Loki's Sword Page 4

  The Danes halted their push into the Alban ranks to face this new challenge.

  “We fight for King Cnut!” the axeman man roared. “We are Danes!”

  “Danes, Angles or Norse, it's all the same to Defender!” Melcorka replied. “Will you die one at a time or all together?”

  The axeman laughed. “Well met, Swordswoman. You will fare well in Valhalla.”

  “You can wait for me there,” Melcorka said, running forward with Defender held in front of her like a lance. Instinct warned her that the man on her left would thrust at her leg, so she sidestepped right, knowing the man on her right would swing at her neck. Blocking his attempt, she twisted Defender upwards, unbalancing the swordsman so she could slip past to the axeman.

  The axeman waited for her with his axe ready and a smile on his face. “Who are you, woman? I like to know the names of my enemies before I kill them.”

  “I am Melcorka Nic Bearnas of the Cenel Bearnas,” Melcorka said, slashing behind her as she heard one of the other Danes running up. She felt Defender's blade slice through human flesh and knew she had given a mortal wound.

  “I am Thorkill,” the tall man stepped back a single step to give himself more room.

  “Well met, Thorkill.” Melcorka stopped abruptly, knowing Thorkill would swing his axe right to left. She felt the wind of the blade as it passed her, then chopped up with Defender, cutting the handle in two, leaving Thorkill with only a few inches of wood.

  Thorkill looked at the remains of his axe. “I'll wait for you in Valhalla,” he said, drew a dagger and lunged forward. Melcorka impaled him on the point of Defender.

  “You died well,” she said to Thorkill's corpse. “You will live well on the other side.”

  The third Dane was staring at her. White-faced, he turned to flee, only for a border horseman to kill him with a quick thrust of his lance. Wherever Melcorka looked, the Northumbrian line had broken, and the allied warriors were surging forward, killing those who resisted, enslaving those who surrendered and chasing the panicking fugitives.

  “Not many will get away,” Bradan stepped over the axeman's corpse, watching the Albans chase the fugitives. “A battle won is nearly as bad as a battle lost.” He pointed to the mounds of mutilated dead and the screaming, hopeless wounded. “Who would think there is anything glorious about this carnage?”

  “There is glory for the courage in it.” Melcorka wiped the blood from Defender's blade. “And honour for those who died well.”

  Bradan shook his head without replying as True Thomas strode towards them.

  “The High King wants you,” True Thomas said. “He noticed what you did. Now your mission will begin.”

  The messenger was lithe, handsome and clean, a courtier rather than a warrior. He gave an elaborate bow as he approached Melcorka.

  “My Lady of the Sword,” he said. “The High King, Mael Coluim himself, wishes to speak to you.”

  “The wishes of a king is a demand for ordinary mortals,” Bradan murmured. “I'll be within hailing distance, Mel.”

  “Thank you,” Melcorka replied to the courtier. “Please escort me to the king's presence.” She noticed that True Thomas had disappeared, although his oystercatchers were circling, keeping clear of the flocks of rooks that were already descending to feast on the battle casualties.

  Close to, the High King was different from what Melcorka had imagined. He was tall, clean-shaven and with a surprisingly weak chin. Only when she met his gaze did Melcorka sense the power beneath. Mael Coluim's eyes seemed to bore right into her, seeing into the depth of her thoughts.

  “Who are you,” the High King asked, “to dispose of three Northumbrian champions on your own?”

  “I am Melcorka nic Bearnas of the Cenel Bearnas. Some call me the Swordswoman.” Melcorka stood erect, holding the king's gaze.

  “A name well earned, I wager,” Mael Coluim said. “I sent some of my best young warriors against these Northumbrians, and they died.” He eyed her, taking in every detail of her worn blue cloak and the cross-hilt of the sword above her shoulder.

  “They were Danes, your Grace, not Northumbrians.” Although Melcorka knew it was not wise to contradict a king, she wished to test his character. “The tall hero called himself Thorkill. I do not know the names of his companions.”

