“Thank you.” Nodding to the king, Melcorka searched the camp until she found Drostan sitting in a circle of Pictish warriors around a fire. “Have you seen Bradan in the camp?”
Drostan lowered the horn of mead from his lips. “Bradan? Did he not send news to you, Melcorka?”
“I have heard nothing from him for days,” Melcorka said.
Drostan stood, wiping his lips. “Bradan has left, Melcorka. As soon as I told him the Norse fleet had landed in Findhorn Bay, he headed east and north at a great speed.”
“North?” Melcorka felt her heart begin to race. “Do you know where he was headed?”
“No, Melcorka.” Drostan shook his head. “I thought he was trying to escape the fighting. He is a man of peace, not of war.”
“I know what Bradan is,” Melcorka said sharply. “I cannot think why he would leave without telling me.”
Drostan shrugged. “Perhaps Astrid might know. She was also looking for him.”
“Where is she now?” Melcorka asked.
“I don't know.” Drostan sipped at his mead. “She followed after him. Maybe she found him.”
“Maybe she did,” Melcorka said. “I am sure Bradan will turn up. He's old enough and ugly enough to look after himself.” Yet she thought of Bradan with Astrid and wondered if he would ever return.
No. That was a foolish thing to think.
Hefting Defender, Melcorka sighed. This fight might be her last. After this battle, she might lie dead on the Sands of Culbin, the natural end of any warrior. If she were Norse, she would expect an afterlife in the Halls of Valhalla, but as a follower of Christ, Melcorka was unsure if St Peter would accept her into Heaven, or if her life of swordplay would condemn her to another, much less pleasant place.
Bradan? Where are you?
That night, Melcorka slept fitfully, waking before dawn to reach for the space beside her. Melcorka was not the first awake, for men were already polishing their swords or sharpening their spears, checking their chain mail for rust or making pacts with comrades they had known for years.
“If I'm badly wounded, kill me clean and don't leave me for the crows to peck.”
“Aye, I'll do that if you do the same for me.”
“Guard my back, Toshie and I'll guard yours.”
“If you're killed, Kenny, can I get your silver arm band?”
“Aye, I'll not need it. You can have the wife as well.”
“Och, I”ve already had her, Kenny.” Followed by a burst of laughter.
Other men stood in silence, staring at the sky, or openly prayed for divine assistance to survive the day. The younger ones boasted of the deeds they would perform and the Norsemen they would kill, while grey-bearded veterans formed small groups and spoke of the horror to come and wondering if their failing strength would be sufficient. A few passed bottles and flasks around and one young man was openly crying in fear.
MacBain tramped up to Melcorka. “Has your man Bradan turned up, yet?”
“Not yet,” Melcorka forced a smile. “He'll come in good time.”
“Maybe.” MacBain tested the swing of his sword, ensured the dirk was loose under his arm and the skean dhu – the black-knife – was safe against his ankle. “I hope so, Melcorka. I rather liked that solemn man.”
“May God go with you today, MacBain,” Melcorka said.
“May he guide your arms and protect your back,” MacBain returned.
They stood side by side at the edge of the camp, comrades who had not known each other until recently, yet who would risk their lives in battle within a few hours.
“Only veterans know how hellish a battle is,” MacBain said. “Youngsters think it's all glamour, and poets talk of the glory,” he shook his head. “Some day there will be no more wars.”
“Aye, some day,” Melcorka said. “I doubt we'll see that day in our lifetimes.”
“I think you are right,” MacBain said. “Maybe our children will, or our grandchildren.”
The sound of blowing horns broke the morning, with loud chants from the Norse camp only a mile away to the north.
“Odin! Odin!”
“Odin claims you, men of Alba! Odin claims you!”
“They are awake,” MacBain said. “We'd best get the men organised, Melcorka.”
“Aye.” Melcorka nodded. “God save us all.”
* * *
“Melcorka!” The High King shouted. “Go you and look on our enemy. See what they are doing. You are the only one among us who knows Erik Egilsson by sight.”
Once again, Melcorka scrambled up a tree to spy on the invaders. “They've formed into battle lines,” she reported. “Waiting for us, with Erik in front and that evil little grey man at his side.”
“How many battle lines?” MacBain shouted.
“Two triple lines,” Melcorka said, “with a gap of about 300 paces in between. Erik is in the centre of the gap.”
“They hope to catch us between their formations,” MacBain said, “so we fight on two sides simultaneously. They are content to wait for us to come to them. Does Erik have bodyguards with him? House carls, Berserkers?”
“He is standing between the two formations, with his servant at his side.”
“I will see him shortly.” MacBain touched the Clach Bhuaidh. “And shortly after, he will be dead.”
Melcorka looked northward, hoping to see Bradan striding towards her with his staff in his hands and his serene, serious eyes noticing everything. Instead, she saw something much more alarming. “There is another army approaching us.”
“What sort of army?” Mael Coluim asked. “It had better not be Jarl Thorfinn on my lands.”
“It is not Thorfinn,” Melcorka said. “It is much worse.”
“Who?”
“The forces of evil are coming,” Melcorka said, as the king began to laboriously climb the tree.
“Let me see. Where?”
“There, on the coast to the north west.” The army came in an undisciplined mob, some were the surviving cat-men of Dun Dreggan, moving now on all fours, now walking on two legs, with a gaggle of cat-women at their side. Gliding with them were the hooded grey men of the mist, and then the
