MacBain held Defender high, swung at empty air and peered along the edge of the blade. “She sings well,” he said. “My secret is in the Clach Bhuaidh,” he said. “As long as the Stone of Victory is in the pommel, I cannot be defeated. The Clach Bhuaidh was a Druid's stone from long ago, a protector of good from evil.”
Melcorka examined the crystal as it reflected the embers of the dying campfires and the glitter of the stars above. “It is amazing what power a small thing can have.”
“As the saying goes, good gear comes in small bulk,” MacBain said.
They handed the swords back. “I am glad we are on the same side,” Melcorka told him.
“As am I.” MacBain replaced his sword. “Let us hope it will ever be so.”
“Let us hope so, indeed,” Melcorka watched the Clach Bhuaidh glow as MacBain looked around the camp.
“Where will you be fighting tomorrow?” MacBain asked.
“I will fight wherever I am most needed,” Melcorka said. “I will not disrupt the battle formation to win glory for myself.”
“That is a soldier's reply,” MacBain said approvingly.
An hour before dawn, with faint grey streaks easing over the eastern horizon, the camp awoke. They rose silently, to find whatever food they could, pray for courage and success that day and check their weapons. Women scurried to make food or sought the sanctuary of trees to relieve their bladders, a piper made himself unpopular by blasting out a rousing tune, and a bard began a long monologue about the heroes of past battles. At the edge of the camp, a group of stalwart warriors who hoped to be champions practised swordplay while boasting to impress a group of watching women.
“All is normal,” Bradan fingered the cross on his staff, “yet things are not right. The sky awaits, and the animals are unhappy. There is not a single dog in the camp, despite an abundance of food.”
“Where are they?”
“They ran off last night.” Bradan tapped his staff on the ground. “Things are not what they seem, Mel.”
“The champions don't seem concerned.” Melcorka watched as Finleac kissed both his women, planted a small Celtic cross in the ground and knelt before it, while Black Duncan sharpened each one of his dozen darts. MacBain gave Melcorka a wink as he wandered over to the king.
“Gather round, captains, kings and chiefs,” MacBain”s invitation was more of an order. “The High King has intelligence from the scouts.”
“We are not sure who commands the Northumbrians,” Mael Coluim told the leaders as they congregated around his knoll. “It might be the veteran Uhtred, or it may be his brother Eadwulf Cudel. I hope it is Uhtred, for he repulsed my attack on Durham 12 years ago, cowering behind fortifications and afraid to fight us in the open. If not, then it is Eadwulf, who even his army called Cudel, cuttlefish, the coward. Either way, we shall be victorious.”
The captains were too experienced to cheer. They asked sensible questions about the disposition of their men and spoke to their supports on either flank.
“If anybody wants religious help,” Mael Coluim added, “the Church of St Cuthbert is over there. Go quickly as we'll be marching off the moment the men have eaten.”
As the captains organised themselves, MacBain checked the army, stalking around the fringes. Noticing the Butcher watching from a small rise, he stopped to glare at him. The Butcher, still astride his garron, did not move, while the grey man was as insubstantial as before.
“You lads,” MacBain gestured to a group of border horsemen, “go and see who that man is, and what he wants. If he's a Northumbrian or Danish spy, kill him. If he wants to join us, bring him to me.”
Melcorka watched the five horsemen trot off with young Martin in the lead. “I'd like to see what happens now.”
“Time will see all things,” Bradan lifted his head as a wolf howled. “The beasts know that something is wrong.”
“Of course something is wrong,” Melcorka said. “Thousands of men are going to be hacking at each other so one king or another can claim he owns a bit ground he'll probably never visit again in his life.”
Bradan nodded. “Aye; maybe that's all it is. I think we had better see the holy men. I fear we may need their help today.” He nodded as Finleac passed them. “Even the king's champions agree with me.”
Finleac moved like a shadow, moving lithely across the ground on his way to the church, still with a woman clinging to each arm. Only when he was at the door of St Cuthbert's Minster did he disengage himself, give the brunette on his left a hearty kiss, land an equally hearty slap on the backside of the buxom redhead on his right and attempt to look solemn.
St Cuthbert's Minster at Carham stood within 100 paces of the fast-flowing Tweed, a wood and wattle creation of the Celtic Church, a symbol of Christianity and humanity in a borderland only partially tamed.
Urging his women away, Finleac handed his swords to a tired-eyed priest and walked in. Kneeling before the simple altar, he asked the head priest for a blessing. “May God forgive me for what I am about to do,” Finleac said. “And forgive me if I forget you during this day, for I will be busy smiting hip and thigh.”
The priests welcomed his words, shook their heads at the slaughter to come and blessed him. Rising, Finleac left the small church, accepted his swords back from the priest and strode to the front of the Alban army. In the distance, Melcorka heard the deep-throated singing of the enemy, hard-edged voices roaring out a battle hymn that had nothing to do with gentle Christianity.
Mael Coluim marched them onward towards the Northumbrians, a long column of Albans and Strathclyde British, with the High King, Owen the Bald and the three champions at their
