Page 85 of The Blue Viking

The implications of this lost battle had still not seeped into Maire’s brain. Perhaps that was for the best. But she must obey his orders nonetheless.

“Take every horse, mule, or means of transport and leave the Highlands immediately. Head toward the borders. With luck, you will run into Jostein and Eirik and his troops along the way. But, if you do not, head directly for Ravenshire in Northumbria. You will be given refuge there.”

Tears were streaming down Maire’s face. But Rurik hardened himself not to notice. It was critical that she obey him immediately.

“Is there naught that could save the day?” she asked on a sob.

He shook his head. “Only the sight of a hundred or so warriors on the horizon, riding fierce destriers, swords aready, under the raven banner.”

Wistfully, they both turned to the south where a long plateau was visible above the ravine. Then they both gasped.

“Holy Thor!”

“Holy Mother of God!”

It was not a troop of soldiers.

There were no war horses, or weapons glinting in the sun.

And there was no sign of the raven … though there did seem to be crows … lots of crows.

“What… is … that?” she asked breathlessly.

“Have you been praying?”

“Of course I’ve been praying,” she snapped. “Why?”

“Well, it appears as if a plague of crows has come to overtake the battlefield. Like in your Christian Bible.”

“I hardly think crows are the same as locusts,” she replied dryly. “And you hardly resemble Moses … or how I imagine Moses would look.”

“Those aren’t crows,” Toste said, hurrying up to join them. “They’re witches.”

“Witches!” they all exclaimed. Bolthor, Stigand, Vagn, Old John, Murdoc, Callum, and several others had joined their incredulous group.

Narrowing their eyes, they peered at the horizon as the figures got larger and larger. Sure enough, they were witches … in every shape and size. All in black. Straggly gray hair predominated, but there were younger witches, as well… some of them were even comely. Toste and Vagn were already taking note of those, he could tell. Crystal amulets glinted in the sun. Many carried gnarled staffs to perform their magic; some held brooms in their hands… whether to fly away, or whisk clean the battlefield, Rurik couldn’t begin to guess. And there was a herd of black cats, as well.

“St. Columba’s Chin! I do not know for sure, but I swear those are all the witches in Scotland,” Old John declared with amazement.

Everyone turned to Maire.

“Wh-what? Why is everyone gawking at me? It’s not my doing.”

“Did you cast a spell for this?” Rurik asked, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Well, not exactly,” she replied. “I did perform a ritual several nights ago… remember all the candles?”

He nodded.

“But I did not ask for this,” she said, sweeping an arm out to encompass the horde of witches. “All I asked was that Cailleach come back. One witch. That’s all.”

Rurik groaned. Another of Maire’s spells gone awry. But he could not be angry with her now. Mayhap she had inadvertently handed them the means to victory.

“Cailleach?” Stigand inquired. And what a comical picture he made, standing with a bloody long-handled ax in one hand, a bloody sword in the other, war braids sticking out in disarray, and a dumbfounded look on his face.

“That’s Maire’s mentor witch.”

“Which one would that be?” Bolthor wanted to know, scanning the advancing crowd of screeching witches.