The Watchers Trilogy: Omnibus Edition

by William Meikle

  “And what of the girl?” the tall armoured one says.

  The Boy King looks back at her, at the still body on the stone.

  “Leave her. I will call her back when it is time.”

  He turns to the remaining ten.

  “It is done. The bloodline is secured. Now I can avenge my father and claim my birthright.”

  The shadows move off, out of Martin’s view, but the girl stays, staring silently at the moon, until the sun rises, and a badly bitten man crawls to her from beyond the stones.

  And blackness takes Martin, spinning him away from the tableaux which diminish like birds in flight, over the horizon of his conscious thought.

  He came awake slowly, aware that he was tired beyond reason, and that there was a dull ache in his left arm that made it too heavy, too solid to lift. Even opening his eyes was proving too much of an effort, so he lay, eyes closed, and wondered where he was, and who belonged to the voices that were murmuring just at the edge of hearing.

  “He is strong,” one said, and the accent was strange yet familiar at the same time. Thoughts were flying through him, too swift to stop and consider, and he could hang on to none. He should know these voices, but for now he could only listen.

  “Aye, that he is. But he has lost a lot of blood, and the wolf has made a sorry mess of his arm. The shock may prove too great, even for the son of the Thane. Check.”

  The last word had some meaning for Martin, at least. He heard the click of ivory on ivory, and he remembered games played against an old, wrinkled man, games he never won.

  “I see your trap,” the first voice said. “But I’m afraid you have sprung it too late. Knight to queens bishop three. You see, in one move I block your check, and have either your rook or your queen with the next. You are getting slow, old man—mayhap you are over worried about the lad?”

  Chess. He remembered the game, the black against the white, the orders of the pieces and their formalised dances around each other. It seemed he should remember something, about a black king and a white queen, but it had slipped from his mind at the moment of recognising the identity of the players.

  He opened his eyes. He was lying in his bed, in his own bedchamber, back in Milecastle. A thin watery light leaked into the room through drawn drapes, and in the corner Menzies and Campbell sat at a small table, the closing stages of a chess match in front of them. Menzies looked distraught, and tugged and worried at his beard while taking large gulps from the mug of wine beside him.

  Martin spoke, aware as he did so that his voice was weak, dry and throaty, as if parched for a week or more.

  “Surely you have not let yourself be beaten by a barbarian from over the wall? Quick, fetch the board—this could be my only chance of besting you myself.”

  Menzies and Campbell sprang to their feet, overturning the board and sending the pieces flying. The sight of the white queen lying on her side on the floor almost brought a memory to the surface, but it was sent back when he tried to raise himself, bringing a lancing hot pain along the whole left side of his body.

  He looked down, half expecting to see little more than a stump. He well remembered the gouging and tearing his flesh had suffered so he was surprised to see that he still had a left hand.

  The white bandages ran the length of his arm, from wrist to shoulder, and patches of red were blossoming there, brought on by his sudden exertion. Martin tried to clench his fist, but the pain was so great that he cried out between clenched teeth.

  For all that he must have been thirty years Campbell’s elder, Menzies was the first to reach Martin’s bed.

  “For pity’s sake boy, lie still. The wounds are still fresh, and there’s nothing apart from my stitches holding your arm together.”

  “I’ve seen your stitching before,” Martin said through clenched teeth. “When you sewed up the old dog after the boar got him. If you’ve done half as good a job on me, I’ll be grateful.”

  Martin saw sudden tears in the old man’s eyes. He clasped him on the shoulder with his good hand.

  “I am strong, old man. And Milecastle and my father will be needing that strength. I’m not planning on dying at any time soon.”

  At that the old Doctor almost managed a smile.

  “And neither am I. It’ll be a long time yet before you get the better of me on the chess board.”

  Menzies helped Martin get himself into the most comfortable position.

  “It’s good to see you wake, laddie,” Campbell said. “Could you manage some ale?”

  Martin took a flagon from the Scotsman and downed half of it before he started to choke and splutter, sending a spout of liquid down across the sheets.

  Campbell took the ale from him and tutted.

  “And there was I thinking I might have made a Scotsman out of you.”

  Suddenly all three of them were laughing aloud.

  “The wolves?” Martin asked, remembering the calls of the pack as they closed in.

  “Dispatched by the woodsman,” Campbell replied. “When you see him again you must thank him for your life. Although he seems to think that you are of his tribe now, having passed their rite of manhood.”

  “Aye,” Menzies said. “By all means, thank the woodsman, but thank your ‘barbarian’ friend as much, for it was he who carried you here, over ten leagues distance.”

  Campbell must have seen the query in Martin’s gaze.

  “It wasn’t so hard. The woodsman’s song sustained me. But hush,” he said, sensing Martin’s growing impatience and need to know. “There will be plenty of time for stories now that you are back with us. Yon wolf made a mess of your arm, and the old man here says that you’ll be abed for long days yet.”

  Menzies was fussing around with the bandages, ensuring they were still tight.

  “That’s right. I thought we would have to take it off at the shoulder—never have I seen such a wound—but your woodsman friend sang a song over you. ‘To empty your soul,’ he said. After that he rubbed a handful of herbs into the wound and we managed to save your arm.”

