“We should leave,” Bradan whispered.
“No.” Melcorka touched the hilt of Defender again, without knowing why. Still, the sword felt cold, lacking its customary thrill of power. “It is not finished yet. Watch.”
“The victim does not look unwilling,” Bradan agreed reluctantly.
The naked man stood with his arms outstretched as if welcoming the bite of the Druids' blades. The first of the Druids nicked his arm with his knife, then the second, then the third until all had cut the naked man. Unmoving, the naked man ignored the blood that flowed down his arm to his fingertips and on to the recumbent slab. With that part of the procedure complete, each Druid then cut his own forearm and allowed the blood to fall.
“They're filling the footprints with blood,” Bradan said, relieved that there was no human sacrifice. “And look!”
The moon was bright in the sky, surrounded by a red halo. Quiet beside the triple ring of stones, the lochan caught and enhanced the reflection, as if it had drawn the moon down to the Grainish Moor.
“That is the saying complete,” Bradan said. “The one, the three, the sacred blood from the Druids and now the mirror of the moon. I can't feel that I am any different. Can you, Mel?” He asked, more in hope than in expectation.
“Watch.” Melcorka put a hand on Bradan's arm. “They've not finished yet.”
The naked man was first to step into the footprints of blood, with the others following one by one, standing in the blood for seven seconds before leaving. Only when every man had stood in the carved footprints did the naked man use the friction of two sticks to light a fire on both piles of wood. Waiting until the flames caught hold, he walked through the smoke between both fires. The others followed in a single, silent line.
“The Need Fires,” Bradan said. “The smoke is to purify those who pass through.”
“We have to speak to one of these Druids.” Melcorka had one of her spells of lucidity.
“Well then,” Bradan tapped his staff. “Let's speak; they seem to have completed the ceremony.”
Rising together, Melcorka and Bradan walked openly forward. At first sight of them, the Druids formed a circle around the naked man. One stepped forward, with the hood shielding his face.
“Who are you?” The Druid's voice was deep within his hood.
“I am Melcorka Nic Bearnas of the Cenel Bearnas.”
Bradan flinched. Since Erik defeated her, Melcorka no longer called herself the Swordswoman. “I am Bradan the Wanderer.”
“Why are you here?”
“We seek your knowledge,” Bradan said.
The other Druids gathered around them, silent within their deep hoods. One stepped forward. “I am Bruachan.”
“I thought you were going to be a human sacrifice,” Melcorka recognised Bruachan as the once-naked man, now wearing an identical white cloak.
“We do not sacrifice humans,” Bruachan said solemnly.
“The People of Peace suggested that we ask your advice,” Melcorka said.
“Maelona,” Bruachan said. “We felt her presence in our minds.”
“We need your help,” Melcorka said. “We have a quest and orders from the High King.”
Bruachan met her gaze. “You need our help more than you know, Melcorka Nic Bearnas. Who damaged you?”
“A man named Erik Egilsson. How do you know?”
Bruachan ignored the question. “He was the vessel. Who is controlling him?”
“Erik believes that Loki of the Norse gods made his sword more powerful than mine. Maelona thinks it is something much older than Loki.”
Bruachan threw back his hood, revealing the stern, cleanly shaven face of a man approaching middle age. “Maelona thinks it is the underground one. The forbidden one.”
“Perhaps. We do not know.” Bradan said. “We hoped you might be able to help us.”
Bruachan nodded. “Come with me.”
Each Druid walked away in a different direction, leaving only Bruachan with Melcorka and Bradan. “It's not far,” Bruachan walked as he spoke, covering the ground at speed although he did not seem to move quickly.
The broch rose from a small rise at the edge of the moor, with bogland creating a natural defensive moat. Bruachan walked unhesitatingly across a crooked causeway, pausing at the turns to ensure Melcorka and Bradan followed. The tall gate opened before them, allowing passage past the double walls into a circular courtyard where a stone building hugged the inner wall. Two men stood back to allow Bruachan passage, although they eyed Bradan and Melcorka in some surprise.
