“I've never seen so many ships in one place,” one of Melcorka”s men, a stocky, black-bearded rogue, said.
“Not many people have,” Melcorka thought of the fleets of the Chola Empire she had seen in Asia and wondered how they would fare against these Norsemen, so utterly reckless of life.
“Where are they headed?” The black-bearded man asked.
“I don't know,” Melcorka said. “As soon as I find out, I will send you to tell the king.”
“And me?” Drostan, the second man, was eager. In his early twenties, he had the dark hair and high cheekbones of a Fidach Pict.
“You will run to Bradan in the west and inform him.” Melcorka said, “when I tell you to.”
The light strengthened every moment, revealing more details of the fleet. The leading ship was massive, with its oars pulling smoothly and a high prow rising proud, surmounted by the gaping jaws of the dragon figurehead that gave these vessels their name. Even from this distance, Melcorka could see the flash of sunlight on spear points, and the row of circular shields along the bulwarks. The following vessels were not so large, perhaps with 30 oars, and with smaller ships in the rear. As they travelled westward, the fleet eased closer to the shore, as if searching for a suitable landing spot.
“Dear God, there are hundreds of them,” Melcorka shook her head. “I hope the king gets here soon.” She nudged the bearded man. “The High King is 40 miles to the south, camped on a bend of the Spey. Run and tell him the Norse fleet is west of Cullen. Inform him that Melcorka advises him to hurry with all the force he can muster.”
Nodding, the bearded man set off at once, jumping over obstacles with an agility that belied his stocky build.
“Stay with me,” Melcorka said to Drostan. “We'll follow the Norse until we see where they're going to land.”
Running down to the shore, and keeping level with the Norse fleet, Melcorka trotted westward. The ships were so close that Melcorka could see every detail, from the designs of the shields to the individual strakes of the hull. She could hear the Norsemen singing, their words helping the oarsmen keep time as the ships surged through the swell of the Moray Firth. The sails were furled, and sunlight glinted on shields, spear points and the metal of iron pot-helmets.
“Are they going to land in Alba?” Melcorka wondered, “or is Erik going to strike at Thorfinn's jarldom?”
“Melcorka,” Drostan had kept pace with her, step for step. “I know this coast. I am from Fidach.”
“Where would you land, if you were the Norse?”
“Findhorn Bay,” Drostan said. “It has a dangerous entrance but a sheltered anchorage beside a broad beach. The fleet will be safe from offshore storms, and there is space to gather the men together.”
Melcorka nodded. “That sounds suitable, Drostan. You will make a good captain in Mael Coluim's army.”
“No, Melcorka, I am no warrior.”
“You may have to be, when the Norse land,” Melcorka said. “I think we will all have to be warriors.” She glanced at Drostan. “Take me to Findhorn Bay, Drostan.”
Increasing their speed, they were still only a few moments ahead of the fleet as they reached the shallow basin of Findhorn Bay.
“These oarsmen are putting muscle into their work.” Melcorka said.
Drostan had been right, for the giant dragon ship edged slowly past the narrow entrance and into the sea-loch at Findhorn, where it slid on to the beach.
“Oh, dear God, deliver us from the fury of the Northmen,” Melcorka voiced a centuries-old prayer, even as she fingered the hilt of Defender.
Erik was first to leave the ship, with his head up, Legbiter hanging at his waist and his grey, raven-bedecked shield on his left arm. A few seconds behind him came the grey man, with his grey bag suspended over his shoulder. Melcorka grunted, acutely aware of the evil that these grey men represented.
“Run to Bradan, Drostan.” Melcorka said. “Tell him to warn Thorfinn that the landing has taken place.” She tried to keep calm, although she felt the tension build inside her. “Tell him there are 40 ships full of the worst kind of men imaginable.” She gave him a little push. “Go!”
Melcorka watched Erik giving orders as his crew jumped ashore. All were mature bearded men with the confident swagger of veterans and the well-kept weapons of mercenaries.
“These boys know what they're about,” Melcorka said.
Some of the warriors carried old scars, or souvenirs of adventures overseas, with exotic clothing or weapons. All treated Erik with the casual respect of fighting men for the first among equals.
As Erik stood on the shore, the grey man remained 10 paces away, ignored by everybody. Melcorka eyed him, trying to work out who, or what, he was.
“I cannot make you out, grey man,” Melcorka said. “I only know that you are the fount of the evil that is in Erik.” She mused for a few moments. “The fount, or perhaps the tap that runs from the source.” Melcorka looked away as more of the Norse fleet eased into the shallow bay. “You have a formidable crew, Erik,” she said. “I wonder what the other ships hold.”
As ship after ship disgorged their men, Melcorka nodded in mixed respect and worry. While most ships held more veterans, others carried crews of eager youths, dangerous in their lust to prove themselves. A few carried men who must have infested the worst areas of the most pestilent towns of Europe, terrible people who fought each other, roared with harsh laughter and treated even their commanders with disrespect.
“God save Alba from things like that,” Melcorka said.
The veterans moved inland at once, establishing defensive posts to enable the fleet to disembark without molestation.
“These men know their business.” Melcorka continued to watch, taking note of the composition of every crew, the bearing of every captain and their attitude to Erik.
“Are you
