“Melcorka,” Bradan said urgently, leading Melcorka away from the main array, “look.”
At first glance, Melcorka thought that the five horses that were cantering towards the Alban army were riderless. But then she saw the occupants. Each man had been placed face down on his saddle. Blood wept from the deep wounds in their legs as the horses arrived at the head of the Alban army. Young Martin still lived, moaning softly as his life seeped away.
“Those were the border riders MacBain sent to challenge the Butcher,” Bradan said.
“Aye.” Melcorka hitched Defender higher up her back. “At least we know now that the Butcher is not going to join the army.”
“Whatever he wants, it will have to wait,” Bradan said. “The Albans have more to worry about than a single rogue warrior, however fierce he may be.”
Sunlight glinted on the swords and axes of the Northumbrians and gleamed from the array of bright circular shields as the enemy battle line waited for the Alban advance. The Northumbrians had positioned themselves along a grassy ridge, with the River Tweed guarding one flank and a patch of dense woodland the other. Above the army, banners and flags drifted in the light wind.
At the sight of the Northumbrian array, the Alban army stopped. Each side stared at the other for a few moments, and then gave a great roar of defiance, with the flags lifted higher and weapons brandished aloft.
“Here we go again,” Bradan tapped his staff on the ground. “How many battles have we seen, Melcorka?”
“Too many,” Melcorka touched the hilt of Defender. “This fight at Carham will be one more to add to our list.”
True Thomas appeared at their side, with a sad smile on his face. “This battle will decide the shape of a frontier for centuries to come,” he said, “yet you must not take much heed of the armies.”
“Then why are we here, Thomas?” Bradan asked. “You have guided us from the sea to a battle. There must be a reason.”
When True Thomas nodded, there was infinite weariness in his eyes. “A battle will determine a frontier and which king may neglect his subjects. I have brought you two here for something more important than kings or nations.”
“I wish you would tell us what it is,” Melcorka said. “Why do seers always talk in riddles?”
True Thomas smiled. “You have freedom of choice, Melcorka. I can guide you, but ultimately the decision lies with you. I will say this to you, Bradan: evil's smiling arrogance will reveal the light.”
Bradan shrugged. “That is another riddle, Thomas.”
“It is a riddle that may help you if you decipher it.”
“I will remember it,” Bradan said. “Evil's smiling arrogance will reveal the light.”
“Good.” Thomas nodded. “Now wait; your time will come soon.”
The Northumbrians greeted the advancing allies with a great roar and a volley of arrows, stones and spears.
“Out! Out!” they yelled, shaking their weapons in the air. “Out! Out!”
“They sound like the barking of a thousand dogs!” Owen said, with a dark sun reflecting on his bald head.
“These same Anglian dogs have murdered and plundered half the island of Britain since they first invaded,” Mael Coluim replied. “They are a disease sent by the devil for our sins.”
“Then let us be the antidote.” Owen unsheathed his sword. He stood erect, broad-shouldered and tall. When he slid a steel helmet on, he looked every inch a British warrior, facing the Angles, the enemies of his blood.
“Out! Out!” The Northumbrians barked. “Out! Out!”
Owen stamped his feet. “Give the word, my king!”
“Good man, Owen!” Mael Coluim's grin was fierce. “Form line of battle! Archers and spearmen to the front! Skirmishers advance!”
Melcorka watched in approval as the allied army formed up, with Owen's Strathclyde men on the right, the post of honour, and the spearmen and archers stepping forward to harass the Northumbrian line. The warriors wore quilted leather or padded linen, with a few of the champions in chainmail, while some had a metal helmet to protect their head. The majority fought in their leines, the long linen shirt common to all the Celtic peoples, with perhaps a rudimentary coat of deerskin as protection. Only the wealthy carried swords, for they were expensive weapons that took great skill to make. Most men carried spears or dirks, the long fighting knife, or arm-length darts they could throw with terrifying force and accuracy.
Uhtred responded in kind, sending forward his skirmishers to face the Albans, so volleys of spears and arrows passed back and forward, with the light infantrymen of both armies in between. Occasionally a missile found its mark, with an Alban or Angle falling or grunting in pain. A scatter of bodies littered the ground, and the groans of the wounded rose to the circling rooks.
“The Northumbrians hold the high ground,” Melcorka said, “so they have the advantage. Now both sides will form a shield wall and it will be about resilience, muscle power and strength.”
Bradan tapped his staff on the ground, wordless, watching the bravery and the suffering.
As Melcorka had said, Mael Coluim formed his men into a formation identical to that of the Northumbrians. For half an hour, the two armies faced each other, with the rival warcries rising and the skirmishers firing arrows and spears. Men fell in ones and twos, with the casualties on both sides beginning to mount.
Twice Black Duncan stepped out of the Alban array to challenge the Northumbrian champions to single combat, without result. The Northumbrians hearth carls, the professional soldiers, remained in their ranks, much to the Albans' disgust.
“Cowards!” The Albans yelled. “Tailed English dogs!”
Melcorka sighed, reaching for Defender. “I think I should get involved here before we all fall asleep.”
“No.” True Thomas laid a hand on her arm. “This is the High King's battle. Let him win it. Your time will come.”
When Mael