“In here,” Bruachan said, and they followed him into a surprisingly spacious apartment of wood-lined stone, where a black pot hung above a smouldering peat fire. “You'll be hungry after your vigil,” Bruachan said.
Removing his white cloak, he sat by the fire, wearing the ubiquitous linen leine and smiling at them. “What did you expect, Melcorka? Bats' wings and toads' heads hanging on hooks?”
Melcorka nodded. “Something of that sort.”
Spooning the contents of the pot into wooden cogs, Bruachan handed them round. “Vegetable broth,” he said. “Best thing after one of these ceremonies.”
“You would be cold standing with no clothes on,” Bradan said. “What was happening?”
“I was being introduced to the highest order of Druids, while we were tapping into the stones,” Bruachan said. “They were here long before the Druids, or the Picts came to Alba.”
“So I believe,” Bradan said. “It is about a god, or a something, from that time that we seek your advice.”
“The forbidden one,” Bruachan said again.
It was comfortable in that small building with the fire giving a warm glow and the blue peat smoke rising to create a haze from the stone ceiling downward.
“Why ask us?” Bruachan asked, and smiled at the expression on Melcorka”s face. “Did you think the Druids were omniscient? Did you think we knew everything about everybody?”
“The stories suggest that you do.” Bradan spoke for Melcorka.
“The stories say we have human sacrifice; the stories say we burn people in huge wicker men; the stories say a lot of things that are not true. We study people and nature, Bradan, as you do, and we create a philosophy of life, as you will do. Three times a year, we exchange information, as you just witnessed.”
“Do you know what these stone circles are for?” Bradan asked in genuine curiosity.
Bruachan nodded. “They are in alignment with the moon, the sun or the stars. The old people built them.” He leaned back. “You did not come to ask me that.”
“No.” Glancing at Melcorka, Bradan explained his mission. “We began by trying to defeat a swordsman known as the Butcher, but now we think there is something much more powerful, and much more evil. I need to cure whatever malaise is within Melcorka, and then we must find and purge this evil.”
Bruachan nodded. “What made you believe you could defeat this Butcher?”
“Melcorka has a sword that retains all the power and experience of its previous owners, as long as she wields it for good.” Bradan hesitated. “We are not sure if it still has that power.”
“Let me see the sword.” Bruachan took Defender from Melcorka. “The People of Peace made this, centuries ago,” he placed the blade against his cheek. “I can feel the power still – Defender is no less than she ever was. You have met a greater evil.” He ran his hands over the blade. “I feel the evil in here, slowly diminishing as the good defeats it. Let me see your wounds, Melcorka.”
“They are on my legs,” Melcorka said, as innocent as a child.
“Show me.”
Bruachan examined the wide white scars on Melcorka's thighs. “The People of Peace have done a good job here. They have cured your physical wounds.” He pressed one hand on Melcorka's left leg and the other on her forehead. “They did not have the knowledge to cure the other damage. There is much of the evil remaining within you.”
“The evil?” Bradan put a comf
orting hand on Melcorka's shoulder. “I do not think there was ever evil in Melcorka.”
“The Butcher put it there,” Bruachan placed both his hands in a pot of green paste that stood beside the fire. “There is evil on his sword. It entered your body when the Butcher cut you.” Bruachan sighed. “The evil created your worst enemy, Melcorka, depression within your mind. It limited you by causing doubt and confusion. If you accept a limitation, then it becomes what you are.” He looked at Bradan. “Has Melcorka acted differently since her wound?”
“Indeed – she has lost all confidence,” Bradan said.
“That is the poison of evil within her,” Bruachan placed his hands on Melcorka's scars. “This will hurt, Melcorka, but it is necessary. Brace yourself.”
“What are you going to do?” Bradan asked as Melcorka's eyes widened.
“I am going to remove the evil,” Bruachan said. “Bradan; you may have to hold Melcorka down.” Taking his small, leaf-bladed knife, Bruachan made a small incision in the scar.
“That did not hurt,” Melcorka watched without flinching.