  “My soul certainly feels empty,” Martin said. “But so does my belly. Lennan would not have it so.”

  “No,” Campbell said. “But there are some fresh coneys downstairs that I can fetch soon.”

  “Wait,” Martin said, remembering his dreams and the strength of them. “Tell me more about the woodsman.”

  “He seemed satisfied with his ‘healing’, but your arm is sore wounded, and you will never get your full strength back in it,” Menzies said.

  “I would not be so sure,” Martin said, wincing as the doctor tightened the bandage further. “Lennan’s herbs, like his songs, are potent and strange. But where is my new friend—I would thank him.”

  It was Campbell who spoke.

  “He has gone back to his woods. He stayed for two days, but complained that the stone walls filled his soul and swallowed his songs. He has returned to his people, but he promised that we would meet again. He has seen it. He also said I had to tell you something, something that would empty your soul. He said that you and the wolf were now together in the wind.”

  Martin did not need to ask how the woodsman could foresee a future meeting, and he knew better than to try and understand the last statement. But his dreams had been important, he was sure of that, and he was disappointed that Lennan had made no mention of them.

  He was about to ask about news of Sean when something Campbell had said sunk through.

  “Two days? How long have I been here?”

  The doctor gave Campbell a look of disapproval.

  “It is four days since you were brought here—near on five since you sustained your wound.”

  “And they have still not come?” Martin said.

  “No,” said Campbell. “Although rumours of war have spread far and wide. There are those among the fine people here who would have me flogged as a scaremonger.”

  “You have told them of our visions in the church?”

  Cam
pbell shook his head.

  “Only your father, and the doctor here. They counselled quiet, and I am apt to agree with them. I don’t want to be tainted with the tag of wizard alongside my already considerable woes.”

  Campbell had recognised the nature of the people well. Martin knew it—he had been of an opinion with them only a few days previously.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “Barnstable thinks my father has overreacted, and is questioning the old man’s judgment.”

  “Aye,” Menzies replied. “And the people don’t want your father to be right, so they do not listen to him.”

  “They will listen to me, though.” Martin said, and had to be restrained from trying to get out of the bed.

  “Have you not heard me?” Menzies said. “If you do not rest now, you will certainly lose that arm, and if you lose more blood, you will probably die. Now will you lie still or need I fetch a sleeping potion?”

  Menzies had not spoken to Martin in that tone for many years, not since he had been quarantined with swellings in his throat, and that had been more than ten years previously. Suddenly he felt like a child again.

  “I’ll behave,” he said meekly, and Menzies smiled. A smile that turned to a scowl as Martin continued. “But on one condition—you let Campbell here tell the story of how I was saved.”

  Menzies growled like a small dog when confronted by a stranger, but eventually relented.

  “I do not suppose I can stop him. He is as impulsive in life as he is in chess, but he proved unstoppable there too. He will have to be quick. I go to fetch your father—he has been by your bedside these last four days, and with him I really did have to use the sleeping draught. He would have me flogged if I did not inform him of your awakening.”

  Menzies left, leaving Campbell and Martin alone. The Scotsman looked strangely embarrassed.

  “I am sorry to be the cause of such injury to you,” the Scotsman said. “I was lost in the song, and did not notice that you weren’t with us.”

  “Dinnae fash yerself, man.” Martin said in an atrocious attempt at a Scottish accent. It had the desired effect, though, for the smile was back on the Scotsman’s face.

  “And maybe we will make a Scot out of you yet. God knows you’re tough enough for it. Any man who can walk away from a fight with an old grey like that one will be welcome in my clan.”

  “Tell me,” Martin said. “Tell me what happened, for I was sure that I was already dead.”

  “There is not a great deal to tell, for in all truth, I was not present for much of it. Lennan told me later that he heard the wolves calling your name, but all I heard was the song. One minute I was marching along with thoughts of long past summer days in my head, the next I was watching Lennan turn and head back toward me at a run. I barely saw him as he sped past me, heading back along the trail.”

  Campbell stopped and took a sip from the ale. Martin could smell the bitter hoppiness of it, but he didn’t want to repeat the earlier episode so didn’t ask to be given any more. He took his pleasure by proxy, watching Campbell take another sip before going on with the story.

  “When I finally caught him, he was standing over you, and there were three dead wolves in the clearing. It was obvious that you had dispatched one, and the other two had arrows piercing their hearts. So you see, I missed all the action. I stood there, my heart pounding, my sword in my hand, feeling as useful as a eunuch in a whorehouse.”

  Martin laughed aloud, then winced at the pain it brought in his shoulder.

  “Sorry, laddie,” the Scotsman said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll moderate my language. At first I thought you were dead, but Lennan was making fast to bind your wounds. There was blood all around you, and I couldn’t tell what was yours and what was yon beasties. That was a fine blow you gave it—near cleaved its head in two. You were in a bad way, though. I’ve seen many a man near death, but few nearer than you.”

  Campbell stopped then and stared into space. Martin gave him time.