  For a moment, Melcorka saw intense rage behind the High King's eyes. “Thorkill! His name is known. He is one of Cnut's champions. So the Danish conqueror of the English has tried to test my mettle, has he?” Mael Coluim's smile contained as much humour as the grin of a hunting fox. “Well, even my women can defeat his best, it seems. Come with me, Melcorka, the Swordswoman.”

  “May my companion come too?” Melcorka indicated Bradan, who stood 10 yards away, leaning on his staff. “We have journeyed many miles together.”

  “You are companions, yet he did nothing to help when you fought three Danes.” The High King's gaze swept over Bradan as if he did not exist. “My invitation is for you, Swordswoman, and you alone.”

  “As you wish, your Grace.”

  Mael Coluim grunted as if there was no doubt that everybody would follow his wishes. “I have some business to attend to, Swordswoman. You may accompany me.”

  As Melcorka followed the High King into the nearby church of St Cuthbert, Owen the Bald led the three champions who closed up behind her. The first spots of rain fell from the heavy sky, splattering on the blood-soaked ground.

  “Are these three needed?” Standing a dozen paces away, Bradan nodded to MacBain, Finleac and Black Duncan.

  “The High King does not know Melcorka,” True Thomas said. “He will have his champions close by in case she attacks him. If she behaves, she is in no danger.”

  “In that case, she is in no danger,” Bradan said. “And if she chooses to misbehave, the three champions had better watch out.”

  Like all Celtic churches, the one at Carham was small and austere, with the priests living in pious poverty. Some were tending the wounded of both sides, others praying for the souls of the dead.

  “Here,” the High King lifted a cross and kissed it, smearing the holy artefact with blood. “Here is a gift for you, priests.” Snapping his fingers, he gestured to the servants who had followed him. The first two deposited a bag of gold in front of the altar. “I have no myrrh and no frankincense,” Mael Coluim said, “so gold will have to suffice.”

  The leading priest, a tall man with calm eyes, faced Mael Colm. “No amount of gold can atone for the Christian lives you took today.” He pointed to Melcorka. “And you, a woman, should know better. You were born to nurture, not to kill Christians.”

  Melcorka touched the cross. “I killed no Christians, priest. The three men I fought were pagans who prayed to Odin.”

  “There, you see?” the High King said. “Odin-worshippers, pagans, anti-Christians who would rob your church and murder you. We did you a favour, priest. Take the gold. There will be more to follow, aye and lands for the church.”

  “You wanted to see me, your Grace?” Melcorka reminded.

  “I did,” Mael Coluim assented, sitting on the altar. “You seem to be handy with your sword.”

  Melcorka nodded, saying nothing.

  “Good. A warrior is roaming my kingdom, defeating my champions, deflowering my maidens, killing my men, stealing my livestock and generally making mischief. Do you think you can kill him?”

  Melcorka touched the hilt of Defender. “Perhaps,” she said. “Your Grace has many warriors, skilled in battle. One of them can surely dispose of this man. There used to be a warrior named Aharn if I recall?”

  “Aharn is dead,” The High King said. “He went out after this killer and did not come back. We found his body, days later, with his legs slashed to pieces.”

  Melcorka remembered the five border horsemen. “Is this the man people call the Butcher?”

  “That is he,” Mael Coluim said.

  “He was following your army yesterday, your Grace,” Melcorka said. “Your man
MacBain sent a squad of border riders after him. I saw their bodies later.”

  MacBain nodded. “That is correct. The Butcher killed them all.”

  “Perhaps his Grace should send a whole troop after this man,” Melcorka suggested.

  The High King perched himself on the altar with a curious smile on his face. “I am not used to women trying to tell me what to do. I have a kingdom to run and enemies all around. I have not time to put down every enemy within. Now, will you kill this Butcher for me, Melcorka, slayer of the Danes?”

  “If he is working for evil, I will kill him,” Melcorka felt the attention of the priests centre on her. The head priest nodded as if approving her words.

  The High King swept his hand to the side, knocking down the cross. “I will make that an order,” he said, “a royal command.” His voice softened. “Kill this man.”

  “I shall do so,” Melcorka said, “if he is working for evil.”

