The Highlanders

by Stuart Daly

  Looking ahead, he saw Roland and Lachlan and their magical guardians reach the battlements. He spared a glance over his shoulder and saw that the scouts had covered half of the distance to the fort. Once inside the barracks, Caspan thought, they might find another faster way up to the battlements and catch his friends before they could climb down. Knowing that they must be stopped, he spun around mid-stride, raised his bow and took aim. It was a hasty shot, and he was amazed when one of the enemy fell, clutching the shaft stuck in his thigh.

  Inspired, Caspan took cover behind a collapsed section of wooden beams halfway up the stairs. Unlike the highlanders’ shortbows, Caspan was armed with an Andalonian longbow; a more powerful weapon capable of penetrating plate armour. And it was deadly accurate at close range. He fired four shots in swift succession, two of which hit their targets, forcing the remaining scouts to abandon their charge and sprint back towards the main group of clansmen.

  Caspan broke from his cover and continued up the steps. He fired on the run, this time aiming at the archers, who were positioned further back than the scouts. The wind caught most of his arrows, but he smiled grimly when one thudded into the earth not a yard from the copper-haired leader, causing him to fight to control his frightened mount.

  His companions had now reached the battlements, and Caspan dexterously slung his bow over his shoulder and sped up the last few stairs. An arrow grazed his left cheek, stinging sharply, and he twisted instinctively to the right, losing his footing on a crumbled step. A cry caught in his throat, he tumbled off the stairs and crashed through the ribcage of rafters above the sleeping quarters.

  Caspan hit the ground hard. Landing flat on his back he lay there, dazed and spitting dirt. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was or what had happened, then reality came flooding in. Aching all over, he pushed himself to his feet, aware that he must catch his friends. But rather than race up the stairs and risk being hit by an arrow, he utilised the climbing skills he’d perfected in Floran and scaled the rear wall of the room.

  Safe from the highland archers, and with plenty of hand and footholds, he moved quickly towards the roof and squeezed through the rafters. He squatted atop them, steeling himself for what lay ahead. The final leap to the battlements was going to be dangerous, leaving him fully exposed to the clansmen until he could pull himself up. But he had no other choice, and so he drew a deep breath and jumped. He caught the parapet walkway with his fingertips and scrambled up the wall. Shafts hit the stone around him – one tore through his cloak, another narrowly missed his right shoulder – but he managed to pull himself to safety.

  Caspan ran across the top of Mance O’Shea’s Break. He kept low, the wind howling in his ears and his clothes pressed against his skin. He stopped when he reached a section of the garrison roof high enough to obscure him completely from the highlanders.

  Lachlan was lying on his chest in an embrasure between the merlons, a rope gripped in his hands, ready to lower himself down the wall. His eyes flashed with surprise when he saw Caspan.

  ‘Where’d you come from? I thought I was the last person up here.’

  ‘I got held up on the stairs.’ Caspan leaned past Lachlan and saw his companions waiting at the base of the Break. They’d mounted the Wardens and were staring anxiously back up at the wall. There was no sign of Sara.

  Caspan was about to ask where she was, when the question froze in his throat. A figure was struggling beneath Lachlan. Leaning further out, Caspan saw Sara about halfway down the wall, hanging upside down, trying desperately to free her ankle from the rope that had become tangled around it. She pulled herself up to where her foot was stuck and attempted to sever the rope with her dagger, but Caspan doubted she’d cut through it in time.

  ‘Kilt and I are on to it,’ Lachlan said, beginning his descent. He gestured at Caspan’s bow with a flick of his eyes. ‘Can you buy us some time?’

  Caspan gritted his teeth determinedly. ‘I’ll see what I can do. But hurry up!’

  He grabbed his bow and continued along the parapet, fitting an arrow to the string as he did so. He reached the end of the section protected by the roof and was surprised to find merlons set on the Lochinbar side of the wall. He assumed these had been constructed by Caledonish warriors who had taken the fort in decades past and wanted to protect the Break from attacks from the south. Fortunately, these now provided him with extra cover.

  He braced his back against the closest merlon, drew a steadying breath and peered around the side, just in time to see the copper-haired highlander point his claymore at the fort. The large group of riders who had formed up behind him then dug their heels into their mounts’ flanks and thundered towards the garrison.

  Caspan sprang from his concealment and fired. Before ducking down he saw a clansman topple from his saddle, clutching the shaft that had punctured his armour. Caspan scurried beneath the merlons, changing location, not wanting to give away his position. The one advantage he had was that the highlanders didn’t know how many people were inside the fort. He guessed that must have been why the archers had remained on the field, scanning the battlements and garrison with their bows, providing cover for the horsemen.

