“I think you may have upset him,” Campbell said softly. “An apology might be in order.”
“I am sorry,” Martin said, aware that at any second his throat could be ripped out. He knew that his life depended on his next words, but he had no idea what to say. He decided on the first thing that came into his head. “My belly is empty and my soul is full.”
The pressure of the knife on his skin reduced slightly.
“We are not like them. We do not like them. Their souls have been tossed to the wind. We were here before the dark ones, and when the gods return we will be there when they are gone.” Lennan said. He waved the knife in front of Martin as if to admonish him, then went back to his work on the deer.
“I would not voice that opinion again too loudly in his presence,” Campbell replied as Martin checked his throat to ensure that no blood had been drawn. “They hate the Others as we do, but they have a magic that keeps them safe.”
“Magic? There is no such thing,” Martin said, and snorted. “Our Lord may have performed miracles, but no mere man can.”
“And so I thought. But they showed me things that night that gave me cause to wonder. They know things that they should not, and they can do things that we cannot.” Campbell scratched at his beard. “And how do you explain the Others?” he asked. “Surely they are magical beings?”
Martin flushed. “Old Menzies insists that it is a disease, a sickness of mind and body that could be cured in the right circumstances. He believes it is something in the blood, that gives longevity but forces the cravings for drinking it.”
“Then he is not the intellect I took him for,” Campbell said. “But you will see the error of that soon enough. I have seen them in action, remember? And I can tell you it is more, much more, than just a disease—they have power, and it is best not to forget that lest it causes a drop in your guard. But come, let us see if your new friend needs help with the deer.”
It looked like the woodsman was far from needing help. The deer had been gutted, skinned and quartered, and a haunch was already roasting over the fire while the remains were folded into the skin and taken outside.
“Won’t it draw attention?” Martin asked. “Will the taint of it not draw the Others? Or even those ‘beasties’ you warned me of?”
“Lennan is a woodsman.” Campbell said. “He will bury the remains deep. Learn to trust him, lad. There is no badness in him. Can’t you tell?”
In truth, Martin had already come round to that opinion. There was something about the woodsman that impressed him, and instilled the trust Campbell was asking for. Whether it was his strength and stillness, or whether it was merely the lack of guile in his gaze, Martin felt that he could quickly grow to like him.
Martin and Campbell watched the haunch and tried to ignore the rumbling in their stomachs as the flames licked at the carcass and the smell of cooking meat filled the hall.
“Do you believe that the Others are in league with Old Nick?” Martin asked. “Barnstable says that they are all warlocks, like all papists.”
Realising what he’d said, Martin suddenly blushed and began to stammer.
“I didn’t…I mean it wasn’t...I was only...”
Campbell let out a deep bellow of laughter.
“Dinna fash yerself man,” he said. “I know your opinion of Barnstable—I saw it in your eyes back in that big hall of yours.”
Martin blushed again. He was about to protest, more for form’s sake than out of any sense of indignation, but was saved further embarrassment when the woodsman returned.
“May your bellies be full and your souls empty,” the small man said, and bowed from the waist.
“And may the stones always stand and the wind always blow.” Campbell said.
Martin looked at him quizzically.
The Scotsman shrugged. “I don’t know what it means, but it was what they always said to each other the last time we met.”
“It is the way of our people,” Lennan said. “The stones are our history and the wind is our now, and our souls are what we will be.”
“And what about your bellies?” Martin said.
“A woodsman knows that you cannot have true happiness unless your belly is full.” Lennan said, and laughed, a high singing thing that seemed to ring in the eaves of the church.
“But come. The swift one is nearly cooked, and we have things that must be shown. Lennan has come to tell you of the dark men,” the woodsman said. “Cam-Bell has told me that you seek news of the Boy King. My people have sent me to show you what you seek.”
“But how did you know we were coming?” Martin said.
“The wind is our now, and it talks to our souls which are our future.” Lennan said.
Martin was about to ask another question, but Campbell put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him.
“I wouldn’t bother, laddie,” he said. “They think in a different way to us, and I don’t think we can fully understand them.”
From a pocket of his tunic Lennan took a small leather pouch, and from that he took a handful of what looked to Martin like dried herbs. There was suddenly a sharp odour in the air, assaulting his nose and bringing him to the verge of a sneeze. It was like pungent vinegar, or the salts he had seen Menzies used to revive those who fell in a faint, and it was bringing water to his eyes.
“I hope that is not for dressing the meat,” he said, but Campbell was smiling at him again.
“It looks like your education is about to continue. Watch, and say nothing.”
Lennan tossed the handful of herbs on the fire, which flared briefly in deep blue, then started to smoke—small wisps at first that curled and twisted in the air as if alive, then great billowing clouds which hung in front of them and boiled in a great tumult.
Lennan invited them to sit, and Campbell seemed ready to oblige him. Martin looked askance at the smoke. It seemed to coalesce and thicken, a rolling turmoil at its heart, as if there was something alive there that was desperate to escape. His heart thudded in his chest, and every fibre of his body was telling him to run, to escape from this thing that could only be the work of Satan, but to back away now would be to show cowardice, and the other two men seemed to be treating the sight as an everyday occurrence.
