later.”
“And the other two champions?” Bradan asked. “They look like handy men to have on your side.”
True Thomas indicated the man on MacBain's right, the burly man in his late thirties with a black scowl to match his black hair and beard. Under his black cloak, his chainmail shirt descended to his knees, while he carried a bundle of long throwing darts on the right side of his belt and a short slender sword at his waist.
“That is Black Duncan the Grim,” Thomas said. “He has never been known to smile and has no time for women or any pursuit except fighting and war.”
Melcorka nodded. “Aye, he looks a cheerful fellow. And the other? The light-hearted man?”
“That is Finleac, the Maormor of Fidach,” Thomas said. “As you know, Fidach is a Pictish province and the Maormor, the ruler, is now a sub-king of Alba. Finleac is undoubtedly the fastest-moving warrior in Alba, and perhaps the most cheerful.”
Finleac was lithe, with a pale face that the sun would never tan, and light protection of quilted leather. His two longswords had light wooden handles, and he stared forward through pale eyes, with a small smile playing on bloodless lips.
“There is one more champion of note,” Bradan said. “Who is that one?” He nodded to a warrior who stood on a slight rise above the army. Although two men stood there, only one was worth watching. He was tall and broad, while a deep hood concealed his face, while both the grey circular shield on his left arm and the sword that hung from his waist were of Norse workmanship. The man who stood 10 paces from him was featureless, dressed in grey and with a bag of grey fabric held across his chest. He was instantly forgettable.
“You will find out all you want to know about that man before long,” True Thomas said.
“Who is he?” Melcorka asked.
“He is death on two legs,” True Thomas said, “and who his companion is, I cannot say.”
“Cannot or will not?” Bradan asked.
“Either way, you will have to find out for yourselves.”
Looking directly at the two men on the ridge, Melcorka could sense the darkness emanating from the hooded warrior. “Does he have a name, this mysterious man?”
“I cannot say his given name,” True Thomas said. “He is known as the Buidcear, the Butcher.”
Melcorka felt a thrill run through Defender as if the sword also sensed danger from the Butcher. “Is he with the High King's army?”
“Nobody in the king's army knows who the Butcher is with.” True Thomas sounded troubled. “Or what he is with.”
Melcorka nodded, still aware that Defender was thrumming against her back as if warning her of danger. “I think we shall meet later, that man and I.”
“Aye, maybe,” Bradan said. “At present, Mel, I think it's time to make ourselves known.”
“Wait,” True Thomas said, with a little smile on his face. “Mael Coluim will know you when he needs you.”
“That is the way of kings,” Melcorka said. “Particularly high kings.” She continued to watch the Butcher, knowing that he returned her
