Page 9 of The Blue Viking

“I be Duncan MacNab,” the leader replied in a deep Scottish brogue that made his name sound like, “Dooonkin.” He was clearly annoyed that Rurik did not recognize who he was. “These are me men… MacNabs, all.” He waved a hand toward the men who sat astride nervous mounts on either side of him.

“I mean no trouble to you,” Rurik offered in a placating tone. “I am looking for the woman called Maire of the Moors. She is of the Campbell clan, I believe.”

The Scotsman laughed, a deep-from-the-chest bellow, and his men snickered. “Everyone in the Highlands, and the Lowlands, is aware of yer search for Maire the Witch.” The leader put particular emphasis on that last word and exchanged smirking glances with his men, as if they knew something Rurik did not. In Rurik’s experience, Scotsmen were great ones for smirks … when they were not frowning, that was.

“Know you where I might find the witch?” Rurik asked through gritted teeth. He had little liking for being the laughingstock of all Scotland, whether they were laughing at him or some secret jest.

“Aye, I do.”

“And you know why I am looking for her?”

Duncan laughed again, a nimbly sound, like a bear growling. “I expect ye want to have that ‘tattoo’ removed from yer pretty face, Viking.” He put emphasis on the word Viking, as if it were a foul substance.

Rurik nodded, grinding his teeth at the villain’s continuing laughter and the grins of his men. He saw naught of humor in his face mark. Could it be that he still harbored self-doubts, lingering from his childhood? He had come so far, and not so far, after all, he supposed.

He came out of his musing with a snort of self-disgust and snapped at the MacNab, “Why would you care if I get the mark removed, or not, Scotsman?” Mimicking the other man, he put unpleasant emphasis on the word Scotsman.

“I doona care one whit if ye be blue, or red, or purple,” Duncan retorted. “I’m here t’day to give ye a bit of advice. Leave this land, or ye’ll have more than a blue mark to worry on.”

“Oh, and what might that additional worry be?” Rurik asked coolly, while at the same time giving his men a surreptitious hand signal to ready themselves for a fight.

“Loss of blood… broken bones … death,” the MacNab answered with equal coolness. “There be naught more a Scotsman enjoys than a Viking bloodbath.”

“Is that a threat?” Rurik inquired icily.

“Aye, ’tis a threat. In fact, ’tis a promise, ye bloody barbarian,” Duncan replied with equal iciness. Then, without warning, he let loose with a well-known Highland war cry, “Stuagh ghairm!”

In the blink of an eyehd, all eighteen men were at arms. Soon the flat-bottomed gully, the width of several longships, rang with the clang of metal hitting metal, the slap of leather from body-to-body contact, the frightened neighing of horses, the whistling of arrows, and the ominous crunching sound made by a hand ax splitting flesh and bones. At that last noise, all eyes turned to Stigand, who was wiping off his broadsword on a clump of heather, the whole time searching the arena for his next victim. His broadsword was aptly named Bone-Cracker… boon companion to his battle-ax, Blood-Lover, which was in his other hand. At his feet lay one of the MacNabs, his skull halved from crown to nape.

Several of the MacNab men made retching sounds, then leaped onto their horses and prepared to leave the scene. Rurik wished Beast were with him now. The wolfhound was a great asset after battle, especially talented at rounding up straggling enemy soldiers, like cattle. Quickly scanning the miniature battlefield, Rurik noted that Jostein appeared to have a broken arm and Bolthor had an arrow sticking out of his thigh. He, personally, had been sliced from elbow to wrist by a sharp dirk; it was a shallow gash that could use some stitching in better circumstances. Others in his troop were marked with bruises and bloody noses and cuts, but that was all. On the MacNab side, however, five lay dead, and two men appeared sorely wounded and had to be assisted onto their horses before galloping off.

Among the survivors was the MacNab himself, who bore no visible wounds. When his horse reached the top of a small rise a short distance away, he called out to Rurik, “Begone, Viking! Leave Scotland at once, ye whoreson whelp of a cod-sucking pagan, lest we meet again. And the results will be far different then, that I promise.”

“Your promises mean naught,” Rurik answered loudly with a boastful laugh, pointing to the dead MacNabs scattered about. He chose his battles wisely and decided not to react to Duncan’s personal insults … just yet.

“Doona dare touch the witch,” Duncan added, still having the audacity to issue him orders.

Rurik raised his eyebrows at that particular order. “Why?”

“I want the witch.”

“Well, isn’t that a coincidence? So do I.” The Scotsman shook his head. “Nay, you want her only to remove the cursed mark, whereas I—” Rurik barely held his temper in check as the vile man let his words hang in the air for long moments. Finally, he prodded, “Whereas, you want what?”

“—where as I want the bitch as bride.”

No sooner had Rurik and his men tended their wounds than another band of Scotsmen rode up. And this was the sorriest bunch of fighting men Rurik had ever seen.

At least twenty men came over the hill toward them. They all wore belted pladds, but the wide swaths of fabric were worn and faded, unlike those of the more prosperous MacNabs.

An older man of at least forty years appeared to be the chieftain, or leader. He was missing one arm. A somewhat younger man of about thirty was obviously blind in one eye, which stared sightlessly ahead.

One rider had his nose bashed in, was minus one ear, and appeared to have no front teeth. The world’s ugliest warrior? Rurik wondered wryly. Well, actually, he knew a few Norse warriors who could compete in that contest.

Still another had a nervous twitch that caused his head to jerk incessantly. No doubt he had sustained a blow to the crown in some battle or other. Rurik had seen a similar condition in an old fighting comrade, Asolf the Dim, whose head jerked so much that he looked as if he was motioning someone toward the right all the time. Not a good trait to have in the midst of battle.

Another man was muttering under his breath, but no one was paying any attention to him. Rurik figured that malady was due to a blow to the brain, as well. The sharp rap of a broadsword against the skull could cause such damage.

The only hale and hearty ones in the bunch were the boys, who could be good fighters with the proper training. Several of these boys appeared to be around Jostein’s age, but if they fought the way they rode their horses, Jostein could beat them in a trice, and Jostein was not yet an accomplished soldier.