“You are better than Owen the Bald, Melcorka the Swordswoman or Black Duncan,” Erik said. “Yet I defeated all of them.”
“You shall not defeat me,” Finleac said, dodging to the left as he attacked to the right. Chopping at Erik's shield, he sliced off another quarter, then trapped Legbiter by crossing his swords in the air as Erik hacked downward. He grunted for he had used this move in previous encounters. He knew if he exerted sufficient pressure, he could bend back Erik's blade until it snapped.
Too engrossed in fighting Erik, Finleac did not see the grey man dip his hand inside his bag. He only felt Erik apply more pressure to Legbiter, slowly sliding his blade down Finleac's crossed swords. Finleac stepped back, with the sweat beading on his face as he felt his strength draining. Looking directly into Erik's eyes, he saw a dark shadow there, a hint of horror far deeper than any warrior facing an honourable death should feel.
“Who are you?” Finleac asked, just as both his swords snapped and Erik sliced Legbiter downward. The tip of the blade scored Finleac from his cheekbone to his chin, opening a deep cut. Finleac gasped and rammed outward with the broken blades of his swords. One went home, scraping along Erik's ribs, while Erik blocked the other with Legbiter.
Erik twisted Legbiter, disarming Finleac, and followed his advantage with an extended cut to Finleac's left thigh. As Finleac staggered, Erik thrust Legbiter into his right thigh and twisted, opening the wound.
“You fought well,” Erik touched the wound on his ribs. “Now watch as I kill your servants.”
“You gave your word,” Finleac said, as his blood pumped on to the ground.
Smiling, Erik lifted the remains of his shield and ran towards Finleac's shocked followers. Aiming low, he chopped the legs from the first three men before the remainder could react. One man drew his dagger and threw himself at Erik, who brushed him aside with his shoulder and sliced upwards at his groin.
Only one woman did not run. Breana waited for Erik with her mouth slightly open. “You are all man, aren't you?”
Erik halted, splashed with blood from head to ankles, and with blood dripping from Legbiter, he smiled at her. “I've killed your champion.”
“I know,” Breana said. “That makes you my champion now.”
As Finleac died, he watched Erik prove his manhood with Breana, both of them splashing in the servants' blood. Only when Erik was satisfied did he stand up. The last thing Finleac saw was Erik slash both of Breana's legs with his sword and leave her there, screaming, as he killed the horses.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The pass stretched before them with the track winding to the head of a granite ridge. Melcorka walked in front, ready to draw Defender, but the way was clear. There was no mist and no grey men, only the sough of the wind over sparse heather and the tinkle of small burns across the granite. Above, a golden eagle circled beneath a cold blue sky.
“That was easier than I expected,” Melcorka said as they crested the ridge and looked northward. “There was a prosperous glen last time we were here.”
“The Grey Glen,” Bradan said.
Astrid shook her head. “There has been no prosperity here for many years, perhaps for a century or more. Picts, Albans and Norse have fought over this glen too often. Now it is a wasteland.”
“It is,” Bradan agreed. The glen was empty, with weeds choking what had once been productive farmland and herds of wild deer roaming where domesticated cattle once grazed. Low walls of rubble marked where homesteads should have harboured smiling families. “We will pass through. When the scourge of war and evil is lifted, people may return and farm this desolate place.”
“Perhaps.” Astrid glanced at Defender. “Although, as long as women and men worship violence, war will reign happily.”
Melcorka grunted, said nothing, hitched up her sword and strode on, northwards, towards the coast of Caithness.
Beyond the glen was another loch, long and narrow, between bleak moorland where herders avoided the travellers and whaups cried in a lonely sky. “We are near the land of the cats,” Astrid said. “The land of Moruir Chat, the Great Man of the Cats, as the Albans style him.”
“Is he still here?” Bradan asked.
“You may meet him,” Astrid said. “But first, we have to pass the vast marsh.”
“I've seen enough of marshes to last me for ever.” Bradan said. “I hope there are no Moss-men waiting to attack.”
“Don't worry,” Astrid said. “I'm here to look after you.” She looked away, smiling, as Melcorka glared at her.
Bleak, flat and dull under a grey sky, the marsh waited for them. Pathless, it was a formidable barrier to their progress, made worse by the grey men who stood on the edge.
“Now that's familiar,” Bradan said. “I'm becoming a little tired of these grey men.”
“So am I,” Melcorka agreed.
“Follow me,” Astrid said, walking boldly on to the moss. “Put your feet where I put mine. Ignore them – I have protected you from their evil eye.”
“I'll go next,” Melcorka said.
Forming a semi-circle, the grey men waited until Astrid was close before throwing back their hoods. Melcorka shivered at the concentrated power of their stare. Despite her dislike, she glanced at Astrid, who walked on without any hesitation.
“Their evil eye cannot hurt us,” Astrid reminded. “We are protected.”
Melcorka touched the hilt of Defender. “Perhaps I should walk in front.”
“You don't know the path.”
The grey men continued to stare.
“Who are you?” Melcorka demanded.
“I can't see the grey woman this time,” Bradan said. “I think she leads them.”
“Most men need a good woman to lead them.” Astrid spoke quietly. “Or a bad one,” she added with a smile.
Although he could not see her, the grey woman's voice slid into Bradan's mind. “I am who has always been, Bradan the Wanderer. I am who you seek.”
“That makes no sense,” Bradan said.
“What makes no sense?” Melcorka asked.
“The grey woman,” Bradan tried to push the voice from his head. “She is inside
