The Watchers Trilogy: Omnibus Edition

by William Meikle

  He spat on the ground at Sean’s feet. “I’ll see the colour of your guts first. And then I’ll pish on your bones.”

  The knife came up fast, so that Sean had to take a step backwards, and even then he felt the air part in its passing. He still held his own dagger, but was loathed to use it.

  “I didn’t mean to kill your brother,” he said, realising that he meant it—he should have found a different way. “Look. I’ve got meat in my saddlebags, and some silver I can let you have. Just put down the knife. I’m bigger than you, and fitter, and I’m trained in knife fighting—I wouldn’t want to kill you too.”

  Sean saw doubt in the boy’s eyes, and the dagger lowered, only fractionally, yet it lowered. Sean was beginning to believe that he might get out of this without another fight when he caught a movement over the boy’s shoulder, and looked up to see Mary, standing beside the pony, Sean’s musket raised and pointing at his attacker. The eyes still stared vacantly, but now they were staring at a spot near the top of the young brigand’s head.

  “No!” Sean shouted, and the boy turned to follow his shout. The musket went off, the boy taking it full on, a blast which shredded and dissolved his face and scalp into ribbons of flesh and blew most of the top of his head off before he fell like a stone over the body of his father.

  Sean bent forward and threw up violently in the grass by his feet.

  When he was finally able to stand upright, feeling as weak as if he had just spent a week in a sick bed, he saw that Mary was still standing by the pony, still with the musket raised to her shoulder. He walked over and gently took the gun from her. She allowed herself to be led to one side, away from the bodies that were already attracting flies. Her eyes stared into the distance, and there was no sign of any memory of what she had just done.

  Sean had no time for reflection. He examined his shoulder and was surprised to find only a small wound, a homemade pellet embedded just under the skin. Fortifying himself with some wine from the saddlebags, he dug the pellet out—a rough, quarter-inch slug of metal. He had been lucky—the boy’s aim had obviously been off and he had caught the edge of the spread of pellets. He didn’t like to look at the boy Mary had shot—it reminded him of how close he had been to looking the same.

  The pain was huge as the pellet came out, but after washing and binding the wound there was only a dull ache there. His shirt was ruined, covered in mud and blood and torn so much that he used the clean bits that remained to clean himself up. Afterwards he balled it up and tossed it into the undergrowth, leaving his arms bare under a leather waistcoat.

  Now came the part he was dreading. He had to get the bodies out of sight before anyone came along. He couldn’t afford to be involved in any investigation, even if he had been in the right.

  The children were the worst. They felt light, and he guessed that they weighed no more than five stone each. Their bodies were covered in bruises, both old and new, along with boils and sores in such profusion that the skin was completely obscured in places. The smaller child’s head lolled on the end of the body as if badly attached, and Sean’s stomach turned at the thought that he was responsible for the death of one so young.

  He found a spot between two thick bushes of gorse and laid the bodies in a small natural hollow before returning for the father.

  Sean’s knife cut had opened the throat completely, almost severing the head. The body was lying in a pool of blood that had already attracted a swarm of large blue flies. They rose sluggishly in the air and buzzed around Sean’s head as he dragged the body, feet first, to lie with the others. Once all three were under the bushes, he pulled more undergrowth over them to ensure they would not be seen easily. There was nothing he could do about the blood on the grass, but the first rain would deal with that. He wished that he had time to give them a decent burial, especially the children, but he knew that he had to get out of this area as quickly as possible, and hope that no one apart from the brigands had noticed their passing.

  After he hid the bodies, he had to stop and rest. There were black spots floating in front of his eyes and his wound throbbed constantly. He drank some more wine from his rapidly diminishing ration and ate some dry bread and cheese. He tried to get Mary to eat with him, but her lips remained tightly shut. He told himself that she would eat when she was hungry, that she would have to, but deep down he believed that she did not eat—that whatever sickened in her also in some way sustained her.

  He ate fast, rolling up their bedding between mouthfuls, and in five minutes he was getting Mary up on to the pony and heading off down the narrow path they had been following.

  They had travelled on little used tracks since leaving Milecastle, nearly thirty hours earlier. Old Menzies had laid out the general direction for him, and put him on this current trail, but Sean was already well past the limit of his knowledge of the area—that had been passed yesterday afternoon when they skirted Carlisle.

  Sean remembered the bustle he had seen in the town. The Thane’s messengers had made better time than he, and taken easier roads, and the town was full of rumours of war—barricades were being built, garlic was being spread, and there was a steady stream of townspeople leaving, taking the main road south to safety.

  But Sean was not on the main road. He had given the town a wide berth and had watched the exodus from some three miles away. Not that he could have taken the main road anyway—those townspeople would have slaughtered a bitten one on first sight, even one as beautiful as Campbell’s daughter. Sean had kept them out of sight of the exodus by travelling in ditches and behind hedgerows, but even then it had been impossible to escape the crowds of people. He had to hide in a thick copse of hawthorn for the best part of the afternoon as cart after cart made its slow way along the road, and by the time the passing escapees thinned to a trickle, it was almost dark again. In the gathering gloom Sean had led them as far from the main road as he dared, but it had meant a long detour for them, and when darkness finally fell he was unsure of his bearings and had to stop.