  It was when he darted along the wall and leapt up to fire his sixth arrow, however, that he pulled back sharply, a shaft zipping through the air an inch from his face. He landed flat on his back, his heart racing. He wanted desperately to stay down and scamper back to the rope, but as far as he knew Lachlan and Kilt were still trying to free Sara. They needed him more than ever, and he vowed that he wouldn’t withdraw until he’d fired his last arrow.

  He rose behind a merlon, braced his shoulder against it and readied another shaft. In one fluid motion, practised many times during their training sessions, he rolled his raised bow around into the embrasure, fired, then slipped back behind cover. The enemy instantly honed in on his location, and several arrows shot through the gap where he had just been standing. But he was already racing beneath the battlements, and fired three swift shots, one of which forced a highlander to fall from his mount, before he reached the end of the merlons, where a second set of stairs led down to the fort.

  Caspan leaned his right shoulder against the fortifications and drew some deep breaths. He drew an arrow, straightened its flight and fitted it to his bowstring. By now the Caledonish warriors had reached the fort. They charged in with their horses, swung dexterously from their saddles, kicked down the garrison door and moved inside. In only a matter of seconds they’d come tearing up the stairs.

  Desperately hoping his friends were clear of the Break, Caspan rushed to the other side of the battlements to check on their progress. His hope sank when he saw that Lachlan and Kilt were still trying to disentangle Sara. Kilt had secured another rope to the wall and was preparing to cut her free. But they still needed more time.

  Cursing under his breath, Caspan scampered back to the merlon beside the stairs. His only hope was to try to shoot the highlanders as they came up to the parapet, but he only had seven arrows left. Once they were gone, he’d have no option but to face the clansmen with his sword, and the mere thought of that terrified him.

  At the sound of approaching footsteps he leapt into the gap at the top of the stairs – and found a brutish highlander standing right before him. Caspan barely had time to react before the warrior was upon him. He dropped his bow and arrow and whipped out his sword. He raised it instinctively, blocking the heavy overheard blow that sent him careening to the other side of the parapet. The highlander swung his claymore back in preparation to cleave Caspan in two, but the thief was faster, lashing out with a kick to the warrior’s chest, making the wind explode from the brute’s lungs and forcing him to buckle over. Caspan lunged forward, hammering the pommel of his sword onto the clansman’s helmet, just above the nasal guard. The highlander staggered back and toppled down the stairs.

  Caspan snatched up his bow and slung it over his shoulder. Another highlander leapt over the stricken warrior and raced towards
him. He was a burly giant, his bare torso a patchwork of scars and his face smeared in blue war paint.

  Caspan moved to the opposite side of the parapet and raised his sword defensively. The highlander raced after him, his claymore high in the air, but then a blur of movement shot between the combatants. There was a flash of silver and the giant gave a pained yell, clutching his cut torso, and slumped to the ground.

  Shanty grabbed Caspan by the arm. ‘Come on, lad. It’s time we got well away from here.’

  Caspan had no idea where the dwarf had come from, but he was so relieved to see him that he could have hugged him. His jubilation was short-lived, however, when he saw other highlanders charging up the stairs.

  Shanty shoved him forward. ‘Go! Make for the rope!’

  They bolted along the parapet, but only made it halfway before they stopped dead in their tracks. Another group of highlanders had come up the other stairs.

  They’d never make it to the rope in time.

  Shanty drew a long-bladed dagger from the inside of his left boot and gripped it in his off hand. ‘This could be better,’ he growled, looking back and forth between the two packs of approaching clansmen. They were advancing slowly, like cats stalking towards cornered mice.

  Caspan nodded grimly and sheathed his sword. He’d been in many close scrapes before back in Floran, usually with the City Watch, but there’d always been somewhere to run. Not this time. Their only means of exit was to fight their way through, and he didn’t like his chances.

  He freed his bow from his shoulder, set an arrow to the string and fired at the closest of the highlanders. The shaft had barely thudded into the warrior’s raised buckler before Caspan fired his next shot, this time lower. The clansman howled in pain and clutched the arrow embedded in his thigh. Spinning on his heel, Caspan fired a third arrow into the other group. Afraid of being hit, the highlanders stopped advancing and hid behind their shields.

  ‘That’s the spirit, lad!’ Shanty growled, swinging his sword challengingly through the air. ‘Come on, you pack of lousy, knock-kneed yak-lovers!’

  Caspan didn’t share his enthusiasm. He only had three arrows remaining. He might be able to keep the enemy at bay for a few more seconds, but after that, they’d be fighting for their lives. Before he could ready his next arrow, the highlanders charged from both directions. Caspan got off one final hasty shot before he dropped his bow, drew his sword and stood back to back with Shanty.

