“How about Melcorka?” Bradan asked.
“I have spoken of her type,” Astrid said. “She will kill and kill until she meets somebody better than her, faster than her, younger than her, who will kill her, take her sword and begin the whole merry circle again.”
Bradan nodded. Some of Astrid's words made sense. Trouble did follow Melcorka, she did not run from a fight, and she had come close to death on a few occasions. Never closer than with Erik Egilsson.
“Do you like the excitement with Melcorka?” Astrid asked, “or do you wish for a quieter life of academic research and travel?”
Bradan thought of the places he and Melcorka had visited – he recalled the beauty and the slaughter. “I would not miss the bloodshed,” he said.
“Would you still like Melcorka if she could not protect you with her sword?”
Bradan smiled. “Yes. The sword is not important to me.”
“That is good.” Astrid stepped away from the wall to face him. “I have only known you a short time, Bradan, yet I know you are a good man, one of the few men who do not like to kill.”
“There are many good men,” Bradan said. “And many are better and more peaceful than I am. Holy men, for instance, of most religions, although not all.”
When Astrid spoke, her eyes seemed to glow. “I have been seeking a good man all my life, Bradan. There are few. When I first saw you, I thought you were only a companion to a killer, but then I learned more about you, and I think you are the man I seek.”
Bradan smiled, shaking his head. “I am Melcorka's man,” he said.
“Are you sure, Bradan? Are you certain you wish to spend the remainder of your life with a killer? Just think of the places we can go, the libraries we can visit, the scholars we can meet. With Melcorka, it is battle, destruction and death. With me, it will be knowledge, conversation and learning.”
Astrid stood still as the light spread from her eyes to her head, gradually bathing her in a pool of white. She glowed softly as her smile reached out to him.
The images came unasked to Bradan's mind. Shelves of books, piles of written manuscripts, the accumulated knowledge of Rome, of Greece, of Persia and Alexandria, of the scholars of the East and further East. He shivered. He could nearly taste the information, almost hear the words of wisdom from the world's greatest scholars. Would he rather experience that, or more bloodshed, more battles where men butchered each other so that arrogant kings could exchange territory? He thought of Melcorka striding across the field of Carham with blood dripping from the edge of her sword and fragments of human brains and flesh spattered across her body. And he thought of Astrid with her enthusiasm as she told him of her greatest treasure, the book she had saved from her father's looting.
Bradan felt something shift; it was a movement like physical pain, a jolt that came from inside him. “Astrid; I have never met a woman like you.”
Astrid gave a gentle smile. “We are a rare breed, you and I. We are from this world, yet not of it. That is why you wander, Bradan, and why I seek as much learning and knowledge as a woman can obtain.”
For some reason, Bradan felt suddenly weak, as if something was draining the strength from his body.
“Could you imagine us together, Bradan, you and me, travelling side by side?”
Astrid's words helped Bradan create images in his mind. He thought of the two of them in the ancient centres of civilisation, exchanging knowledge from the Druids and Christian monks and the scholars of the East.
“Yes, I can,” Bradan said, honestly.
“Did Melcorka accompany you to the scholars on your adventures?”
Bradan shook his head. “No. She did not.”
“Ah.” Astrid said no more. She lifted her hand. “Listen; I think they've gone. We can leave now.” She looked at Bradan. “We can go on and search for Melcorka, or you and I can get out of this hellish place.”
For the first time, Bradan felt tempted to leave Melcorka. He looked at Astrid, a spirited, intelligent woman who shared his interests in travelling and gathering knowledge and compared her to his image of Melcorka splashing through the carnage of Carham.
“I am not sure,” Bradan said. “Dear God, I am not sure.”
“There is no rush,” Astrid said softly.
Bradan took a deep breath. “We search for Melcorka,” he said, lifting his head. “I cannot leave her alone.”
“You are a loyal man,” Astrid said. “And that is another trait that I admire.”
They left that chamber, ignored the lair of the dragon and climbed upwards, frequently stopping to listen, hearing only the distant drift of conversation, the batter of the waves and the occasional cries of cats. The stairs led to a short torchlit corridor, which in turn ended abruptly at a massive chamber, hewn from the rock. Bradan stood in the entrance, keeping to the shadows.
“There's the man himself,” Astrid said. “The Lord of Dun Dreggan.” She flattened her voice. “Also known as Moruir Chat, the Great Man of the Cats.”
Torches flared and spat along the length of one wall, while beneath it sat or lounged a collection of men. Bradan saw their cat-skin cloaks and the short stabbing spears most carried, the longswords of a few, wondered if they were Norse, Albans or Picts and turned his attention to the man who sat at the head of the room.
He was huge. Nearer seven feet tall than six, he was wide-shouldered and slim- waisted. Added to his size was the face of a cat that stared down at the others in the chamber.
“He's a giant,” Bradan said.
