Thorfinn lifted his chin. “We will fight.”
“You may need help,” Melcorka said. “Mael Coluim has an experienced, veteran army.”
“Mael Coluim the Destroyer?” Thorfinn crashed a massive fist on the table. “That murderer will never enter my jarldom! I will fight him before I fight Erik Egilsson and all the hordes of Hel!”
“If you combined your forces, you'd have a better chance of victory,” Melcorka said.
Thorfinn spat on the ground. “That for Mael Coluim,” he spat again, “and that for Alba. If Erik Egilsson ravages Alba, I will line up my men and cut down any Alban who tries to flee into my realm.”
“Jarl Thorfinn,” Melcorka said, “Erik could destroy you both, one at a time.”
“I will not help the Destroyer,” Thorfinn said. “You may take that message to him, and I will write the proof in red ink and with a very sharp pen.”
“As you wish, my lord,” Melcorka gave an ironic curtsey. “Then you shall have to fight a lone war against both the Cu-saeng and Erik Egilsson. I will do my best to help if Erik lands in your realm.”
Busy with a horn of mead, Thorfinn was not listening.
“What do we do?” Bradan asked.
“We do what we always do,” Melcorka told him. “We do what is right, whatever the kings and lords decide.”
* * *
The boom and sliding suck of surf on shingle dominated the night. Melcorka stood on Cullen Bin, the imposing hill that overlooked a vast swathe of the Fidach coast. She looked to the west, where she had stationed Bradan, and east, where she had placed Astrid. Between the three of them, they kept watch on most of the southern coast of the Moray Firth, the area where Erik would most likely land if he came at all.
How many days had she been here? Was it 10? Or 12? Maybe 14? Melcorka did not know. She could not remember. Her life seemed to be a succession of breezy days staring at a choppy blue sea and cold nights peering into the darkness, hoping to see the sails of an invading fleet. She hoped that Bradan and Astrid were still alert, chewed on a hunk of cheese and settled down for another cold night.
Although she had arranged the beacons in person, Melcorka was still surprised when the light flickered from the west, the pre-arranged signal from Astrid. After so many fruitless days, she found her mind nearly numbed. Melcorka counted the flashes, knowing that Astrid held a cover in front of the fire and flicked it away again to indicate the number of ships she had seen.
When she counted 10, Melcorka frowned. When she reached 20, she scored the ground with her foot. A small Norse longboat would carry 25 men, a medium vessel up to 60 and the largest 100 men. Twenty ships indicated that Erik did not intend a mere raid. He had a minimum of 500 men, and as many as 2,000. Erik was bringing a full army.
The lights continued to blink; another 10 times, and then another 10 after that. If Astrid was right, and the ships she saw belonged to Erik, there was a fleet of 40 ships sailing up the Moray Firth. Melcorka tightened the buckles on her sword belt. However skilled Defender made her, she could not defeat an entire army, particularly if Erik and Legbiter were there. She hoped that Mael Coluim and Thorfinn had both gathered their warriors, for the invaders could land anywhere on this coast with an army numbered in the thousands.
When the fire-blink concluded, Melcorka lit the signal fire she had already prepared and transferred the same signal to the west, so that Bradan knew what was happening. She trusted Bradan to be alert for the warning and to send a messenger to Jarl Thorfinn at his base a few miles north and westward of his frontier with Alba.
Running down the wooded slopes of the Bin, Melcorka stopped at the small encampment at the lower slope. Four men lay around the dying embers of a fire, one snoring loudly and the others quiet in their sleep.
“Wake up!” Melcorka kicked the sleeping forms without mercy. “Get up, you lazy scoundrels!”
The men stirred, turning sleep-hazed eyes on her. “What's happening?”
“The Norse are happening!” Indifferent to their nakedness, Melcorka dragged them upright. “Forty ships!”
“Forty?” The tallest of the men stared at her, unable to comprehend the number. “Cnut?”
“I doubt it,” Melcorka said. “It will be Erik Egilsson.”
“Forty ships?” Another of the men repeated the figure, goggling with the stupidity of sleep.
“You!” Melcorka jabbed a hard finger into the tallest man”s ribs. “Go and warn the king. Tell him there is a fleet sailing up the Moray Firth. Go!” She pushed him away.
“I'll get dressed first,” the man said.
“By God, you should never have been undressed when danger threatens!” Melcorka kicked his backside with genuine anger. “Hurry, man!”
As the man scrambled to dress, Melcorka addressed a ginger-haired, freckled youngster who was already pulling on his clothes. “You! Run to the farms near the coast and warn them the Norse are coming.”
“All of the farms?”
“As many as you can. The news will soon spread. Tell the men to get whatever arms they can and gather here, at the foot of Cullen Bin, and wait for the High King.”
The freckled man scurried away, leaping over half-seen shrubbery in his haste.
“You two, come with me!” Melcorka returned to the summit of the hill.
In the time she had been away, the dawn had strengthened, with a sliver of silver light shining over the sea. Melcorka could see the sails of the fleet easing up the Firth, so beautiful yet so deadly, the feared Norse dragon ships with their crews of some of the most ferocious warriors in Europe. They sailed in formation, with one large vessel in front and the others following in a long vee, like a skein of geese flying south. The leading ship was huge,
