Historical Fantasy Book Series Set In Scotland

The Swordswoman Series by Malcolm Archibald

Series Excerpt

They heard the whistle, low and soft above the sough of the wind. 'I don't recognise that bird,' Melcorka said. 'It is like the call of the Gregorach, except lighter.'

'I do not recognise it, either.' Bradan tapped his staff on the ground. 'This is not an area I have been in before.'

They entered a clearing where the grass underfoot was soft and verdant green, with long shadows from a sun invisible behind mauve clouds and a herd of deer grazing with no fear of their presence.

'They are tame enough to be pets,' Melcorka said happily, as a hind trotted past to her stag.

'Too tame,' Bradan said. 'I have never seen the like before, although I have heard of it.' He ducked his head. 'Hurry through here, Melcorka. Something is wrong.'

There was another low whistle, barely heard but clear inside Melcorka's head.

'Can you hear that?' Bradan stopped, so the hush intensified around them, then moved on, faster than before.

'I hear it,' Melcorka said. 'It has been with us all day, not quite here and not gone.'

'How would you describe it?' Bradan held his staff like a weapon.

'Ethereal,' Melcorka said quietly.

'We spoke of the People of Peace a day or three ago,' Bradan said. 'Today, we have our chance to meet them. May God have mercy on us.'

Melcorka felt the sudden racing of her heart. She reached for the hilt of her sword. 'I will not be taken into their realm so quietly,' she said.

'We are already there,' Bradan told her. 'Look around you.'

The deer were still grazing peacefully, ignoring them as if they were not there, while a brace of mountain hares jinked past. A blackbird called, the sound so melancholic that Melcorka wanted it to last forever.

'It is beautiful,' she said.

'It is the land of Faery,' Bradan said. 'Elfhame, where humans are not wanted, yet stay forever.'

'How did we get here?' Melcorka kept her grip on Defender.

'We walked through a portal,' Bradan told her. 'We would not see it, yet it was there, somewhere on the hill behind us. Look back. Can you see our route?'

Grey-green light surrounded them, easing into the misted shape of trees, with the sky invisible and no sign of the hills from where they had descended. 'I cannot see our route,' Melcorka said.

'Nor can I.' Bradan tapped his staff on the ground. 'Yet we know the hills are there, and the snow and the wind. It should be night, yet it is not dark, nor is it light.'

'It is not right,' Melcorka said.

'We will not reach Fidach,' Bradan said.

'You are scared,' Melcorka said. 'I have never seen you like this. You were not scared of the Norse, or in Castle Gloom. You are more afraid of the People of Peace than you were of the wolves.'

'Mortal man may kill me,' Bradan said, 'and that is the end of things. Wolves will eat me, and I will be gone, but the People of Peace are not mortal, and I fear immortality.'

'So let's greet them and see what they want.' Melcorka raised her voice. 'I am Melcorka the Swordswoman of the Cenel Bearnas! My companion is Bradan the Wanderer. What do you wish with us?'

The whistling stopped abruptly. The silence hushed around them, gentle as the eyes of the grazing deer, so relaxing that Melcorka was unsure if she wished to lie down to sleep, or run in panic. She was still wondering when a medium-sized woman stepped from the shifting shape of a tree in front of them. Dressed in a neat black and white smock that reached to her knees, and with her red hair braided around her neck, she smiled across at them.

'Well met, Melcorka of the Cenel Bearnas.' Her words formed in Melcorka's mind yet she would have sworn that the woman had not spoken. 'I am Ceridwen.'

'Well met, Ceridwen.' Melcorka did not move her hand from the hilt of Defender. 'Are you of the People of Peace?'

'Are you of the people of war?'

'Bradan is a man of peace,' Melcorka said, 'he carries no weapon save a staff. I have been a warrior and will be again.'

'You carry a sword of steel,' Ceridwen said. 'And you have used it?' Her voice rose in a question.

'I have.' Melcorka looked around but could not see anybody else in the surreal light. She recognised Ceridwen's clear voice, though. 'We have met before,' she said, 'in a rock stack off the western coast of Alba. You know all about this sword.'

