“I do not like that man,” Bradan pressed a thumb against the cross carved on the top of his staff, a sure sign that he was worried.
“Nor do I,” Melcorka agreed.
“You are looking at the warrior,” Bradan said. “I mean the grey creature at his side.”
Melcorka shrugged. “He is a nothing,” she said.
“That is so,” Bradan pressed his thumb down hard on the carved cross. “He is so much a nothing that I cannot describe him, even although I am looking directly at him.”
Melcorka grunted. “That may be so.”
A distant rumble made them both look up. High in the sky, the dying trail of the comet faded away.
“Tomorrow will be a bloody day,” Melcorka said as the thunder sounded an ominous warning of the anger of the gods. When she looked back at the ridge, the Butcher was gone, although the atmosphere of menace remained.
“May God have mercy on us all,” Bradan said, pressing his thumb hard on the carved Celtic cross.
* * *
At the blare of a dozen horns, the army rose, men of Alba and Strathclyde gathering in their separate divisions to march south, with much confusion until captains and clan chiefs sorted them out with loud shouts and a few blows. Mael Coluim sent scouts ahead and, on each flank, hard-riding borderers who knew the terrain, backed by light-footed caterans who quartered the ground, searched for any Northumbrian or Danish spies.
“Forget the thunder; it's going to be a dry day.” Bradan glanced up at the sky, where the comet had left only a faint white smudge against the periwinkle blue. “Best fill our bottles with water before the fighting begins.”
They forded the Tweed without delay, formed up in a long column on the south side of the river and moved on, with Melcorka and Bradan keeping pace 100 yards behind the rearguard. As they marched, the weather altered, as though the tail of the comet had disturbed the Gods.
Bradan glanced upward. “So much for my weather forecast,” he said ruefully. “If they are going to fight,” he said, “they had better get on with it. That sky is threatening a storm.”
Melcorka nodded. “It will be a big one,” she said as a host of geese exploded skyward from a field, circled and headed out to sea, their call a melancholic reminder of the folly of men.
“Look behind us,” Bradan said.
The Butcher was following, keeping clear of the army but always within a quarter of a mile. He rode a garron, the sturdy horse of the Alban hills, with the grey man keeping pace at his side.
“I see him,” Melcorka ducked as a rook skimmed her hair. “That's unusual. Rooks don't attack people.”
“That one did,” Bradan said, “but I think we have more to worry about than a stray bird.”
“Northumbrians!” The cry resounded around the army. “The Northumbrians are ahead!”
All at once, the atmosphere changed as the veteran warriors took charge and the enthusiasm of the untried waned. Boasting of battle around the fireside was far different from facing the reality of Northumbrians with their seax-knives, slave-hunting and savagery.
“Scouts!” Mael Coluim shouted. “Ride ahead, count their numbers, don't get involved.”
Melcorka watched as a troop of border horsemen trotted ahead, with young Martin eager in the middle. “It's nearly dusk,” she said. “There will be no battle today.” She looked over her shoulder. The Butcher was still there, nearly within hailing distance, with his hood entirely concealing his face and the grey man 10 paces to his right.
By the time the scouts returned, the light was fading, with the sun tinting the sky magenta around bruised clouds. Bradan grunted as thunder again grumbled in the distance, with flashes of lightning highlighting the curves of the distant Cheviot Hills.
“When this storm hits, it'll be ugly.”
“Aye,” Melcorka sat on the trunk of a fallen oak tree, polishing Defender. “It seems to be upsetting the birds too.” She nodded to the clamour of rooks that flew above the Albans, swooping on individuals and small groups of men.
Mael Column listened to the scouts' reports and set the army to camp again, this time with no drinking and with triple sentries.
“Borderers, enliven the night; ride around the Northumbrian camp, shout challenges, keep them awake on the south, east and west sides.” The border horsemen trotted off, while the High King indicated the caterans. “You lads, I want you to concentrate on the north side, kill a few sentries. If you can get into the camp and dispatch some Northumbrians, even better.” He hardened his voice. “Don't get killed. I need you tomorrow.”
The thunder that had grumbled all day continued into the night, with intermittent lightning unsettling the horses. Sentries glanced at the sky, huddled into their cloaks and hoped the enemy had no raiding parties out while they were on duty. Others shivered at the wolves that howled in the distance.
“MacBain!” Melcorka approached the king's bodyguard. “Your name is known.”
“As is yours, Melcorka the Swordswoman,” MacBain met Melcorka with the confidence of a man supremely aware of his abilities. Behind him, Black Duncan did not look up, while Finleac gave a friendly grin and returned his attention to the two young women who were vying for his attention.
“Your sword interests me,” Melcorka said.
“You wish to hold it?” MacBain”s smile revealed unbroken white teeth. “Or is it the crystal in the hilt you want to ask about?”
“Both,” Melcorka said, honestly.
“The crystal is known as the Clach Bhuaidh,” MacBain said, “the Stone of Victory.” Removing his sword, he handed it over without hesitation, accepting Defender in return. “Your sword is lighter than I imagined,” MacBain commented as he gave a few practice swings, “but very well balanced. What is your secret, Melcorka?”
“My skill is in the sword,” Melcorka instinctively trusted this man. “The People of