He sat beside Campbell, but was alert and ready for flight if necessary as the cloud thickened further, the grey smoke slowly turning blue, then green. The roof above them was now completely obscured, and the only thing Martin could see in the firelight was the flickering red shadows that danced on Lennan’s face.
“What trickery is this?” Martin asked, but Lennan hushed him with a sharp glance.
“What I will show you has happened, is happening, and is yet to happen,” the woodsman said. But Martin barely registered the sound of his voice—he was transfixed by the smoke, and the pictures which were forming there as the smoke cleared to reveal a moonlit scene.
It is night. A crescent moon hangs over a vast ruin, its stones fallen in a chaotic rubble, a moon that casts the stone in shadows of silver and black and grey. The ruin has once been an imposing edifice, but only a high tower remains, and on top of it stands all that is left of a cross, a jagged pinnacle of broken stone. Thick trees grow where monks once walked, and ivy has run over everything that remains standing. What was once a cathedral is tonight home to something monstrous.
Dark shadows flit among the tumbled stones, red eyes blazing like hot coals. They move so fast that it is almost impossible to believe that they were once men, but they have the requisite numbers of arms and legs, and they walk upright. They are dancing, a ritualised swirl around the centre of the cathedral, a celebration of what they are and what they are about to set out on.
There, in the centre of the ruin, stand eleven figures, somehow darker than the rest, and at first it is impossible to make out any detail in the shadows, but then the moon seems to shine brighter and it is possible to see that they are dressed in an outlandish manner.
There to the right is a tal
l thin figure in full battle armour from some centuries-old battle, the metal rusted and pitted, more red than silver. Over the armour hangs a tunic—once white but now a dirty yellow, only the red cross still vivid. It is only when you look closer that you see that the tunic is dripping, that the cross has been drawn in fresh blood. He carries a sword, a huge thing that is almost as long as he is tall. It is black and heavily scarred with the mark of many battles. He carries it in his hand as if it weighs no more than the smallest dagger. There is a visor lowered to hide his features, for which you are thankful, but red eyes gleam with a feral hatred through the grill.
Beside him is one who might once have been a monk, black robes torn and frayed, a heavy cowl pulled over a large head that looks strangely misshapen. This one holds a staff which at first looks like white wood, but on closer inspection seems to be fused bone. Human bone. The figure moves and the robe falls open, revealing a heavily built body that at first you take to be female. But then you notice the mutilated stump between its legs—a stump that exudes heavy drops of thick, almost congealed, blood.
The next is one who wears eagle feathers in his hair and has an overshirt composed entirely of ranks of old, thin, bones. He wears a skirt composed of hair, and when you look closely you can see the red, still bloody, scalps that the hair is attached to, which have been knitted together to form a crude belt. His face is painted with two red stripes across the large hooked nose, and his eyes are sunk deep beneath heavy brows. He smiles, and chipped yellow fangs slide from suddenly bloody gums.
A fourth is again something you have only heard of, never seen. His skin is yellow and his eyes slanted upwards at the corners. He is almost bald, but a long black plait hangs down his back from a topknot. He wears loose folds of cloth in golds and greens that seem to shimmer in the moonlight. His eyes, red like the rest, also show flecks of gold and silver. This one has fingernails so long that they curve round, almost back to his palms. The nails shine in the moonlight, and when he moves you can see that they are tipped in sharp points of metal.
The fifth is like a great bear, a huge figure clad all in black fur, his body hair so luxuriant it is difficult to see where his hair ends and his clothing begins. When the fur moves in the wind you can see that he is further clad in a tunic made of skin—torn, bloody scraps crudely sewn together, bits of it still raw and bloody. When this one smiles, he shows, not twin fangs, but a rank of yellowed, broken canines at least three inches long.
The sixth is female, but is only just recognisable as such. She is so old that, if she had been man and only man, she would have been dead long since. Her skin is folded and wrinkled with thin, flat breasts swinging against a bony chest. She is small, barely four foot high, and her hair is a tangled mass containing twigs and earth. She is wearing a necklace that, at first, you take to be horses pizzles, but then you have a closer look, and see that they are all too human, some of them still bleeding. She cackles as she lifts one of them to her mouth. Her fangs sink into the soft flesh and she starts to suck.
Four others at least look like something with which you might have some experience. They are dressed like Campbell, but the colours of their kilts and plaid have faded and worn. They all wear pigtails in the highland fashion, but you cannot imagine such as these laughing over a flagon of ale or dancing over their swords. Their eyes are dead, and when they smile, their fangs gleam white in the moon.
But your attention is caught by the one in the middle, a slim figure dressed in the highland fashion. No dirty rags for this one. His clothing all looks new and well tailored, making him seem somehow cleaner, less vile. His pale, aristocratic features shine in the moonlight, his skin seems to shine with an inner glow, and your eyes are drawn to his long blond hair falling behind him like a cape. This one, the eleventh and last, this is the one you have been brought to see, this is the Boy King come back to claim his blood-right.