  “My lady,” the head priest replaced the wooden cross with every appearance of piety. “What would you do if he was working for good?”

  Melcorka touched the hilt of Defender. “Holy father, if he was working for good, he would not be deflowering maidens and killing men.”

  The head priest made the sign of the cross. “God bless your wisdom, my lady, and may He guide you on the right path.”

  “Thank you, Holy Father.” Melcorka accepted the blessing.

  “Well said, father.” Owen the Bald had been a silent spectator to all that had happened. Now he took hold of Mal Coluim's arm and pulled him off the altar. “You should respect the altar, your Grace. You don't know when you might need the blessing of the church.”

  The rain was more torrential now, hammering on the church roof, forcing the men inside to raise their voices.

  “I have paid my dues,” the High King said. “The church will need me before I need it.”

  “Come, your Grace.” Owen lifted the cross, wiping off the blood that Mael Coluim had left on the altar. “You know better than that. We all need the blessing of the church, especially the High King.”

  “Is everybody intent on giving me orders today?” Mael Coluim asked. “Who is the High King here?”

  “You are, your Grace,” Owen said, “and as a subject king, I am here to give guidance.” When Owen smiled, he appeared a very likeable king. “While this lady of the sword is here to dispose of your enemies.” He paused for effect. “As long as they are evil.”

  Even Mael Coluim joined in the laughter. “You are right, Owen, my shiny-headed friend.” He wrapped a brawny arm around Owen. “We'll leave these good priests in peace and celebrate our victory. Come, Swordswoman, and join us.”

  “Pray grant me a moment in this holy place,” Melcorka said.

  The High King raised his eyebrows. “People tend to obey me immediately.”

  “There is a greater power even than you, your Grace,” Melcorka said.

  The priest frowned as Melcorka unsheathed Defender. “Women should not become involved in swordplay, Melcorka Nic Bearnas, or carry a weapon in the church.”

  “Sometimes it is necessary,” Melcorka said. “Will you bless my sword, holy man?”

  “I will not,” the priest said. “I will not put Christ's blessing on an implement that kills.”

  “Then bless the hilt, holy man,” Melcorka said. “It is fashioned in the shape of a cross.”

  The priest hesitated for only a few moments before he nodded. “Do not place your sword on the holy altar.” Dipping his hand in a basin of holy water, he smeared it across the hilt of Defender. “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, I bless the hilt of this sword. May evil never touch it and may it never fall into other hands unless presented by a good man or woman.”

  “Thank you, holy man,” Melcorka said. “I swear that I shall never draw blade unless for the cause of good.”

  “And this staff, Holy man,” Bradan had entered the church when Mael Coluim and his entourage left. “It has served me well in many places around the world. I don't think there's any goodness left, now.”

  When the priest put two fingers on the staff, he blinked. “Somebody has already blessed this staff,” he said. “I can feel the virtue within it.”

  “Yes, holy man,” Bradan said. “That was many years ago.”

  “Who are you?” Turning his shoulder to Melcorka, the priest spoke only to Bradan.

  “I am Bradan the Wanderer,” Bradan said.

  “You are a man of peace,” the priest said sadly. “But you have many trials before you,” He dipped his fingers into the font and worked on Bradan”s staff until he ended by plunging the top end, with the Celtic cross, into the font and praying. “May God go with you, Bradan the Wanderer.”

  “Thank you, holy man,” Bradan said. Even as he clutched his staff, Bradan knew he would need that blessing. He had never experienced such a feeling of foreboding.

  When they left the church, the rain was hammering down on them, easing the thirst of the sobbing wounded. Busy on their task of tearing at the bodies of the dead, the rooks ignored the weather. “God is weeping tears of joy at our success,” Owen said as thunder echoed from the distant Cheviot Hills.

  “Aye.” Bradan swung his staff at one of the human predators who emerged from their dens after every battle to strip the wounded and dead of clothing and anything valuable. “Ugh, I hate these people much more than I ever disliked the Norse or the Northumbrian warriors.”

  Owen nodded agreement. “Every land has its quota of these wolfish creatures, but there appear to be more this last year or so. It is as if the world was disgorging its most unpleasant creations on to us.”