  He had dreamed during the night, of dark shadows that were too fast to kill, shadows who took Mary Campbell from him. In the dream he chased her down dark tunnels, mile after mile, her white form ever evading his futile grasp. And it all took place in a dead, echoing blackness where there was no sound.

  In the dark hours before dawn, he had woken to find her staring at the sky, heavy tears misting her eyes. He embraced her, holding her close, but she did not move to return the hug. She kept staring at the sky, and after a while the tears stopped, and Sean lay there beside her, weaving fantasies of wife and home and child. Her thoughts remained her own, locked behind the stare that was the last thing he saw before sleep took him again, but it was fitful at best, and he was still unsure as to whether he had really heard the voice of Martin, his friend. Then the brigands had come.

  He put it to the back of his mind—the day was getting on, and Sean reckoned they had lost nearly a day’s travelling time already due to the previous day’s detours. He upped the speed to a brisk walk. Before long they hit a steep path which rose steadily into the hills around the lakes. At first cloud and mist hung over them, and Sean was grateful for it obscuring their passage, but the relentless drizzle left him damp and uncomfortable, and he was glad when the sun finally appeared in the late afternoon.

  Sean was still trembling in the aftermath of the fight, and the sight of the head lolling on the broken neck kept pushing itself forward in his mind. He had never killed before, and although he had been trained as an officer of the watch, it was one thing to hack with a sword at bags of straw, or to shoot at a wooden effigy, but quite another to feel a hot body go heavy and limp in your hands. He twitched at the slightest movement around him and once very nearly fired his musket at a blackbird rustling in a hedgerow, but as the sun warmed him and the chill slowly faded, he found himself, more and more, stealing glances at the girl on the pony.

  She still had not spoken, and, apart from the killing of the brigand, had not mo
ved of her own volition. She just sat there, moving in time with the pony, staring straight ahead down the road. He wondered what had compelled her to shoot the brigand. It was obvious that a dangerous situation had brought her back from whatever depths she dreamt in, but she had returned just as quickly to her waking sleep. In the light of day, her eyes were clear, but still they stared blankly into the distance, as if wondering what the future might hold.

  He still did not really comprehend why he was so attracted to her. He had known more beautiful women, and certainly more accessible ones, but there had never before been one who beguiled him so completely that he felt like a clumsy youth in her presence. Maybe it was for the best that she did not speak—he had no idea how he would begin to talk to her.

  By mid-afternoon the road brought them to the side of a small lake, and Sean drew the pony to a halt. This was as good a place as any for them to eat and rest, and for him to wipe the muck of battle from his body and his mind. They were now making good time—by Sean’s reckoning, they had travelled nearly sixty miles since leaving Milecastle, about forty of them in the direction he was meant to be taking. He was beginning to feel it in his legs, though, and, not for the first time, he wished for a pony of his own.

  He lifted Mary down off the pony. Did her arm tighten around his shoulders as he did it? He wasn’t sure, and when he looked in her eyes there was only the blank stare. But maybe she was coming out of it—whatever it was. He put it to the back of his mind. There were more pressing concerns.

  Old Menzies had packed the saddlebags for their journey, and while Sean was thankful for wine, bread and cheese, he wished that the old man lived on a more varied diet. He decided to risk leaving Mary alone for a few minutes while he foraged—and bathed. He was not surprised that the girl took no notice of him—he smelt worse than a ram on a wet day.

  He walked, fully clothed, into the lake and splashed around, making sure all the blood and mud was washed from his arms, his clothes and his hair, and kept washing until the water stopped running pink, then walked out of the lake to look for food.

  When he returned to their camp ten minutes later, he was carrying a trout, some apples and some blackberries, but as he approached the spot where he’d left the pony, he realised his trip was in vain—for Mary’s sake, anyway. She had raided the saddlebags and was eating—no, not eating, devouring—a large chunk of cheese. But her mouth moved mechanically, and crumbled bits fell unattended in her lap.

  Sean tried to get her to eat some blackberries, but he merely smeared the juices of them around her mouth, and the sight of the redness there, so much like blood, made him stop. He cleaned her up as best as he was able, and she sat in the shade of the tree, still staring straight ahead, while he prepared a fire and cooked the fish.

  Nothing moved over the loch, and even the clouds seemed fixed in the sky overhead. Only the merest ripple disturbed the water, and Sean believed he could be at rest here, so far from the chains of duty that bound him to the wall. He sat with his back to a tree and surveyed the scene while his clothes dried on his body.

  He had wished often enough for some change to come, some end to the routine, and now he had it, along with the care of a beautiful woman and a journey to parts unknown. He threw back his head and laughed, disturbing a heron on the shore into flight, then suddenly was solemn.

  That had been stupid, even here where they seemed to be the only people for miles. More care was needed, and fast travel. He had no idea how he would approach old Menzies’ friend, or even if he could actually find the man, but he had made his vow to Campbell, and he intended to follow it through as much as he was able. And if it came to fighting, well, he was well-trained, and they’d have to kill him before he would give up the girl.

