Almost as quickly as it had disappeared, though, the world returned. It seemed a miracle he was still standing. But when he could see again, the midafternoon sun was gone and it was cold. He blinked, but the dusk remained. The crowds were gone. All was silent. He stood in a grassy area, but the tables and booths were all gone as well, and the grass was weird-looking. Sort of knobby, like a poorly woven blanket. He turned, and turned again. Mountains! Higher mountains than he’d seen in his life, more brown, and certainly steeper, than any he’d seen in Tennessee! Some of the peaks disappeared into intermittent mist and jutted up to a dark purple sky scattered with more stars than he could comprehend.
The sharp smell of wood smoke greeted him, and he looked around to see the smoldering ruins of . . . something. A barn, maybe? He muttered to himself, “Holy moley. What just happened?”
Voices came from up the slope, and he looked to see moving shapes. About four or five of them, and they were hurrying toward him. Good. Maybe here was someone who could answer his question.
CHAPTER 3
The men looked like stragglers from the festival, dressed in kilts and linen shirts. Authentic garb, he noticed as they drew closer. He was impressed that they wore their kilts as if they’d done so all their lives. He went toward them, but their attention was elsewhere.
One, a big, redneck-looking guy with blond hair and a dirty-blond beard, said something Dylan couldn’t quite make out and knelt next to a dark shape on the ground. The three-quarters moon was up, but it was scant light. Two of the other men were very young, in their teens. They spoke in voices that had not yet steadied. The fourth was much older than the other three, tall and thin.
The four muttered to each other so low that Dylan couldn’t catch a word except Sassunach. The often derogatory term that meant “Englishman” was one of the few words of Gaelic he knew. He wondered if these guys might be taking this whole festival thing just a mite too seriously. Though it was plain something extremely weird was going on, his mind still clung to the idea of the festival. Now that the sun had gone down, his goal now was to find his way back to his car and go home. That is, if he could find Ronnie to get the keys.
“Hey!” he said as he approached.
They all looked up, startled. “Och!” the redneck cried, and leapt over the dark shape toward Dylan. The others spoke fast and loud, a jumble of nonsense, and the big guy pulled a dirk from his belt as he ran.
Even in the moonlight, Dylan could tell this redneck wasn’t fixing to shake his hand in greeting. Dylan’s eyes went wide. He blocked, took the knife arm, and threw the attacker over his hip. Redneck was big, but fast for his size. As he landed, his foot went out to catch Dylan’s side. The big guy hit the ground with a whump. At the same moment Dylan yelped from the hit to his kidney.
For a moment lights of pain flashed behind his eyes. That dirk had come in low, aimed upward at his solar plexus, where it could have slipped under his ribs and straight into his heart. The realization hit him: This guy is trying to kill me! Sparring was one thing. And he’d even fought in anger a few times. But the concept of truly fighting for his life had always been a theoretical one. His mind wanted to slew sideways into more acceptable thought, but he had to focus. Now. He took a deep breath and readied for the next assault.
Redneck scrambled to his feet and rushed him once more with the dirk. Dylan blocked again then grabbed the knife arm, fell back onto the ground, drove his heel into Redneck’s solid gut, and heaved him over and onto his head a second time.
Now Redneck was pissed, and Dylan knew he had a wounded bear after him. The knife slashed out before the man was even on his feet. Dylan jumped back. He glanced around, hoping to see a stray weapon left behind, but there was nothing. Not even a stick or rock.
He spotted the other three spreading out to surround him, and he tried to back up to keep them all in front of him. Redneck lunged with his dirk. Dylan responded with a block, snap kick to the gut, then a high side thrust kick to the face that sent his opponent staggering back. He then turned to the other three and held up his hands. “Hey! What’s going—”
With a collective roar, the three charged, and hauled him to the ground. He went down in a flurry of elbows, fists, knees, and feet, but they were too many and way too angry. They beat him until he could no longer breathe. He figured he was fixing to die, and thought stupidly he would have preferred the knife. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was a glimpse of an angel fluttering overhead, tiny and glowing, wearing a diaphanous white dress. As he slipped into blackness he realized she had shiny, white wings. . . .