  Despite the weather, the victorious army had built huge fires, around which the warriors, returning from their pursuit of the fleeing Northumbrians, clustered to boast of their exploits, show their trophies or nurse their wounds. A few score Northumbrian prisoners sat in gloomy thought, tied together as they contemplated a bleak and possibly short future. Harpers and bards sang recently composed songs while women mourned their dead or searched for a fresh man among the victors.

  “Somebody's been busy.” Owen gestured to the centre of the camp, where willing hands had set up a large tent for the king and his entourage, which now included Melcorka. She swaggered in as if by right and spoke directly to Mael Coluim as he sat on a carved wooden chair drinking from a horn and listening to his champions' boasts.

  “Your Grace, where can I find this ferocious Butcher? I know he has been watching us the last few days, but does he have a castle, a dun, or even a cave where he lives when he is not butchering your men?”

  “I do not know.” The High King looked up from his horn of ale. “Yesterday he was here, last week he was in Lothian. He could be anywhere.”

  “Then I shall begin my hunt in Lothian.” Melcorka looked up as a violent gust of wind nearly lifted the tent into the air. “Unless the gale blows me there first.”

  “It's going to be a stormy night,” Black Duncan said.

  “It's going to be a royal storm,” MacBain agreed. “Stay close to us, your Grace. The Northumbrians might seek revenge on you for your victory.”

  Mael Coluim smiled. “I doubt there are many male Northumbrians left alive. Our army slaughtered them by the hundred.”

  “Then Cnut the Dane may try,” MacBain said. “He has long wished to add your Grace's realm to his empire.”

  “He already failed to do that,” Mael Coluim said. “As long as I have men such as you, MacBain, and Duncan and Finleac, I have no fear of the Danish king.”

  “That's a royal storm all right,” Finleac said. “The sort of storm that comes for a king.” He grinned as if at a colossal joke.

  “It's not my time yet,” Mael Coluim said comfortably. He raised his voice. “Harper! Where is my harper?”

  “Here, your Grace.” The harper was an elderly man, bald on top of his head and with long grey hair descending to his shoulders.

  “Play your music, harper,�
� Mel Coluim ordered. “Something suitable to celebrate our victory over the Northumbrians.”

  The harp's sweet tones sounded over the coarser celebration of the warriors, the laughter of the camp followers and the screams and groans of the wounded and dying. Blocking the less pleasant sounds from her mind, Melcorka listened to the harp. As the storm increased in intensity, she ate and drank at the royal table. MacBain was opposite her, laughing with his colleagues.

  “You fought well, Swordswoman,” he said.

  “As did you, MacBain.”

  They nodded to each other in mutual appreciation, while others at the table wondered if either would issue a challenge to see who the better fighter was. Black Duncan said nothing but listened to everything while Finleac drifted from table to table, talking to everybody and picking up women without any effort.

  “Come on, warriors,” Owen passed over a jug of mead. “The battle is won. You can relax a little.” His crooked teeth when he grinned made him all the more likeable. “Melcorka; entertain us with tales of your travels.”

  “May Bradan join us?” Melcorka asked, knowing Bradan would be waiting outside, leaning on his staff and watching everything that happened. “He is better at talking than I am.”

  “He may, and welcome,” Owen allowed. “And if anybody objects say that MacBain will be angry.” He grinned again. “Nobody will argue with MacBain.”

  “My wife does,” MacBain said, and everybody laughed.

  Bradan was diffident when he entered the tent, looking around the company before he joined Melcorka. He watched as a slender man slid into the king's tent, to crawl into a secluded corner. As he carried no weapon and was dressed in dull grey, Bradan presumed he was a servant. As the man lay down, he met Bradan's gaze and gave a smile. It was a small gesture, but one that disturbed Bradan, although he could not say why.

  “Bradan!” Owen greeted him like a long-lost friend. “Tell us about your adventures.”

  “Go on, Bradan!” Melcorka encouraged. “You are a man of words.”

  “I am not good in company.” Bradan wished he had remained outside.

  “Bradan!” The assembled warriors chanted. “Bradan!”