“Come on, Mel!” Bradan tapped his staff on the ground.
“I'm coming.” Shaking away the last of her dark thoughts, Melcorka hitched up Defender and stepped out of the broch.
Chapter Fifteen
They moved faster now, with Melcorka long-striding again, splashing through rivers without fear and greeting those she met without apprehension. “Come on, Bradan! We have wrongs to right!”
“We have,” Bradan watched her, hiding his pleasure at the difference. Each day they asked for news of Erik, and sometimes they gathered information and sometimes they did not. They shared the friendly peat-fire flame with shepherds and with lords, exchanging intelligence of the world, singing the old songs and enjoying the hospitality for which Alba was famous. Occasionally one or two of the young warriors in a lord's retinue would eye Melcorka's sword and wonder if she could use it.
“That is a grand weapon you have there,” a brawny redhead asked when they sat in the dun of a lochside chieftain.
“She is,” Melcorka agreed, smiling over the rim of her horn of mead.
“I was wondering if it would look better on my back rather than on yours.”
“She looks fine where she is,” Melcorka said.
“A few strokes might decide differently.”
“They might, and they might remove your doubts, or they might remove the head from your shoulders,” Melcorka replied. “And many women would mourn the removal.”
“Lachlan! These are my guests,” the chieftain roared. “I will have no discourtesy towards them.”
“No, father,” Lachlan the redhead said at once, although he continued to look enviously at Defender.
“We can have a practice bout,” Melcorka eased Lachlan”s disappointment, “with no bloodshed. I need the exercise.”
The household formed a ring in the courtyard, watching as Melcorka and Lachlan squared up to each other. Both stripped to their leines, tied the loose end of the shirt between their legs and hefted their swords. Some of the spectators pointed to the livid white scars on Melcorka's thighs.
“She's not so good; look at the second prizes on her legs.”
“Careful, Mel,” Bradan said, as Melcorka drew Defender for the first time since Erik had defeated her.
“I will be,” Melcorka shivered when the familiar thrill ran through her. She smiled at Bradan. “It's all right, Bradan! I am me again!” Defender was light in her hands, the balance perfect. She ran her gaze along the edge of the steel, smiling to herself.
“Whenever you are ready, Lachlan. For fun only.”
Lachlan had a shorter sword, a one-handed Norse type that he wielded along with a circular shield and a dirk. As could be expected in a young man, he moved with great energy, smiling and tossing back his red hair.
“A woman with a sword! Whoever heard of such a thing? It's against nature! Go back to your wool-basket, woman!”
“Ha!” Melcorka responded, “a child who thinks he is a man! Wait until your crib-marks have faded before you crow, my young cockerel!”
Holding Defender two-handed, with the blade pointing to the sky, Melcorka watched Lachlan. His rush was sudden but not unexpected, a surge of urgency that saw him cross the space between them in half a second, holding his shield at an angle to deflect Defender while he slashed cunningly at the livid scar on Melcorka's left thigh.
Blocking the swing with ease, Melcorka lifted Defender's blade to catch the underside of Lachlan's shield and twisted her wrist. The movement forced the shield backwards and upwards. Lachlan dropped the shield, tried to stab with his dirk, found that Melcorka was no longer there and yelped as Melcorka delivered a mighty slap with the flat of her blade against his backside.
“I like to call that Melcorka's farewell,” Melcorka laughed.
Rubbing at his rump, Lachlan shook his head ruefully and joined in the laughter of the audience. “You know how to use your sword,” he allowed, trying to peer over his shoulder to assess the damage.
“Have you never heard of Melcorka the Swordswoman?” Bradan asked quietly. “The women who helped win the Battle of Carham?”
“That woman is dead.” Lachlan retrieved his weapons with a wary eye on Melcorka. “The Butcher killed her in single combat.”
“I am that woman,” Melcorka said, “and I am very much alive.”
At the news, the men and women of the dun stopped laughing. “You are the Swordswoman?”
“I am,” Melcorka leaned Defender on her right shoulder, watching Lachlan in case he tried another rush.
“Are you going to fight the Butcher again?”
“Not yet,” Melcorka said. “First, I am on a quest. When I have completed that, I will face the Butcher again.”
“I was going to fight the Butcher,” Lachlan replaced his sword in its scabbard. “I am training for that day.”
“You are not ready to face him,” Melcorka said seriously. “You are a likeable young learner but he is an experienced killer. Leave him to me or the king's champions, if they can find him.”
“What is your quest?” The chieftain asked.
“I am looking for a man, perhaps a Norse raider, who lives in a house built on the bones of dead men. The Butcher was one of his warriors.”
The chieftain looked grave. “I may know of such a man – a pedlar spoke of a cat-headed warrior who lives in a house of bones.”
“A warrior with the head of a cat?” Bradan ran his thumb across the cross on his staff. ”I have never met a man like that.”
“Nor do you wish to,” the chieftain said. “The pedlar said he is a Viking of repute, a man who is ill to cross.”
“Where can we find him?” Bradan asked.
“Where such a man belongs,” the chieftain said. “He is in the province of the Cat, through the forest, across Loch nan Beiste, through grey Glen Tacheichte and across the big moor.”
“The Loch of the Monster and the Haunted Glen?” Bradan translated. “Who gives these places such names?”
“People who know their stories,” the chieftain said. “People who know to avoid them.” He lowered his voice. “Be careful, Bradan, for you are heading into places
