In the area he had left, the cars nearest to Fasil’s body began to explode, one by one, rocking the whole structure of the building and sending tremors beneath MacLeod’s feet. Ceiling debris began to fall and the wind collected clouds of white dust, sweeping it blizzard-like along the aisles.
Then MacLeod remembered his sword. He ran back to Fasil’s body and found the blade still buried in the concrete pillar, which it had struck after the decapitation. He wrenched it free and slid it into an overhead ducting along with its sheath. Then he took one last long look at Fasil’s headless corpse, before striding back to his Porsche.
Chapter 4
GLAMMIS CASTLE, WITH its greystone towers and high ramparts, stood solidly within MacLeod territory deep in the Glenfinnan highlands. The road that ran between the village and its gate curved only once, in towards the dark waters of the loch, where it touched the silted beach, as if making a pretence of crossing the loch itself, only to swerve away at the last instant. It was a roughly made highway, with many holes in its surface, and one point where the underlying rock rose like a whale’s hump to annoy carters with tall loads. In the winter, the road was barely visible as. the freezing mists drifted over from the loch and in the summer rains it became a quagmire.
This day was dry and dusty, with the warm south winds rolling down from the mountains, collecting the perfume of the heather as they came. Along the road from the castle came two men, with others behind them, through the villagers that lined the route. The first was a piper, the strange harsh music of a pibroch, tuneful only to those who had been born to its unmelodic sound, issuing from his instrument. The second, just a pace behind him, was a drummer, beating out a time which was the heart of the highlands.
Then came a priest whom the villagers knew as Father Rainey, a roughly hewn wooden cross the height of a man, held firmly by his calloused hands. He was a working priest, not afraid to pull a plough or too proud to row a fishing boat out onto the loch. He was a warrior-priest, present on the battlefield and, when the occasion called for it, willing to assist his parishioners in their fight, though he grieved sorely for the hand that wielded his dirk as if it belonged to another man.
Following the priest were the clansmen themselves, some on foot, some on horseback. Conner MacLeod and his cousin Angus rode together, children running by their mounts. Conner reined his mount at the curve in the road and lifted his claymore high above his head.
‘MacLeod!’ he cried.
The piper stopped, letting the mouthpiece fall from his lips. The drummer’s hands dropped to his sides. Father Rainey stepped into the rocks on the beach of the loch where the nets were drying in the sun. The clansmen gathered round him.
Father Rainey held out the cross, obliquely, over the waters of the loch. He let his monk’s hood fall back to reveal his bare head.
‘May this year of our Lord, 1536, bring victory to the Clan MacLeod,’ he cried.
The clansmen echoed his last word.
‘MacLeod!’
Dugal added, in his enthusiasm, ‘Victory to the MacLeods. ‘
There was a long silence after these words which even the excited children respected. Some of the women glanced at each other: there was fear in their eyes. They knew that some of their menfolk would -not witness the setting of the sun over the purple loch that evening. They would be going to cold beds with empty hearts beating painfully beneath their breasts.
When the silence had run its course, the men continued their journey along the road, leaving the women and children behind, to watch after them. Dugal rode up alongside Conner, his black hair falling stiffly on his shoulders. He had the broad MacLeod brow and he seldom washed above this point.
‘Are you scared, Conner?’ he asked, his voice bearing a faint mocking tone. Conner felt the indignation rising within him.
‘No, Cousin Dugal.’ He looked the other man directly in the eyes. ‘I am not.’
Angus, following behind them, obviously heard the exchange, for he called out, ‘Don’t talk nonsense man. I peed ma kilt the first time I rode into battle.’
The three men laughed, together. They were easy in one another’s company at this time, having a common purpose. Conner liked these times, when they were friends as well as kinsmen. He could almost have thanked the Frasers for that.
Dugal said, ‘Aye. Angus pees his kilt all the time.’ They laughed again, even Angus. A boy ran past Conner’s horse, along the road back to the castle and he turned on his horse to watch him, remembering his own childhood and how the thought of battle had thrilled him at that age.