“This will.” Going down on all fours, Bruachan dipped into the pot of green liquid and smeared the contents on to the open wound. Melcorka stiffened.
“What is that?”
“An antidote to the evil.” Bruachan said. “The People have cured the physical injury. This solution should cure the emotional and mental wounds. You'll have noticed you have been lethargic recently.”
“I have not,” Melcorka denied.
“She has,” Bradan confirmed, nodding. “There is no spirit in her at all.”
“The evil has subdued it. If we remove the evil, Melcorka will recover.” Inserting his finger into the fresh wound, Bruachan pushed the ointment deep into Melcorka's leg. “It is in her blood, coursing through her body to her brain, removing all that made her Melcorka.” He continued to push as Melcorka writhed. “Evil is a depression, eating her spirit, removing her will to live, to strive. It reduces people to shells with the appearance of humanity but without the life force.”
Sweat poured from Melcorka's body as she lay on the stone-flagged floor, writhing in agony as Bruachan's ointment battled the evil in her veins.
“When my potion reaches her heart, you will know,” Bruachan said. “Then you will have to hold her, Bradan. When it reaches her brain, you may not be sufficiently strong. Pray for strength, Bradan, for you and Melcorka.”
“Oh God!” Melcorka opened her mouth to draw in a breath. “What have you done to me?”
“Your body is a battleground,” Bruachan told her. “The good of nature is fighting the evil of spiritless within you. I do not know which will be victorious. It depends on how much of the essential you remains to help the fight. It depends on your spiritual strength.”
“Bradan!” Melcorka yelled, twisting, clawing at her chest. “Bradan!”
“I am here.” Bradan held her hands, suffering with her. “I am always here, Melcorka.”
“For the love of God!”
Bradan leaned closer, trying to help, willing Melcorka to fight. “I'm here, Melcorka; take my strength.”
Melcorka twisted, holding herself as Bruachan's ointment battled the poison that infected her blood, contesting the depression that crushed her spirit and removed her power of decision and joy. Sweat streamed from Melcorka's every pore to form a puddle beneath her as her eyes widened until they bulged from their sockets. She groaned, no longer able to articulate, and the veins on her forehead and neck swelled.
“Bruachan,” Bradan pleaded. “What can I do to help?”
“Be there.” Bruachan was watching, with his fingers deep inside Melcorka's scar. “Hold her. Allow your mind to meet hers.”
“My mind?” Bradan did as Bruachan said, desperate to help as Melcorka moved beyond pain into a realm where nothing matters, a place only known to a few. There was no peace there, only torment so great it became the sole reason for existence.
“Melcorka.” Bearnas's voice was gentle. She stood beside Melcorka, alongside others of her family, warrior women and men stretching back in time.
“We are here, Melcorka. We are here. Take strength.” Bearnas leaned closer to Melcorka. “You are not alone. You are never alone.”
The black-and-white birds were there, oystercatchers circling, ready to guide
Melcorka to whichever side she chose, the left path or the right path.
“You are not alone, Melcorka.”
“Yes, Mother.” Even through her agony, Melcorka heard herself speak.
“Melcorka's mother is dead,” Bradan said to Bruachan. “Is Melcorka with her, or with us?”
Bruachan shook his head. “I do not know.”
“Mel.” Bradan pressed his hands on Melcorka's head. “Take my strength, Melcorka. It's all yours.” Her head was damp with sweat as she thrashed on the flagstones, moaning. She reached up, taking hold of Bradan with both hands.
“Bradan? I saw you walk away with another woman when I was dead on the sand.”
“You are not dead, Melcorka, and there is no other woman.”
“She knows it's you,” Bruachan said. “She is coming back.”
“Melcorka!”
“It is not yet her time,” Bruachan said. “Look; she is over the worst now.”
Melcorka's writhing eased until she lay still on the ground. She stared upwards. “Bradan? Is that you?”
“It's me, Mel,” Bradan heard the catch in his voice. “You're back, again.”
“Where have I been?”
“The other place,” Bradan said. “You have been away for some time.”
