Hastily thrusting Defender back in her scabbard, Melcorka grabbed the rough parapet and hung on desperately. She felt herself falling back above that savagely churning sea, until the remains of the bridge slammed against the cliff, knocking the breath from her so she could only gasp. The bridge swayed under her, with the waves smashing at her feet and spindrift rising 30 feet above her head.
“Bradan!” Staring over her shoulder, Melcorka saw him fall. “Bradan!” She stretched out a hand, watching in hopeless despair. It was an image Melcorka would always remember – the sight of Bradan losing his grip on the rope parapet of the bridge and tumbling, spiralling with his hands and legs splayed apart and his staff beside him, down and down for ever. He landed with scarcely a splash in the frothing, green-and-white savagery that was the sea.
“Bradan!” Letting go of the ladder, Melcorka dived in. Avoiding the rocks by a hand's breadth, she plunged under the water, searching for Bradan. The sea was disturbed, full of sand, with virtually no visibility. She groped blindly, surfaced, took another breath and tried again, and again, without success. The sea had taken Bradan as if he had never been there. Staring at the maelstrom of white water, Melcorka hoped for something, Bradan's cloak, his bobbing head, anything. There was nothing; the sea did not give Bradan up. She dived, again and again, each time feeling herself weaker than the last.
Eventually, gasping for breath, Melcorka returned to the bottom of the ladder where it flogged against the cliff.
“Bradan.”
There was no sign of Bradan. No head above the turbulent waves, not even his body floating on the tide. He was gone.
When she regained her strength, Melcorka began the laborious climb back up to the top of the ladder. Pulling herself on to the cliff, she stood there, with the death of Bradan a sickening pain in her heart.
“I will avenge you, Bradan,” she said through tears she thought she had forgotten how to shed. “I will destroy that castle and all inside it, whatever it takes.” Yet even as she spoke, Melcorka knew that the power within Defender would refuse to help in a simple case of revenge.
Melcorka recalled her mother telling her about Defender's powers and limitations when she was an immature young woman.
Melcorka touched the hilt of her sword. “I chose the sword,” she said, “but I cannot use it, and I still do not know what is happening.”
Bearnas smiled. “You do know. You were born with the way of the sword. Let Defender guide you.”
“I named it that! How do you know its name?”
“Defender is only one name people have called her. She was named long before your great-great-grandmother was born and she will exist long after you have taken the warrior's path.,”
Melcorka laughed. “I am no warrior.,”
“What do you think you are, if not a warrior?” Bearnas raised her eyebrows. “It is in you.”
“But what do I do? How do I fight?”
“That is a simple question to answer.” Bearnas put her hands on Melcorka's shoulders. “Look at me, girl!”
“Yes, Mother,.” Melcorka fixed her gaze on her mother's eyes. They were steady and bright, wise with years.
“You must never draw your blade unless in righteousness. You must defend the weak and the righteous and you must never kill or wound for sport or fun. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mother. I understand.”
“Good,” Bearnas said. “You must never take pleasure in killing, or kill for revenge or cruelty. Fate has granted you a gift, and you must use it responsibly, or the power will drain and turn against you. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Melcorka said.
Melcorka sighed with the memory. Yes, she could still fight evil, but she could not avenge Bradan's death for the sake of vengeance. Glaring at Dun Dreggan, she thought of Bradan falling into that churning sea.
No, although she could not use Defender to avenge Bradan, she did not intend that Chattan would escape. Surely, after years of fighting, Melcorka told herself, she had sufficient skills even without Defender to defeat a man who hid behind a cat-skin cloak? She would use Defender when she could and any other weapon when Defender refused to fight.
“I will destroy this evil, Bradan, and if Defender does not help, then I will fight with my hands, my feet and even my teeth. I swear that by God or by every god that does or does not exist.”
Squatting on the edge of the cliff, Melcorka fought the grief that threatened to weaken her. She was a warrior; there was no place for mourning. Later, when she had avenged Bradan, and Chattan was dead, she would mourn. Later. As the memories of all they had done together returned, Melcorka felt her anger rise. Bradan had travelled the world with only his staff for a weapon. He had braved oceans and plains, ice and storms, strange warriors in the New World and the old, only to die after returning home.
“Fare ye well, Bradan, quiet man of the roads, seeker after wisdom. I will never see your like again.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I will never see you again.”
As grief and anger merged, Melcorka stood erect opposite Dun Dreggan. Drawing Defender, she raised it high in the air.
“I am coming for you, Chattan and all that you stand for! I am Melcorka Nic Bearnas. I am Melcorka the Swordswoman, and I swear that I will destroy you, and yours!”
The wind took Melcorka's words and whipped them away, so she stood, a single woman of grief and valour, alone against the world.
On Dun Dreggan, small lights showed through the upper arrow-slits, proving there was life inside, and Melcorka saw movement on the topmost towers as sentries took their positions. Knowing they were watching her, Melcorka sheathed Defender and stood still, observing the castle and its occupants.
“You know I am here,” Melcorka said, “but you don't know what I am going to do. If