He had been so impatient to reach manhood and prove his worth amongst his peers that he prayed for the years to pass as quickly as days. Now? Now he was not so sure. Of course, Angus was right. He was scared. It would have been foolish to have been otherwise. Men without fear do not live long in the highlands where such an emotion is necessary to keep the awareness primed, the blood at high pitch. Death was too easy to find, if you were not looking for it around every rock.
Behind them, Glammis castle was beginning to cover itself in mist, like an old woman draping a shawl around her bony shoulders. From this direction a woman began running, calling out, weaving between the clansmen on foot.
‘Conner!’ she called, breathlessly. ‘Conner - wait.’
It was Kate. Sharp-eyed, and, aye, sharp-nosed Kate, who had set her bonnet at Conner many summers before. She ran alongside his horse, as it began to break into a trot.
‘Connor - please wait.’
He reined in his mount and allowed her to catch up to him. Her blue eyes danced with light and a little smile had crept to her cheeks. She held something in her hand, and stretched forth her arm. It was a small bunch of flowers, picked from the mountainside: delicate little alpine blooms that drooped a little now in the heat of the glen.
‘Take these flowers and think of me.’
He leaned down, and clutched her hand, almost lifting her off her feet as he bent to kiss her.
‘Remember,’ she said, ‘you fight with God on your side Conner. He will keep you safe for me.’
Conner smiled and took the flowers from her hand, tucking them into his broad leather belt.
‘These flowers will be my shield - they’ll ward off the Fraser blades.’ Her eyes were serious now.
‘No, not the flowers. They’re from me. It’s only God will keep you from harm. You hear me, Conner MacLeod?’
‘I hear you, bonny Kate.’
She stopped then, letting him ride on ahead, staring after him. She did not even look up, when Dugal and Angus passed her, one on either side. Her attention was on her man.
‘Come back to me, Conner,’ she called.
‘Aye,’ he said, but more to himself than to the girl behind him. He looked at the loch and the hills that swept down to their shores.
‘Aye. I want to come back.’
Dugal caught up with him, the two horses bumping flanks.
‘A girl like that. . .’ Conner interrupted with, ‘. . . can wound a soldier more than a Fraser’s sword, my friend.’
The pair of them laughed. Kate called out, from far behind them.
‘Dugal. You and Angus keep him in one piece. Do you hear?’
‘Aye,’ said Dugal, looking askance at Conner, ‘and we all know what piece that is!’ but only Dugal laughed this time.
By the time they approached the far banks of Loch Shiel, it was mid-afternoon. To the east of them, Conner saw a herd of deer scattering as if they could already smell the blood on the heather. The beasts were so graceful in movement that he wanted to get down from his horse and run with them, delighting in the speed at which they carried their lithe bodies. Then he chastised himself, mentally.
Do you want to run away, Conner MacLeod? That won’t do at all. You’ll have to think of a better excuse than wanting to join the deer in their flight from the scent of man. This day you must stand and fight, though the stink of entrails drives you mad and the blood of your kinsmen reeks, warm and sweet, in your
nostrils. You must not shame your mother, nor your father, God rest his soul. A father taken and hung by the Frasers, don’t forget. Today you must account for that crime.
The hot afternoon had made the mounts tire early and they were dragging their legs a little now. A piper struck up a battle tune, somewhere in the ragged ranks of the MacLeods, and the music lifted his heart a little. The lone drummer followed suit and soon the rhythmic, repetitive sounds filled him with the pride and hatred necessary to him to go into the forthcoming battle.
The banner carriers unfurled the gonfalon depicting a black bull’s head. Things were stirring in the hearts of the clansmen. Fear, yes, but old wrongs were recalled to mind, of pillaged crofts and raped women. The Frasers. Revenge. A thirst for the blood of an ancient enemy. In the order of things a Fraser was almost a lower being than an Englishman - almost.
They reached the top of the ridge overlooking the loch and on the far side of the glen, on a similar ridge, stood the Fraser, looking impatient for battle. This was the way to settle an argument! Clan against clan. It was the only way. By the sword, or the dirk.
The MacLeods reached the brow of the hill, where they paused to survey the battle area, the glen between the two groups.