  Before setting off again he checked his shoulder, but the wound was clean. There was little blood, and only a dull pain, not unlike toothache. He bound it up again. If Menzies’ friend was such a good doctor, maybe he’d let the man take a look at it. But first they had to reach him.

  For the rest of the day they travelled along a high ridge, looking down into empty valleys and lakes shining blue in the sun. There was little sign of human influence here apart from the dry stone walls that spoke of long ago endeavour. Buzzards circled high overhead, and occasionally they would flush a deer out of the undergrowth, but apart from that it was as if they had the landscape to themselves. Sean slowly forgot about the killings that morning. He had expected trouble on the road, and he had found it and dealt with it. Now he had to look forward, not back. But he knew that the sight of the boy’s head lolling on a broken neck would haunt his dreams for a long time to come.

  As the sun began to descend into the western hills, they came to the last hill on the ridge, and Sean found himself looking out over what seemed to be an endless plain, a plain which, even as he watched, was being lit by red points of light, clusters of towns preparing for the night to come. His heart sank—surely there weren’t that many people in the world, that many people between him and his goal? But then no one had told him it was going to an easy journey.

  He began to search for a place to stop for the night—he needed to do some thinking, to find a way to get Mary across that plain without her sickness being discovered.

  He found what he was looking for half an hour later—a secluded knoll within a valley, with a small stream gurgling past them and a flat spot to sleep on. He fed and watered the pony before turning back to Mary.

  It was nearly full dark by now, and the stars were winking into being overhead. Mary was standing where he had left her, but her face was raised up, her eyes staring skywards, her head cocked to one side, as if listening to someone.

  “Mary?” he said, but got no response. He reached out to touch her arm, and she moved, as fast as a cat, to push him way. Even as he stood back, astonished, she began to walk, northwards, back along the path they had recently descended.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “Where are you going?” He ran after her and grabbed her by the left arm, but she swung round, her right hand flexed like a claw, and he was just able to pull back in time as the talons of her fingernails passed in front of his eyes. And as quickly as she had reacted, she turned back to the road again and kept walking. In the quick glimpse he got as she attacked him, Sean had seen that her eyes still stared blankly ahead, not even registering his presence.

  He ran after her, passed her and stood in the centre of the path. She showed no signs of stopping, or even recognising that he was there. She was like an automaton he had once seen Menzies play with, a grotesque parody of a person, moving only by the whim of another. He braced himself and swung a punch that connected squarely with her jaw and sent her, insensible, to the ground.

  Immediately he knelt beside her, checking that she was still breathing. She was, and he said a small prayer, but her eyes were now closed, and a heavy bruise was already darkening her chin.

  He managed to carry her back to their camp, and he laid her down gently on the ground. Her complete stillness, even an apparent lack of life itself, gave him an idea for the morrow, but in the meantime he sat and watched over her, afraid to take his eyes off her as the stars wheeled overhead and the night passed.

  Sometime later he did sleep, sitting cross-legged on the ground beside the prone body. His head drooped slowly and hung on his chest, so he didn’t see the girl’s eyes open, nor the tears which once more hung in the corners before rolling down her cheeks. But she did not move, merely stared at the sky, her eyes filled with the reflections of stars.

  Sean woke with a start in the morning, suddenly afraid that while he slept, his ward might have gone wandering once more, but she was still lying on the ground beside him, her eyes open but unseeing.

  He remembered his thought of the night before, and unwrapped the large cloaks they were both using as bedding. He laid Mary down on one of these, then rolled her up into both until she was cocooned. He made sure that there was a passageway to allow air in, then carried her to the pony and laid
her face down, sideways across its back. She did not move or make a sound of complaint. She was going to have an uncomfortable journey, that was for sure, but it was preferable to having her out on show where she might be murdered by the first person to realise she was bitten.

  He intended to pass her off as a corpse—a country girl being returned for burial to her hometown. It was flimsy, and not very believable, but it was all he could think of right now. All he needed to do was get his story right, and believe it himself as much as he was able.

  He had plenty of time to think on it. The path down from the hills to the plain was narrow, steep and treacherous, and he had to lead the pony slowly through some bad spots so that it was gone mid-day before he put the hills behind him. And in all that time there had not been a noise, nor a movement from the bundle on the back of the pony.

  In the first town he passed through—little more than a hamlet with a blacksmith and an inn— nobody paid any attention to him. Nor did they in the second, a staggered collection of weavers’ cottages strung out along a low hill. But the further south he went, the bigger the towns became and the more outlandish his dress appeared among the clean, fine clothed, denizens. His luck held throughout that day, though—no one approached him, and he in turn spoke to no one.

  It was like being in a different world. The countryside through which they passed was managed and manicured, with farms and homesteads dotted across it like a rash. The road on which he travelled was crisscrossed with trails and rutted pathways, even occasionally another road, and several times he had to make decisions at crossroads with no signposts. All he knew was that he was still heading south.

  Dusk was falling before they met anyone travelling in the other direction. A youth, about the same age as the one Sean had killed, led a huge shire horse along the road. But this was no sickly child. The boy radiated good health, his freckled face breaking into a huge smile as he saw Sean.