“I see a tall old man sitting on a throne,” Melcorka said, “and with the face of a cat. Where is Ivar the Viking warrior?”
“I wish he were still here,” The Lord of Dun Dreggan said. “Have you come to relieve me of my burden? I see you carry a mighty sword.”
“I am seeking a book,” Melcorka said. “I seek the Book of Black Earth.”
The name whispered around that bleak chamber, echoing and re-echoing until the solid rock seemed to groan with fear.
“You do not want that book,” The Lord of Dun Dreggan said. “Every hour of every day, I regret even having found that ancient curse.”
“Where is it?” Melcorka asked.
“Gone.” When the Lord of Dun Dreggan shook his head, Melcorka was sure she saw tears in his yellow eyes. “It's gone, spreading the evil around.”
“Is it not in this dun?” Bradan asked.
“It was held here,” the Lord of Dun Dreggan said. “It was secure here, held imprisoned beneath the ground, with layer upon layer of human bones holding it down.”
“What happened?”
“The Picts built a holy place on top of it, with a holy book guarding a doorway and the bones of good people to contain the evil. Ivar the Strong led the raiders that killed the monks, and we were searching for Pictish gold, delving deeper and deeper into the foundations of the monastery.”
“And?” Melcorka prompted.
“We saw a holy book wedged in a doorway, embellished with precious stones, covered in gold, and we tore it free. Erik Egilsson was first through the door with his sword, Legbiter, in his hand. He ran down with me at his side.” The Lord of Dun Dreggan was crying openly now, great tears rolling from his eyes.
Bradan and Melcorka stood side by side, listening to Ivar's story.
“We expected great piles of treasure, gold and silver gathered over the centuries, but instead we found a room lined with human bones and a single black book in the centre of the floor.”
“The Book of Black Earth,” Melcorka said.
“Yes.” Ivar nodded. “The Book of Black Earth, the worst curse ever imposed, something from deep inside the world.”
“What happened?” Bradan asked.
“When Erik Egilsson saw the book, he gave a great roar and slashed at it with his sword. The blade bounced off, and Erik lifted the book and dashed it to the ground.” Ivar stood up with something of his old Viking spirit returning. “The book opened, and something came out.”
“Something?” Melcorka asked.
“Something,” Ivar said. “Nothing solid.” He shook his head. “Something. It entered Erik's sword first and then entered him.”
“And?” Melcorka prompted as Ivar closed his eyes, as if unwilling to recount what had happened.
“The thing turned the blade of Erik's sword black and turned to me. I shut the book, but it touched me,” Ivar put a hand to his face. “You see the result.”
“I do,” Melcorka said. “Where is the book now?”
“They took it away,” Ivar said.
“Who did?”
“We did.” The words came unbidden into Melcorka's mind.
Where the chamber had been empty save for Ivar and the apathetic warriors, now a host of grey men filled it, forming groups around the warriors.
“Who are you?” Stepping behind Melcorka, Bradan brandished his staff as a weapon.
“We are you,” the voices said.
“I am I,” Bradan said. “I am Bradan the Wanderer.”
The grey men spoke again. “We are Bradan. We are Ivar. We are Melcorka. We are you when the good is removed.”
“I am Melcorka Nic Bearnas of the Cenel Bearnas.” Holding Defender two-handed, Melcorka stood with her back to Bradan. As she watched, the grey men wavered and slid into the supine warriors. At once the warriors rose, reaching for the weapons at their sides.
“Will you fight me, Melcorka?” Ivar asked, lifting the rusted sword that leaned against the arm of his chair.
“I will fight you.” Melcorka saw the desperate struggle in his eyes. “Come, Ivar. Take off your mask and become a Norse warrior again.”
“The Picts called this the province of the cats,” Ivar said. “When I captured the dun, the cats took over.”
“Who are the cat-warriors?” Melcorka asked. “Who is Chattan?”
“They are not my men,” Ivar said. “They came when the book opened.”
“Then fight them as you fight me.” Melcorka could understand a warrior – she had respect, if no liking, for the Norse as fighting men. She could not understand a man who crumbled in the face of an adversary. In Melcorka's world, you fought until you could no longer fight, and then you fought some more.
When Ivar rose from his chair, Melcorka realised how tall he was. The top of Melcorka's head reached his neck, while his arms were disproportionately long, nearly reaching his knees as he stood. He took his first swing before he stepped forward and continued to attack as he approached. “Odin owns you!” He roared as his Norse blood fought the greyness within.
Blocking Ivar's sword, Melcorka was shocked at the strength of the man. Even with the power of Defender surging through her, she had difficulty in keeping her balance.
“You are a warrior indeed,” Melcorka gasped, clashing blade against blade, twisting and ducking under Ivar's outstretched arm.
“As are you, Swordswoman,” Ivar said. “I've never met a woman who could match my strength.” He grinned at her over the hilt of his sword. “It will be a pleasure to kill you, Melcorka, or an honour to die by your blade.”
The other Norsemen moved forward, swords and axes raised, shields on left arms, eyes suddenly alive beneath metal helmets.
“Hold!” Ivar said. “Let me win this fight alone. I want the honour!”
Holding his staff as a barrier, Bradan breathed a sigh of relief. He knew that any one of the Norse could dispose of him in seconds. Norse warriors were rightly feared throughout Europe and as far as the Caspian Sea and the lands of Islam beyond. His staff was no protection against such men.
Stopping suddenly, Ivar motioned Melcorka to him. “Come on, Melcorka – Odin will welcome you to Valhalla.”
“I have many friends there,” Melcorka said. “You will be one of