Among the Frasers, looking across the valley at the MacLeods, was a man on a tall, black gelding. He was not dressed like the clansmen around him, in the Fraser tartan, but in an animal-skin cloak, a fur, that failed to hide his giant frame. Instead of a claymore at his side, there was a huge broadsword, and on his head was a helmet made from the skull of a strange beast, which bore fangs that curved down to the corners of his black eyes. His skin was swarthy and of a slightly darker complexion than that of the warriors with whom he rode and it was pockmarked as though he had at once time suffered from the pox, but had survived. His lips were full and bloodswollen, covering teeth that had been chipped in many fights. He was a strange foreigner, newly come amongst the Frasers and he had promised to help them in their fight against the MacLeods. They had not asked him to prove his worth: that was apparent in his arrogance and in his eyes. He was a good head taller than the tallest man on the field and the Frasers were afraid of him to a man. In his offer of aid was one small request, which he was about to utter.
Suddenly, out of the clear blue sky of the summer afternoon, lightning forked downwards to the crest of the hill on which the Frasers were gathered. The stranger’s horse reared and he steadied it with strong hands. Murdoch Fraser, standing close to him, said nervously, ‘Kurgan, you said you had a request. What might that be, now we’re here, ready for the battle?’
The Kurgan sighed and said in a hoarse whisper, ‘There is one called Conner among them. . .’
‘Aye,’ replied Murdoch.
‘The boy is mine, Murdoch. Remember our agreement. I want the youth called Conner. No one else must touch him.’
‘It shall be as you say.’
Murdoch passed the word along the line of clansmen just as, from the far side of the valley, a shout came and the MacLeods began streaming down the hillside.
Murdoch said, ‘It’s begun.’ He raised his claymore. ‘Death to the MacLeods,’ and was rewarded by a cheer from his clansmen. The two clans advanced on one another, across the marsh in middle of the valley. It was soft underfoot and would make many a bed for both MacLeod and Fraser before the afternoon was out. Those on horseback fought to keep their mounts steady, and those on foot chose the harder paths amongst the peat.
Angus was the first to clash with the Frasers. He rode in amongst them, yelling, ‘Die.’ His sword came down on a footsoldier, the blade burying itself in the nape of the neck. The man fell, clutching wildly at Angus’s ankle, trying to pull him from his mount, even in death. Angus kicked him free and the marsh swallowed half the unfortunate man’s face. He did not stir.
A Fraser ran up to Angus’s horse from behind and vaulted onto the beast’s back, gripping Angus around the throat. There was a brief struggle before both men fell to the ground.
Angus reached to his sock for his dirk and stabbed the Fraser in the groin, then in the heart.
Nearby, a MacLeod staggered back, pierced by a spear that penetrated his abdomen and came out near the backbone. He wrenched the shaft from his body and made a weaving path between the other fighters. Something grey and blister-like was showing between his fingers as he clutched the wound. He had only gone about four paces before he was felled by another blow, from an axe.
The Kurgan came riding into the marshland on his charger, laying about him with the huge broadsword. Two MacLeods went down with as many strokes and he trampled over their bodies, using the horse to stamp them into the mud.
Then his eyes searched keenly for the one called Conner. He did not know what the youth looked like, but Murdoch’s men would refrain from fighting with him. He saw, in the midst of the battle, such a youth, whom the Frasers were avoiding. The boy was riding amongst the battling figures, crying, ‘Fight! Who will fight with me?’
Frasers parted to let him through, choosing other opponents. Even when the youth managed to get close enough to wound one of them, they still refrained from battle with him.
‘Come on, damn you. . .’, cried the frustrated young MacLeod. ‘I’m a MacLeod. Fight with me.’
Just below the Kurgan’s horse, a Fraser was holding a MacLeod’s head under the marshwater.
‘Now you stay under. . .’
Father Rainey, seeing this, as he wandered amongst the battling men, with the same sort of immunity as Conner appeared to possess, gripped the Fraser by the hair and dragged him away from his victim. The man turned on the priest and knocked the cross from his grasp, before thrusting with his sword. The point went through the habit just under the left armpit, and caught there. As the man fought to free his weapon from the priest’s clothing, Father Rainey cried, ‘Forgive me.’