Ceridwen seemed to glide forward. Her hand was tiny when she reached out. 'Let me touch the hilt of your sword, Melcorka.'

'I will unsheathe,' Melcorka began, until Ceridwen recoiled in apparent alarm. 'No, Ceridwen, I mean no harm! I only intended to make it easier for you. Look…' Melcorka knelt on the ground, so the hilt of her sword was easy to grasp.

Ceridwen came cautiously closer and stopped. 'It is a known blade,' she said. She reached forward and touched the hilt. 'Derwen made this sword,' she said. 'It came from long ago, and Derwen made it for Caractacus, who was betrayed by a woman. It was the blade of Calgacus, the swordsman who faced the iron legions of the south in the days of heroes.' She ran her hand the length of the scabbard, without touching the steel of the blade. 'It was the sword of Arthur, who faced the Saxon and now it is the sword of Melcorka.

'It was a sword well-made,' Ceridwen said, 'in Derwen's forge. It was made with rich red ore, with Derwen tramping on bellows of ox-hide to blow the charcoal hot as hell ever is. The ore sank down, down through the charcoal to the lowest depth of the furnace, to form a shapeless mass the weight of a well-grown child.'

Melcorka listened, trying to picture the scene when her blade was forged at the beginning of history.

'It was normal for the apprentices to take the metal to the anvil, but Derwen carried the metal for this one himself, and chose the best of the best to reheat and form into a bar. He had the bar blessed by the druids and by the holy man who came from the East, a young fugitive from Judea who fled the wrath of the Romans.'

'Christ himself!' Melcorka barely breathed the name.

'It is as you say, if you say it,' Ceridwen said. 'And Derwen cut his choice of steel into short lengths, laid them end on end in water blessed by the holy one and the chief druid of Caractacus. Only then did he weld them together with the skill that only Derwen had. These operations working together equalised the temper of the steel, making it hard throughout, and sufficiently pliable to bend in half and spring together. Derwen tested and re-tested the blade, then hardened and sharpened it with his own touch and his own magic.'

Ceridwen seemed to waver, her shape merging with that of the air around her. 'At the end, in the final forging, Derwen sprinkled his own white powder of the dust of diamonds and rubies into the red-hot steel, to keep it free of rust and protect the edge.'

'It is a good blade,' Melcorka agreed.

'A better one will never be made,' Ceridwen told her. 'Only certain people can wield it, and then only for righteous reasons. It can never be used by a soft man or a weak woman, or by one with evil in his or her heart. The blade is only used for good.'

'My mother told me I must only use it for the right reasons,' Melcorka said.

Ceridwen smiled. 'Your mother was a wise woman. She watches you.'

'I miss her,' Melcorka said softly. She could not say more on that subject. 'How do you know about my sword?'

'It told me – and I remember Derwen making it.' Ceridwen laughed at the expression on Melcorka's face. 'Or am I merely teasing you?'

'Teasing, I think,' Melcorka stood up again. 'But I thank you for the tale of the pedigree of the sword.' She glanced at Bradan. 'We have some salmon with us, and berries fresh from the bush. Would you care you join us at the table?'

Ceridwen laughed again. 'It is usually my people who offer hospitality in our own home.'

'Your generosity is well known,' Melcorka said. 'There are tales of hospitality that never ends.'

Ceridwen's smile did not falter. 'The tellers of such tales may be exaggerating,' she said.

'Shall we eat?' Bradan's voice shook with a deep fear.

'We shall eat.' Ceridwen's smile included Bradan, without assuaging his dread.

'And then Melcorka and I shall be on our way,' Bradan said. 'We have much to do and little time in which to do it.'

'That may happen, indeed,' Ceridwen said.

They sat around a small fire with large leaves as plates and the herd of deer grazing unheeded within a hundred paces.

'You are afraid of me, Bradan,' Ceridwen spoke softly. 'Why is that?'

'You are of the People of Peace,' Bradan answered honestly. 'I have heard tales of men and women who were taken by your people.'