“I have things to do,” Melcorka”s voice was already stronger, and there was a fire in her eyes Bradan had not seen since she fought Erik.
“You have to gather your strength first,” Bradan warned.
“I'm strong enough, damn it!” Melcorka said. “And tell that Druid to get his hand off my leg or I'll cut it off at the wrist.”
Chapter Fourteen
“That is Bruachan,” Bradan said. “He brought you back.”
Melcorka sat up. “I remember now. My mother was here. And Bradan. Thank you, Bruachan.”
The Druid removed his hand. “I'll keep my wrist intact, I think. Not many people could survive the evil that Erik put in you, Melcorka. What do you intend now?”
When Melcorka touched the hilt of Defender, the old familiar thrill returned. “First I will wash this sweat off my body, and then I'll hunt Erik down,” she said.
“For revenge?” Bruachan asked.
“No. To remove the evil from Alba.” Melcorka stood up, swayed and accepted Bradan's supporting hand. “If it were for revenge, Defender would not work for me.”
Bruachan gave a faint smile. “Your Defender is virtually unbeatable against any weapon made in its own time, for it holds the skill of great warriors.”
Melcorka nodded. “That is so, yet Erik and Legbiter defeated me with ease.”
“He did. Erik used the evil from a thing that was ancient long before the Romans crucified Christ. It is a primeval spirit of the earth, something from the hidden depths below the ground, a forbidden evil.”
“Tell me more,” Melcorka said.
“We call it the Cu-saeng, for it has no other known name,” Bruachan said. “The people who worshipped it died thousands of years before our grandfathers' ancestors came to this land.” Bruachan watched as Melcorka paced the breadth of the room, turned and strode back. “It is possible that the people who erected the stone circles knew of this entity, for from time to time we have discovered sacrifices beneath the stones.”
“What type of sacrifices?” Melcorka asked without stopping her pacing.
“We found the bones of animals and of humans.” Bruachan passed across a small leather bottle. “Mead,” he said. “Drink. It will help restore your strength.”
Melcorka did so, feeling the sweet honey-liqueur seeping into her body. “That is the best thing I have tasted in months,” she said
.
“You will taste better,” Bruachan said, “as your recovery continues.”
“We think that this spirit owns the soil and everything beneath the surface of the land, so it resents anybody digging foundations for houses or any other disturbance of its possessions.”
“Can it be killed?” Melcorka asked.
“No; it is the embodiment of evil, just as Christ was the embodiment of the spirit of good.”
“If I can't kill it, can I defeat it in any other way?” Melcorka stroked the hilt of Defender.
“We think it can be quelled,” Bruachan spoke cautiously. “At some time, the men and women who erected the triple stone circle captured and contained the power of the Cu-saeng.”
“Captured its power?” Melcorka ran her thumb along the blade of Defender.
“The power was written in a book, which the old ones buried deep beneath the earth, and the Christian monks located and safely contained.”
Melcorka drained the mead and looked for something to eat. “Is this Cu-saeng thing still contained?”
Bruachan shook his head. “No. When the present wars with the Norse and Albans and Northumbrians began, the leader of a war band was searching for plunder and dug up this book, the Book of Black Earth, as it is known. Some fool opened it, and a part of the spirit exchanged the sword of the nearest warrior for one that contained pure evil.”
“That would be Legbiter,” Melcorka said. “Was Erik that leader?”
“Erik was not the leader. He was only one of the war band. He thinks he controls the sword, but Legbiter controls him.” Bruachan handed over a loaf of bread, into which Melcorka bit. “You are recovering your strength faster than I expected.”
“Yes,” Melcorka said. “You said part of the spirit entered Legbiter. What happened to the remainder?”
“You are a woman of many questions,” Bruachan said. “The remainder is in the book, which we believe the leader of the war band holds.”
Melcorka finished the bread and looked for more. “What must I do?”
“Two things,” Bruachan said. “First, you must stop Erik's killing spree and destroy his evil sword, and second, you must find the book and contain or dispel the evil of the Cu-Saeng.”
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