He is not tall, and there is an air of studied mannerism about his actions that make him seem almost effeminate. Almost. But then he opens his mouth and the fangs slide from red gums. You look into his eyes and see nothing but death.
He surveys the horde around him and he smiles. And then you see the power in him—he raises a hand, and all movement stops, as if the scene has suddenly become a tableaux. But the clouds still scud across the moon and the shadows still lighten and darken. He holds the horde with his stare, then starts to speak, but you hear no sound.
It seems to you that a speech is being made, a call to arms. The fair one’s actions become more forceful, almost frenzied, and the horde seem to sway in time with his words, until finally he releases them and they begin to cavort and dance once more.
A female walks through the throng, which parts to let her through. Your gaze is diverted from the Boy King for the first time. She is almost naked except for a few pieces of thin, gauze-like material. Her body, bone-white and like marble, disturbs you in ways you have never felt before, and her hair, blood-red, hangs to her waist, making you want to run your hands through it. You are so distracted that you do not notice the bundle that she carries until she reaches the Boy King and passes it to him.
The Boy King steps away from his companions, and his eyes blaze in crimson fire as the dance around him becomes faster, more frenzied. He raises something in the air—a child, a still living infant of less than a month in age. Its mouth is open, and its face is red, but still you hear nothing.
Something is said, and a darker shadow descends on the ruin as the Boy King bends his head. The child screams, and it cuts through you like a knife, the only sound yet heard. Blood gushes, black in the moonlight, and the Boy King’s ten companions raise their arms to the sky.
You hear their voices as a faint chanting, but, even though it comes as if from a great distance, still it sends a chill through your bones. The scene widens, as if you have been raised higher above the cathedral ruins. You can see the countryside for many miles around, and through it all, along the overgrown roads and among the trees, shadows move, heading for the one who has called them.
The night becomes ever darker as the shadows pour in and around the ruins. The night is filled with dark things that had once been men and only men. There are thousands of them, and they are ready to die again to see the Boy King regain his father’s throne.
Martin rubbed his eyes and shook his head. Had he fallen asleep? Surely these visions couldn’t come to him when he was awake? But it didn’t feel like a dream. The sound of the child’s screams still seemed to echo around them, and Lennan sat, still and impassive, his head slightly bowed, those green eyes hooded in shadow. Campbell seemed to be in a daze, his eyes glazed and staring into a far distance.
Martin was aware of a harsh tingling in his nose and throat, and he was having difficulty breathing, but he could not draw himself away, as the smoke swirled and a new scene showed itself.
It is daylight, early morning. A thin mist is just beginning to be burned off, but you feel no chill. You are looking down, as if from a great height, on two people sleeping under a tree with a small pony tethered off to one side. Your heart gives a lurch as you realise you are looking at Sean and Campbell’s daughter. They are lying side by side, for all the world looking like lovers after a tryst. Sean’s arm is around the girl’s waist and her head lies across his chest and shoulders. One of Sean’s legs is crossed and entwined in hers, and he looks more settled, happier, than you can ever remember seeing him.
As you watch, he twitches, as if in a dream, and he pulls Mary Campbell even closer to him.
There was an amused snort from Campbell that dragged Martin’s attention from the scene for a second. The big man had a smile playing on his lips, but he did not speak, merely motioned Martin to turn back and pay attention.
The smoke clears somewhat, expanding the view. You are rising upward again, the country opening up beneath you. At first it is exhilarating, like a memory of a childhood dream, but then you almost cry out as you see three figures, men and only men, two of them n
o more than boys, moving towards the sleeping pair. They are creeping slowly, taking advantage of the long grass to approach their quarry. One of them carries a musket, the other two carry heavy swords.
They look ragged and threadbare, and there is a hunger in their eyes, but they are certainly fit enough for their purpose.
Martin cried out, a startled exclamation that caused Lennan to turn and stare. He suddenly felt as if he had broken wind in church. But his cry seemed to have had an effect. There was a sudden movement in the scene.
Sean wakes with a start, and mouths a question. He raises himself off the ground and sees the approaching brigands, but too late. There is a muzzle flash, but no sound, as a musket is fired. Sean staggers and a blossom of red appears on the young man’s chest. He falls to the ground, his body covering Campbell’s daughter, whose eyes stare blankly upwards into yours as the smoke thickens once more and the scene fades as the brigands approach the prone bodies.
Martin made to stand.
“We must help them. He is shot, and will certainly be killed.”
He felt a hand pulling him back to the fireside.
“Hush, laddie. Remember what the woodsman said—it might not have happened yet, and even if it has, there are two days and more of hard travel between us. We cannot help them. We each of us chose our path, and must follow where it leads. Come,” Campbell said, and sat Martin down beside him. “It seems there is more left to see.”
“No,” Martin said. “There must be something we can do.”
He turned to Lennan.
“He heard me. Didn’t he? Sean heard me.”
Lennan sighed, and there was such sadness there that Martin felt suddenly sorry he had spoken.
“Your soul called out to its friend and the wind carried your message to him. But my soul is full—it is too far a sending and we cannot aid him. But watch. As Cam-Bell has said, there is more yet to see.”
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