“Finleac!” The Butcher”s voice came again. “Here!”
By now all Finleac's company was awake, with the men scrabbling for weapons and the women watching, enjoying the drama as much as the sights of naked men.
The object fell from a great height, landing in the lochan with a mighty splash. Waiting until the ripples died away, Finleac waded into the loch and retrieved the spherical thing within its linen covering.
“That water must be cold,” one of the women said. “Look what it has done to Finleac.”
A second woman laughed. “No matter – Breana will soon revive him. I've heard that she is skilled and agile.” Their laughter ended when Finleac unwrapped the object he had retrieved.
“So here is Duncan's head,” Finleac held it up by the hair so that everybody could see. “As black in death as he was in life.”
Breana turned her head sideways as she studied the gruesome remains of Duncan. “Aye, even in death, he cannot smile.”
“That will be you, tomorrow Finleac.” The voice echoed around the corrie.
“Let tomorrow's cares be for tomorrow, and the pleasures of tonight be for tonight,” Finleac shouted back. “Back to bed, lads and lassies. We won't let some disembodied head and a boaster disturb our rest – or whatever you were doing.”
As Finleac hoped, his words raised a laugh among his people, but all the same, he posted two sentries to watch the perimeter of the camp. Breana was waiting for him, even more animated than usual.
“Come on, my sweet lord. This night may be your last alive. Let us make it worth our while.”
“That is the best idea I've heard,” Finleac said, suiting action to words in a manner that made even Breana open her eyes wide with astonishment.
* * *
The harsh call of black-headed gulls broke the dawn, with a thin mist drifting along the face of the peaks, gathering in the gulleys, shredding on the shoulders and hiding the plateau where the Butcher waited. Standing beside the lochan, Finleac stretched, eyeing the slopes all around. “Now I have to get up there and kill this Butcher.”
“The climb will be harder than the killing,” one of his servants said.
“That may be so,” Finleac returned with a grin. “So I think you should take my place and fight for me.” He laughed at the expression on the servant's face. “Aye, it's always easier to be brave for somebody else than to be brave for yourself.”
As the early sun burned the mist away, Finleac saw a deer path leading up the side of the corrie to the plateau. Sending a man ahead as a scout, he checked his swords, soundly kissed the sleepy Breana and led his garron upwards.
“Come, Finleac,” the Butcher”s voice invited. “Death is waiting.”
“It will have to wait,” Finleac said, slipping on a loose stone. “I can't go any faster. Why do these braggarts have to talk like that? They don't know how stupid they sound.”
“They think it makes them sound tough and clever,” Breana said.
“Oh, do they?” Finleac slipped again and swore. “I might try it sometime if I survive this day.”
“I'll teach you.” Breana put a steadying hand on Finleac”s arm. “If you survive this day.”
“I'm more likely to fall off this bloody hill than to die by a sword,” Finleac said. “Even the mountain goats shun this blasted path.” He slogged on, slipping and swearing until he reached the top.
Erik waited there. He sat on a smooth rock near the centre of the plateau, sharpening his sword with a stone, while his grey-clad servant stood 10 paces away, examining the contents of the grey bag that hung in front of him.
“Are you the Butcher?” Finleac asked.
“That is one of my names.”
“Oh, for God's sake, man, don't try to sound so dramatic. Just say yes or no,” Finleac said. “We both know why we're here. I want to kill you for the murdering hound you are. You want to kill me so you can continue murdering and raping. There's no need for any posturing.”
“I got this sword from Loki.” Erik held up the blade as Finleac stepped closer. “I think I have killed 18 warriors with it and a further 47 men. I don't know how many women and children.”
Finleac shrugged. “A swordsmith in Fidach made my swords, and I've never kept score of the men I have killed.” He drew his swords. “Come on, boaster. Fight or flee.”
Erik lifted the circular shield that rested at the side of his stone. “We will fight.” His shield was grey, with a pair of black ravens facing outward and a spike protruding from the central boss.
“My servants are inviolate,” Finleac said. “If I fall, you will not hurt them.”
“My fight is with you,” Erik clashed the blade of Legbiter against the boss of his shield as the sun burned away the last of the mist. “Not with nobodies.”
Finleac nodded and ran forward, confident of his speed. When he approached within four paces of Erik, he threw himself in the air, slashing double-handed, with his right hand aiming at Erik's head and his left at Legbiter. It was a manoeuvre that had gained him victory in a dozen battles against warriors with good reputations. However, Erik lifted his shield, blocked Finleac's right sword and parried his left with Legbiter, while stepping rapidly to the right. His counterattack came a second later, shield covering his upper body and lower face and Legbiter sweeping low at Finleac's shins.
“You're good,” Finleac acknowledged, matching Legbiter with his left sword.
After their initial probes, the warriors circled each other, alternatively feinting, attacking, parrying and withdrawing, with neither able to gain an advantage over the other. After half an hour, both men bled from a dozen small cuts, and both were breathing heavily. Erik's shield was scarred, with the top third sheared off, while Legbiter had heavily notched one of