'Do you think I will take you away, Bradan the Wanderer?' Ceridwen's tone was mocking and her eyes mischievous. 'I would imagine that a wanderer would wish nothing more than to wander into our realm.'

'Only if we returned safely and in timely fashion,' Bradan said.

'Am I that frightening?' Ceridwen finished a mouthful of salmon. 'I don't feel very frightening. After all, it is Melcorka who carries the sword of Calgacus and you who have a large staff, while I,' she looked down at herself, 'I have only my hands.'

'I think you have a great deal more than that,' Melcorka said directly. 'You have knowledge and power.'

'So why are you not afraid of me?' Ceridwen asked.

Melcorka shrugged. 'Why should I be afraid? Would that help any? Would my fear act as a barrier to save me? Would it wrap around me as protection from any harm? Would it assist in any way?' She did not know where the words came from, only that they were genuine and were out before she could put a curb on her tongue.

'Calgacus has a worthy successor,' Ceridwen said. 'Only a handful of warriors have held that sword.'

'Who were they?' Melcorka asked.

Ceridwen reached forward and touched Defender's hilt again. 'Caractacus of the Catuvellauni, Calgacus of the Caledonii, Arthur of Camelot, Bridei of the Picts, Kenneth MacAlpin of Alba… you know the names.'

'I know these names,' Melcorka agreed. 'Caractacus and Calgacus fought the legions, Arthur stemmed the Saxons, Bridei defeated the Angles at Dunnichen, and Kenneth united the Scots and Picts, except for the men of Fidach…'

'All great men who did great deeds,' Ceridwen said. 'What will Melcorka do, I wonder?' She raised her eyebrows. 'You are the first woman to carry that sword. What will you do with it?'

'Why did it come to me?' Melcorka asked. 'Why to me? I am only an island girl.'

Ceridwen's laugh died immediately. 'You are who you are, Melcorka. You have your parents' blood in you, and now you must forge your own legend. You chose the sword, and it chose you. That was not chance, that was destiny.'

'The oystercatcher guided me.'

'She did, didn't she? Yet she only guided. You had to heed her guidance. You could have chosen the harp and a life of ease and luxury. That was your other option.' Ceridwen leaned back against the bole of an apple tree. The blossom was two months early and all the more perfect for that.

'How do you know these things?' Melcorka asked.

'Rather ask yourself, what destiny will the sword of Calgacus and I forge between us?' Ceridwen held Melcorka's gaze. 'Where are you bound, Melcorka of the Cenel Bearnas, or Melcorka of Alba?'

'Fidach,' Melcorka said flatly. 'The Norse have overrun Alba. They have defeated the royal army and enslaved the king. They are burning and raping their way across the country.'

'So you don the blade of Calgacus and Kenneth, Arthur and Bridei to repel them.' Ceridwen said. 'Is that your destiny?'

'I cannot repel the Norse,' Melcorka said, 'I am only an island girl.'

'So why are you going to Fidach?' Ceridwen was direct.

'To gather support,' Melcorka said. 'I am only a messenger.'

'To gather support for whom?' Although Ceridwen's voice was as gentle and precise as ever, her smile had vanished. 'You said yourself that the Norse had enslaved the king. The over-king is with the Norse. To whom will the Picts of Fidach rally? For what cause will they fight?'

'For the freedom of Alba,' Melcorka said.

'Why should the Picts of Fidach care about the freedom of Alba?' Ceridwen stood up. 'I cannot tell you how you should proceed, or where your destiny lies. You must decide what to do and what to say when you meet the Picts, if that event occurs.'

'I will try,' Melcorka said quietly.

'You carry the sword.' As Ceridwen moved closer, her feet were soundless on the grass. 'Come with me, and I may help.' Her hand was white and soft when Melcorka grasped it. 'You are safe, Melcorka. You have my word that you will be back in your own realm within a short time.'

'I trust you,' Melcorka said.

Ceridwen's smile enfolded her with warmth. 'I know.' Her touch was light as morning dew as she guided Melcorka across that verdant clearing toward a small mound in the centre. When they approached, the mound seemed to grow, until Melcorka saw an arched wooden door that swung silently open as they neared it.