His head began throbbing long before he was conscious enough to know it was his head. Slowly he returned to the world, and groaned over the really weird dream he’d had. Something about mountains and Gaelic-speaking Scots and a knife fight. . . .
As he came to, it seemed the dream continued. The floor under his face was cold, stone tile, and the place smelled like dirt, animals, cooking food, and smoke. There were people in the room—he could hear voices—but they all spoke Gaelic. At least, he was pretty sure it was Gaelic, though it was sometimes hard to tell. He tried to make out words, but they were talking awfully fast and on top of each other. He knew too little of the language. He only succeeded in making his head hurt worse.
He stirred, and discovered his hands were bound. It was a struggle to move at all, so he lay still and looked around. Wherever he was, it was dark. Candlelight flickered off the stone walls of a fairly long room that faded into shadows at the far end. Several kilted men stood nearby in low-voiced conference. One was Redneck, who was too big to miss and from Dylan’s vantage point seemed gigantic.
Dylan looked around with caution, taking care not to attract the attention of the men. Near the far wall was a low trestle table bearing a nude man. A woman wept as she cleaned him. He looked dead. Blackened blood covered his face and matted his hair. Slowly she wiped the pale skin, then rinsed the rag in a wooden bucket, wrung it out, and wiped again with care. Small snuffling noises drifted to Dylan, under the low conversation of the four men.
The floor was strewn with straw, which smelled musty and moldy in the closed space. Three Border collies lounged nearby, watching him as if they’d each been promised a piece of him if he moved. At the other end of the room, light came from a hearth set into the wall. Someone, a woman, he discerned from the silhouette, tended a small pot over a low fire. There was stone carving over the mantle, but it was too dark to see what it was.
Where on God’s earth was he?
He needed to start asking questions, and heaved himself to a sitting position. The men fell silent, staring at him . . . no, glaring. He muttered through a lip gummy with blood, “Where am I?”
One of the teenagers, this one with a strawberry-blond mop of hair, shouted and pointed at him, and Redneck pulled out his dirk again. The older man, who resembled nothing other than the stereotypical American hillbilly—tall, thin, and raw-boned—stayed his hand. A loud and tense argument ensued between the four of them. Once more Dylan went ignored.
A small voice, like a child’s, said near his head, “They think you’re English.”
Dylan turned, and found himself gawking at the angel. Thinking he’d died, he squeezed his eyes shut as his heart leapt to his throat. He looked again. The angel’s silvery-white hair was short and hugged her face with feathered locks, through which poked pointed ears. He still had no idea what was happening, but by the look in her bright blue eyes the little thing was no angel and this place was absolutely not heaven. He blinked and peered at her. “Why do they think that?”
“Shhh, not so loud.” She glanced at the arguing men, her thin arms crossed over her chest, “You mean, you’re not?”
“No. Matheson isn’t an English name.”
She seemed relieved. “Then speak to them in Gaelic if you’re a Matheson!” Her hands fluttered in urgency.
He shook his head then regretted it. “I don’t speak Gaelic. Not enough, anyway.”
Her fists rested on her hips. “Dinnae be daft. Surely you must have Gaelic.”
He shook his head, gently this time. She sulked. His head throbbed, and he took inventory of his injuries. The iron taste of blood was strong in his mouth, and as he ran his tongue over his teeth he felt torn places inside his lip. Thick blood had dried on his face, and one eye was swollen not quite shut. All his bones seemed intact, but both his kidneys ached and his gut was sore. He said, “Hey. Do you think I could get an aspirin?”
“A what?” Once more her arms were crossed.
“Aspirin. For my head.”
“I know not this aspirin garment.”
“Pill. It’s a pill. You’ve never heard of aspirin?”
“Nae. Nor pill, neither. Are you sure it’s English you’re speaking?”
Dylan sighed and bit back an irritated comment. Then he said, “Where am I?”
“Glen Ciorram, in an old castle that is called Tigh a’ Mhadaidh Bhàin. House of the White Hound, to you. Domain of the local Laird, Iain Matheson, known to his friends and family as Iain Mór. His cousin, Alasdair Matheson, was just this very afternoon murdered in his dooryard before the horrified eyes of his wife and wee bairns, by an English pig and his infernal dragoons who then made off with the family’s goods and gear and burnt the poor man’s house to the ground.”