‘Forgive you?’ snarled the Fraser.
Father Rainey gave the man a look of disdain and slit his throat with a dirk that had been hidden in his sleeve. The man slid to the ground with the priest saying, ‘I wasn’t talking to you. . .’ Then he knelt beside the body and crossed himself. ‘My son. . .’, he began to administer the last rites.
The Kurgan sneered at this sight of a man tom between his duty to his fellow men and his duty to God. In his opinion the priest should make up his mind whether he was a holy man or a warrior.
‘Fight me you cowards!’ Conner’s complaint came floating on the breeze that had sprung up within the last few minutes. Conner could not understand why no man would cross swords with him. It was almost as if he had been bewitched and they could not see him, or were afraid of the consequences of fighting someone under the influence of magic. All around him was the sound of battle and the groans of the wounded and dying.
‘Why will no one fight with me?’ he cried. ‘Fight me you cowards.’ He dismounted, hoping for close combat. Two Frasers with their backs to him turned, but one said to the other, ‘No, that’s Conner MacLeod.’
‘No,’ replied his companion, ‘not him.’
The two men moved away, to another part of the marsh and the frustration Conner felt built into a rage within him. He was determined to make someone fight with him. Angus was battling with a Fraser nearby and he ran to his side, just as the older MacLeod dispatched his opponent.
‘Death. . .’, said Angus.
Conner cried, ‘Angus. Nobody will fight with me.’
‘What?’
‘They all run away.’
Angus laughed. ‘Here laddie, stay by me.’
At that moment, Conner noticed a warrior on a horse, moving towards him. There was a lightning flash from the sky and the dark horse reared. Its rider was smiling. He seemed a giant of a man, even in the saddle, his broad shoulders covered with a strange cloak. On his head was the skull of an animal, the like of which Conner had never seen before. The image was enough to strike fear into the heart of the bravest MacLeod. The figure reached him, towering over him, the arrogance and c
ruelty evident in his face, in the full-blown lips and lustreless eyes unholy eyes. To Conner, he seemed the manifestation of some nightmarish demon, sent by the Devil to collect lost souls.
‘Mother of God. . .’, said Conner, quietly.
The warrior grinned and Conner’s awe increased. Surely those teeth were made for tearing raw flesh from the backs of live men? He was not real. He could not be real. The sword arm of the mighty figure above him was raised and Conner just had time to raise his shield to take the force of the blow. Such was the power behind the strike it jarred Conner’s arm through to his shoulder and the limb went numb.
‘What in God’s name are you?’ cried the youth.
The figure laughed and struck out again. Conner fell backwards, onto the spongy marsh ground and before he could regain his feet, the warrior had dismounted. He was indeed of massive proportions. Conner scrambled to get to his feet, but in doing so he exposed the whole of his body. The giant man stepped forward and drove the huge sword into Conner’s stomach. Conner felt the blade penetrate and a leaden pain washed over him. That kind of pain, he knew from Angus, a heavy, dull pain instead of a sharp one, was a mortal wound. I’m done for, he thought. My first battle and death has come to me. There was a terror in his heart and he dropped his weapons, gripping the blade, that had him transfixed, with his bare hands.
The man holding the weapon smiled and pushed the blade in deeper and deeper still. Fresh waves of pain flowed through Conner’s frame. The warrior was not satisfied. He gripped his sword hilt with both hands and twisted the blade in the wound. He screwed it to the right. Conner screamed.
The blade was then screwed to the left. No longer was there a slit in Conner’s gut, but a gaping hole. His mouth fell open and his eyes were wide. He had even lost the power to scream. The sword was withdrawn.
Conner, still on his knees and his head bowed like a condemned man awaiting the fall of the executioner’s axe, gripped the wound with his fingers. It was almost large enough to put his hand inside. At that moment another MacLeod rushed in and the dark warrior was distracted momentarily, while he stabbed the man full in the chest. The MacLeod fell to the turf with a sigh and lay still.
Highlander Page 3
