* * *
The Alban wedge was pushing hard at the right half of the Norse army, bending the battle-line into a great horseshoe. Swords and axes rose and fell on to heads and limbs while spears stabbed into chests, stomachs and groins, men fell, groaning or screaming as the carnage continued. On the left, the Alban skirmishers fired and dodged the Norse arrows and spears. The left-hand Norse battle line did not move to help its companions, while MacBain pushed Erik back, step by step. As MacBain advanced, the Clach Bhuaidh glowed with its internal power.
“Things are looking good,” Melcorka said to herself. “Perhaps MacBain and his Stone of Victory can defeat Erik.” She looked anxiously to the west, searching for the arrival of the forces of evil.
For a few moments, Melcorka believed she would not be needed. She thought that MacBain would defeat Erik in straight combat, the king's army would break the Norse, and the invasion would end here. For a few moments, Melcorka nearly relaxed, until the grey man put his hand inside the bag he carried. That simple movement seemed to give new life to Erik. He had been defending, but now went on the offensive. With Legbiter parrying all MacBain's thrusts and slashes, Erik seemed to know what Mael Coluim's champion would do before he attacked. Simultaneously, the Clach Bhuaidh dimmed, as if something was draining its power.
“Odin!” Both halves of the Norse army roared. “Odin!” The left half lifted their shields and began to edge forward with slow, methodical steps.
Now it was Erik who pushed forward and MacBain who was on the defensive, backing away pace by pace with the Norseman laughing, slashing and thrusting with a speed that Melcorka had never seen before.
The grey man put his hand inside his bag again, and Erik ducked, pushed Legbiter forward and sliced at MacBain's thigh with a drawing stroke that opened a massive wound. The glow from the Clach Bhuaidh faded further.
MacBain staggered, lurched to one side and gave a hopeful, hopeless swing with his sword that Erik parried, twisted Legbiter and broke MacBain's blade in two. The Clach Bhuaidh rolled from the hilt, to lie on the surface of the sand, sinking slightly. Roaring in rage, MacBain drew the dirk from under his left arm and hopped forward, thrusting in the underhanded groin stroke. Erik blocked the blade with his shield, twisted to his left and slashed again with Legbiter.
With both thighs sliced open, MacBain fell to the ground, still flailing with his dirk. Erik laughed, stepped aside and chopped down with Legbiter, cutting off the fingers of MacBain's right hand. Still with a hand inside his bag, the man in grey came closer, staring at MacBain. The ground pulled the Clach Bhuaidh further down until the sand closed around it, extinguishing the glow.
“Enough, Erik!” Melcorka stepped forward, balancing Defender on her right shoulder. “I know your tricks.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Once again, Melcorka saw herself lying on that sandy ground, with a tall man standing over her and Bradan walking away with another woman. So this is how I die, she thought. It is a fitting end for a warrior.
Erik looked up, just as MacBain drew his skean dhu and threw it. The point of the blade pierced Erik's left leg and dropped, leaving a tiny wound.
Erik shook his head, dipped a finger in the blood, tasted it and smiled. Stepping over MacBain, he thrust Legbiter into the wounded man's chest and twisted. MacBain died without a groan.
With Erik's victory over the Alban champion, the left Norse formation gave a great roar and pushed forward. With their shields interlocked, swords and spears thrusting in unison, the Norsemen brushed the Alban skirmishers aside and crashed into the left flank of the Alban army.
“I thought I had already killed you.” Erik was not out of breath. “I left you alive. I won't make that mistake a second time.”
“You won't get the chance,” Melcorka said, with more confidence than she felt. For all her adventures since last she fought Erik, she had not increased the power of Defender one iota and had not learned how to decrease the strength of Legbiter. All Melcorka had learned was the reason for Erik's skill.
Erik waited, with MacBain's blood dripping from Legbiter. “You cannot defeat me, Melcorka. I have Loki's Sword.”
“That is not Loki's sword,” Melcorka stood in a half-crouch, holding Defender before her, point-upward in a double-handed grip. “Your sword has the power of the Cu-saeng, the dark god of the underworld. You do not control it – the sword controls you.”
“I am Erik Egilsson,” Erik said, “and this is Legbiter, my sword.” He clashed the blade against his shield. “My father killed your mother. I will kill you.”
“That may happen,” Melcorka moved in a half-circle, awaiting Erik”s attack, trying to keep one eye on the battle behind her. “Who is the man in grey?”
“He is my servant,” Erik looked momentarily puzzled. “Why do you ask?”
“He is the servant of the Cu-saeng,” Melcorka said. “I have met his like before. He is no friend of yours, Erik.”
Behind her, the Alban line was bending. The Norse had held the attack of the wedge while the second Norse battle line was creating havoc with the Alban flank. Men were falling by the dozen as the Norse blades hewed at them, with Mael Coluim shouting from the blunted edge of the wedge and the blue boar banner dipping. Norse horns were blaring, and the chanting rose high in the air.
“Odin! Odin claims you! Odin!”
As the Albans wavered, a new force appeared, trotting beside the sea, the hellish hordes of the Cu-saeng, cat women and cat warriors, the men in grey, the cannibals and moss-men that Melcorka had encountered on her journeying across the land.
On a word from the High King, a force of Alban skirmishers moved out to delay the fresh host, throwing spears and firing arrows as quickly as they could. When the