That explained the stinking ruins he’d seen, the dead man on the table, and the dark shape on the ground. He said slowly, “And they think I had something to do with it because . . .”
“Because you speak English.”
“Big deal. Half the world speaks English.”
“Indeed. And so do these lads, but they generally choose not to. Particularly they would choose not to if they ever found themselves under suspicion of spying, as you are. Which you would know if you weren’t a bloody Sassunach with nae Gaelic.”
Spying? In Scotland? And how in hell did he make it all the way to Scotland? Dylan closed his eyes. His head hurt. His mind hurt. How many centuries had it been since the English had needed actual spies in Scotland? At least one, more like two. And here he was, five thousand miles away from where he’d been an instant before being attacked by a big Scottish thug, talking to a four-feet-tall, shimmery-white woman with wings and pointy ears. “What are you?”
As casual as could be, she said, “A faerie. Sinann Eire by name, maiden of the Tuatha De Danann and granddaughter of the sea-god Lir. I brought you here to save my people from the English.”
Huh? His aching head couldn’t even address the faerie issue, and focused on the last thing she said. “Scotland isn’t in any danger from England. It’s been part of England, more or less, since the reign of James I, officially under English rule, more or less, since 1707, and there hasn’t even been a Jacobite uprising since 1745.”
An odd light came into the faerie’s eye, which turned Dylan’s gut to ice though he wasn’t sure why. She said, her voice suddenly doubtful, “Not since then? And how long would that be?”
His eyes narrowed. “You don’t know?”
Her cheeks flushed, and her pale blue eyes snapped. She set her fists on her hips and leaned toward him. “Just tell me how long it’s been for you since this famous 1745 rising.”
“Over two hundred and fifty years, something like that.”
Her face went dark, and she began muttering in Gaelic, turning in place as if looking for something to hit.
“Hey! Hey, Sinann! Faerie lady!” She ignored him. “Hey! ”
“What? ” She turned back to him, fists on hips.
“What’s the surprise? What year is it for you?” A feeling of lightheadedness came as he realized what a bizarre thing he’d just said.
For a moment he thought she might not answer, but she finally said, “Today, as of sunset, is the first day of October, in the year 1713.” Then, half to herself, she went back to muttering. “It took nearly three centuries for that claidheamh mór to find you! This is bad! This is very bad! If only that English bastard hadn’t returned!”
Dylan didn’t care what English bastard she meant. He gave a forced laugh. “You’re funning me, I know it.”
She peered at him. “Funning? Perhaps you think this is fun, but I dinnae think it so jolly.”
The date grew large in his mind as he realized she was serious. 1713. Not just thousands of miles, but hundreds of years. He looked around at his captors, and knew the faerie was telling the truth. All that wonderfully authentic garb looked so good because it was genuine. Those men wore their kilts as if they’d done so all their lives, because they had. The real danger of his situation sank in. Redneck, who had truly intended to kill him earlier, might yet succeed.
He hissed at the faerie, “Psst! Sinann! Hush!”
She paused in mid-rant. “Why?”
“They’ll hear you.”
“Nae. You they’ll hear, but not me.”
“How come?”
She hissed back, impatient with his stupidity, “Because I like it that way, that’s why not! I do still have some powers left, you know!”
“Well, I’m impressed! Next time why don’t you send a sword after someone from your own century, how about it!”
“I wouldn’t want the likes of you trying to help, sure enough! Can’t even keep out of trouble with your own clan!”
“I didn’t ask to come here!”
“And I dinnae ask you to!”
“Then send me home!”
At that, she made a frustrated noise, snapped her fingers, and disappeared. Dylan collapsed and pressed his forehead to his knee. He was dead meat.
In the way that the human mind has of conjuring the most unlikely images while under stress, Dylan found himself dredging up a vague memory of a television cartoon he’d watched as a child. Something about a turtle and a wizard. The turtle always blundered into trouble, and at the end of every episode the wizard always got him out of it. Dylan muttered, “Help me, Mr. Wizard. . . .”
