“Up there,” Bradan pointed a finger upwards, “or plotting to get there. I know her – she will not stop until she achieves her objective.”
“Aye, her and her magic sword,” Astrid said. “She would not be so good without it.”
Bradan smiled. “We have achieved successes with and without Defender.”
Astrid lifted the torch high, so its spluttering light showed a flight of steps. “We go up there,” she said, “although you would be better without a woman who constantly kills.”
“I have no complaints,” Bradan said. “Melcorka does not kill for the love of killing, but the cause of good.”
“I wonder how many killers have said that through history,” Walking in front, Astrid emphasised the swing and shape of her hips. “They pick a side, and then kill anybody they claim is opposed to their king or their conception of right or good.” Astrid turned around. “Killers are killers, for whomever they claim to kill.”
“Have you never killed?” Bradan asked.
“No.” Astrid shook her head. “I saw too much slaughter when I was younger, and my father carved his way to honour. I chose another path. A wise woman taught me how to gain knowledge – that's how I learned how to repel the evil eye and some healing.” She began climbing again. “How many people have you killed, Bradan?”
“Some,” Bradan said. “Too many. I can see every face and recall every incident.”
“Do you get nightmares?”
“Yes.” Bradan did not elaborate. Although the dreams were intermittent, when they came, they left him sweat-soaked and disturbed.
“I'll wager Melcorka doesn't get nightmares.” Astrid said. “Killers move on to the next victim, the next cause, the next fight, the next adventure. You can call it anything you like, Bradan, but they all end up with the killer wiping blood from his, or her, blade. It becomes a desire, a disease and a compulsion. The killer must kill and will continue to kill until she meets somebody younger, fitter or more skilled.”
“How do you know so much about it?” Bradan looked ahead to see how many more stairs they had to climb.
“I told you, I drank the snake.” Astrid gave an enigmatic smile. “I grew up with Norsemen. Every man wanted to be a great warrior, kill all they could for Odin and die gloriously in battle. Most settled to be ordinary fighting men, but there were always a few who caught the killing disease.”
Bradan nodded. “I have heard that about the Norse.”
Looking over her shoulder, Astrid met Bradan's gaze. When the torchlight reflected from her eyes, Bradan could see flecks of orange in the intense blue. “Then we settled on the frontier between the Jarldom and Alba.” Astrid said. “I thought the Alban men might be different, but no – they all wanted to be great warriors, kill all they could for king or Christ and die gloriously in battle.” Astrid stopped when the steps ended at a wooden door. “That is why I like you, Bradan. You are different.”
Bradan did not pursue that line of conversation. “What's through that door?”
“Horrors worse than any nightmare,” Astrid said. “Things you will wish you had not seen.”
“Come on then,” Bradan tapped his staff on the stone step. “I won't leave Melcorka to battle these things alone.”
“You are a good man, Bradan.” Wrenching open the door, Astrid stepped inside, with Bradan following.
The light shocked him. Coming from the darkness of the cavern into a chamber where candlelight reflected from walls of polished white, Bradan had to shield his eyes. “Where are we?”
“In the foundations of Dun Dreggan,” Astrid said, “the lowest level of the castle of the dragon.”
Once his eyes adjusted to the light, Bradan could see that the walls were of bone, joined together end to end. “A house built on human bones,” he said.
“What more horror could you devise?” Astrid asked.
“That is horror enough for me,” Bradan agreed. “Listen for the sound of fighting, for that is where Melcorka will be.”
The smell hit them first, a stench that Bradan recognised, but magnified twentyfold. “Cats,” he said.
“No,” Astrid shook her head. “Worse than any cat. What is the name of this place?”
“Dun Dreggan,” Bradan said. “The fort of the dragon.”
“That is the dragon you smell,” Astrid said. “It cannot be anything else.”
“There is no such thing as a dragon,” Bradan said. “They belong in tales to scare children to sleep at night.”
“The dragon is along there,” Astrid gestured with her head. “Secured behind lock and key.”
“Have you seen it?” Bradan asked.
Astrid shook her head. “No. But I saw the door that contained it, and I smelled its scent, as you do now.”
Bradan fought the temptation to view the dragon. All his life, he had been a wanderer, a seeker after knowledge and here was an opportunity to see a mythological creature that had fascinated people for centuries. He shook his head. He must find Melcorka – the dragon would have to wait.
“In here!” Astrid said, suddenly urgent. “Somebody is coming.”
The chamber was cold but dry and, Bradan noted thankfully, hewn out of rock rather than constructed of bones.
“Stay close!” Astrid pulled Bradan to her. “As close as you like, Bradan.”
Her smile was appealing, white teeth in a face that Bradan was growing to like more than he found comfortable “As close as I like? How close is that?” He regretted his words the instant he voiced them.
Astrid laughed outright. “We are in the dragon's lair here, Bradan. You should not be thinking about such things. Leave that to me!”
Bradan shook his head. “We are searching for Melcorka, remember.”
“I have no wish to find her,” Astrid said, raising her eyebrows. “I'd prefer to leave this place now, you and me.” She paused for a moment. “Together.”
Bradan closed his eyes as Astrid's words coiled around him.
“We could walk the roads together, Bradan. We could discuss the philosophy of the Druids and the Greeks, learn the history of the world, walk to the Holy Land to see what it is really like.”
Bradan