  “The woodsman saved you. He sang for you then, and your features softened in repose. He had stopped your bleeding with little more than a few leaves and herbs. I was amazed to see that you were sleeping like a babe. I lifted you, and you felt no heavier than a coney, and Lennan started the song again.”

  “Almost the next thing I remember is approaching the walls here. Ten leagues in five hours, and carrying a lump like you, yet I suffered no weariness, felt no strain. I sometimes wonder whether the woodsman’s magic might not be even stronger than the Boy King’s. I certainly like it better.”

  “I, also.” Martin said, and tried to wave his arm, but the strain and agony brought fresh sweat to his brow.

  “Hush, laddie,” Campbell said. “Lennan’s magic might be strong, but stupidity is stronger. Don’t undo his good work.”

  Martin was abashed, and quickly made Campbell go on.

  “Yon Barnstable nearly had us spitted with arrows,” the Scotsman continued. “Even after he saw it was me. But old Menzies soon put a stop to that. Your Thane was beside himself, and still is. ’Tis a fine man you have for a father, laddie. And here you are, home, unlooked for but safe enough.”

  “And that is all?” Martin said.

  “Apart from this.” Campbell took something from a pocket of his waistcoat and placed it in the palm of Martin’s good hand. Martin looked down at the large curved incisor of a wolf. There was still some blood and gum tissue at the roots.

  “Lennan took it from the mouth of the one you killed. He says that you are a woodsman now, and you need only sing and your new brothers will come to your aid in times of need. He also said that if the stone begins to fill your soul you will find a home in the woods.”

  Martin felt along the edge of the tooth and shuddered at the memory of how close it had come to tearing out his throat.

  “Aye. ‘Twas a near thing, lad. But you now have a story to tell your grandchildren. Many men never get that chance.”

  Campbell clasped Martin by the good hand.

  “It pleases me mightily to see you awake and alive,” the Scotsman said, and turned and began clearing the floor of the fallen chess pieces, but not before Martin had noticed the tears hidden in the smile.

  And his dreams chose that moment to come back to him: full and complete in his memory.

  “Wait,” he called. “Is there any news of your daughter?”

  Campbell turned back and shook his head.

  “Sean will have her safe,” Martin said, but even as he spoke he was remembering the vision in the church, the brigands and the splash of red on Sean’s chest. He was about to speak again when Menzies entered the room, followed by an old, bent figure that Martin realised with shock was his father the Thane.

  “No more questions,” Menzies said, leading Campbell out of the room. It is time for father and son to be left alone.”

  “Campbell,” Martin said, and the man turned back. “I owe you my life. I won’t forget it. But I need a favour.”

  “Aye?” the man said. “Name it and it shall be done.”

  “Just don’t forget the coneys when you come back. Remember—fill the belly and empty the soul.”

  The Scotsman smiled, nodded and let the doctor lead him from the room.

  As they left, Martin heard Menzies discussing the recent chess game and smiled. Campbell would not get any peace for some hours yet—the old doctor liked his chess, but he liked talking about it even better.

  His father brought over a chair and sat beside his bed. The old man had aged drastically in the short week since Martin had seen him last. He looked weak, enfeebled and greatly tired, the furrows on his forehead and around his eyes deeper and longer than Martin remembered them.

  He took Martin’s right hand and began to stroke it, as if it were a valued pet.

  “My boy. My poor boy,” he repeated, time after time, tears flowing down both cheeks.

  Martin had never seen his father like this. The Thane was strong and strict, almost too strict at times, a
nd such a sign of affection, this late in his life, was proving difficult for Martin to come to terms with.

  “Come, Father. I am home, and I am whole. In several days I will be as good as new.”

  The old man broke down completely, heavy sobs wracking his upper body. Martin took his hand from his father’s grasp and clasped him on the shoulder, holding him that way until the sobs subsided.

  “Tell me what has happened since I left,” he said, hoping that talk would bring his father back to himself.

  The old man looked up at him, tears still blinding his eyes.

  “I should never have sent you away. The Thane’s son should enjoy some privileges, after all.”

  That was another first. All his life he had been told by his father that he was nothing special compared to the rest, and he had come to act accordingly. If privileges were to be bestowed, his father would make sure that they were shared equally.

  He remembered a time not long after he had started his spell on the watch. Barnstable was giving him an especially hard time, and Martin had gone to his father to complain. All he got for his troubles was a clip round the ear.

  “The Constable is only doing his duty. If you cannot keep with the pace, then you can leave the watch. And if you leave the watch, you will leave this house. Now what is it to be?”

  Martin had gone back to the training, and had even eventually gained a grudging respect from the Constable. But from his father there had been nothing. Until now.

  He tried again to get the old man talking, trying to gain time to come to terms with the confusion.

  “Come, Father, tell me.”

  “I’ll tell you. But first you will hear me out. I have thought of little else while you lay there. I need to talk to you about your mother, and what happened after she died.”

  Martin took his hand from his father’s shoulder as if he had been burnt by its heat.

  “You don’t have to...”

  The old man interrupted him, and this time there was something of his steel back.

  “But I do. Now of all times when there might be only short hours left to us. Just lie quiet. I have been thinking for a long time how to say this. Just let me get it over with.”