But nothing happened. No wizard waved a hand to send him back to turn-of-the-twenty-first-century Tennessee. Unwilling to just sit and wait for his fate, he decided to take action. Let Redneck either kill him or not. He took a deep breath and struggled to his feet with his hands still bound behind his back. “Ciamar a tha sibh?”
The men stopped arguing and looked at him. The two women also stopped what they were doing and stared. Grabbing at straws, he said to the men, “Iain Matheson?”
Redneck stepped forward, and Dylan had to swallow a groan. “Aye.” Iain Mór, the faerie had called him. Big John. A reference to his size, no doubt.
“I didn’t kill your cousin.”
Hillbilly said, “Oh, aye, we know that. Sarah saw it all.” He nodded in the direction of the weeping woman with the dead man.
Iain roared at Hillbilly, “Malcolm!” There was more argument in Gaelic, then Iain returned his attention to Dylan. “Tell us who you are, or we’ll kill you where you stand.”
Dylan resisted the urge to take a step back, and held his ground. “My name is Dylan Robert Matheson.”
“Ye lie!” Iain came at him again, and Dylan wasn’t quite fast enough in his bindings to escape a ham-fisted sock in the gut.
He folded in half, unable to breathe for a few seconds while pain turned the world black. Slowly he recovered enough to take a shuddering breath, straightened, and looked Iain in the eye. With almost no voice he said, “It’s the truth!”
“You’re nae a Matheson, and I’ll kill you for taking me for a fool!” He hauled back and took a swing at Dylan’s face, which Dylan dodged. Then Iain pounded him in the gut once more. Dylan’s throbbing head began to spin.
When he could breathe again, he said harshly, “Untie me and give me a knife, you sonofabitch, and let’s see if you can take me!” Big as Iain was, Dylan figured he could beat this bumpkin in a fair fight.
Malcolm took Iain’s arm and spoke sternly. The big man glared, but after that took no more swings at Dylan.
“Listen to me!” Dy
lan spoke as clearly as he could through his bloody lip. “Listen to the way I talk! I’m not English!” Iain paused, his hand creeping toward his dirk, and Dylan spoke faster, countrifying his suburban South drawl. “I ain’t English, and you know it. I don’t talk like no Englishman you’ve ever heard. Listen to me!”
Malcolm said, “He’s right, Iain. He’s nae English, nor French, neither. Listen a spell.”
Dylan, encouraged, said, “I’m not English, I’m an American.” He corrected himself. “I mean, I’m from the colonies.” Through the pain in his skull he struggled to remember what he knew about his early American ancestors. What was the name his grandfather had told him? The name of that convict? The first of his Matheson ancestors to set foot in the New World? It had been sometime during the late seventeenth century. 1660-ish, a little over fifty years ago, according to that faerie. “My father was . . .” He took a deep breath. The name? The name? Oh, yeah! “Roderick Matheson.”
The entire room came to attention, silent and still. He’d struck a nerve. He continued, memory clearing as he spoke, “Roderick was transported to the colony of Virginia as a young man. I was born . . .” Uh oh, now he had to lie. He had been born in Tennessee, which even in 1713 hadn’t been much explored by white men. He decided not to stretch the credibility factor. “I was born in Virginia in . . .” some quick math here, “1683.”
Iain grumbled, “You dinnae look as old as a’ that. Nor much like a Matheson, to me.” Dylan guessed that was a reference to his tan body and nearly black hair, a coloring combination not unheard of in Scotland. But it appeared to be rare among this family who seemed mostly light-haired: blond, red, and light brown. Without thinking, he blurted, “I worked all summer on this tan.” Everyone in the room blinked at him, uncomprehending.
Yeah, there were about fifteen generations between himself and Roderick Matheson, and at best these people would probably have been third or fourth cousins even to old Roderick. The lack of physical resemblance was not a huge surprise. He prevaricated. “Well, my mother’s people are all very long-lived,” relative to the life expectancy in 1713, that was true, “so I’m older than I look. And I have her coloring, too.” He thought it might be confusing to mention the Cherokee influence.
Son of the Sword Page 4