  A tall, barrel-chested warrior with a squished nose pushed ahead of the other highlanders and aimed a powerful thrust with his broadsword at Caspan’s torso. Normally, the thief would’ve sidestepped the attack, but he couldn’t risk Shanty being struck from behind. His heart pounding, Caspan brought his blade down in a gleaming blur of silver, deflecting his opponent’s sword off to the side. Then he lunged forward and drove his elbow hard into the highlander’s neck. The warrior gagged and staggered away, only to have his fellow clansmen surge past him.

  The fight degenerated into a vicious close-quarters melee. Caspan and Shanty fought valiantly, swinging their weapons until they could feel the blood hammer in their temples, cutting at anything that came near them, but there were too many enemies. An overhead swing from a claymore drove Caspan to his knees. From behind, he heard Shanty roar in pain as a broadsword snaked through his defences and tore a gash through the lower left side of his leather jerkin.

  Caspan stared defiantly into the eyes of his attackers and tried to push himself to his feet, determined to keep fighting, to stay alive. But any hope of surviving came to a sudden end when a clansman delivered a swipe that tore his sword from his hands. He watched helplessly as it sailed over the wall … almost hitting Lachlan as he rose on Talon’s back above the battlements.

  Beside the griffin was Frostbite, his fangs and claws bared, and his wings fully extended, giving him a truly terrifying appearance. He gave a tremendous roar that paralysed the highlanders with fear, then swept his tail across the parapet with incredible force. It lashed through the air a foot above Caspan’s and Shanty’s heads, knocking aside all of the highlanders in its way, forcing many to sail off the wall.

  The few clansmen who managed to duck just in time tried to scramble to safety, but Talon swept down on them. The griffin set upon them with beak and claws, and it wasn’t long before the parapet was littered with the dead. Holding tightly to his mount’s reins with his left hand, Lachlan swung his sword in gleaming arcs, cutting down any remaining highlanders.

  Caspan retrieved his bow, grabbed a broadsword and jumped onto Frostbite’s back. Shanty scrambled up behind him and quickly strapped himself into a harness. Once they were secure, the drake swept down from the wall. Caspan pulled back hard on the reins when they approached the ground, drawing Frostbite out of the dive and sending him soaring barely a yard above the grass. Lachlan and Talon followed close behind, slowing down only when they reached a dry riverbed over a hundred yards north of the wall. Within the channel, Roland and Sara sat atop Bandit, and Kilt waited by their side. Kilt scrambled up behind Lachlan and strapped herself quickly into her harness. They then took to the sky, leaving Mance O’Shea’s Break far behind.

  They flew north, following the coastline for a further two hours before they reached a snow-capped mountain range, which Sara identified as Kilkaren Heights. They turned westward, using the clouds and mist that hung like a veil above the mountains to conceal their passage. The wind died, but the temperature dropped considerably, forcing them to draw the folds of their cloaks tightly around their necks. Apart from a few shaggy-haired highland yaks, they saw no evidence of life below. There were few trees this far north – the only vegetation being patches of scrub and the red heather blanketing the slopes of the mountains. In spite of all they’d been through today, Caspan couldn’t help but again admire the rugged beauty of the land.

  They barely spoke during the journey. Even Roland, who’d normally break the monotony of such long flights with humorous remarks, sat quietly in his saddle, staring sombrely ahead. Caspan could only imagine everyone was thinking about how close they’d come to death at Mance O’Shea’s Break. The run-in with the war band had been a chance encounter, but it was a sobering warning of the danger they faced. They were now travelling even deeper into enemy territory, and Caspan wondered what perils awaited them at Loch Bermon-Clyde.

  Caspan and Shanty used the flight as an opportunity to take stock of their injuries. Shifting in his harness, Shanty managed to apply a bandage to his wound. Though it was makeshift, it had stopped the bleeding. Fortunately, too, the cut wasn’t deep and he could wait until they returned to the House of Whispers to get it properly sutured.

  In contrast, Caspan felt aches and pains all over his body. The rafters had broken his fall, but he had hit the flagstone floor hard regardless. He didn’t think he’d broken anything, but he was sure he’d be covered in bruises by the morning. He’d also have a nice scar on his face as a memento of the arrow that grazed his cheek. Though, it was a small price to pay for his life, he thought, as he replayed in his mind the desperate last stand at the battlements.

  ‘I owe you one,’ he whispered, leaning low against Frostbite’s neck.

  The drake glanced back at him, blinked, then swooped through a blanket of clouds.

  Caspan felt a great sense of security knowing his Warden would never abandon him in a fight. But by putting himself in danger, Caspan also risked Frostbite’s life. As fearsome a fighter as the drake was, weapons could penetrate the soft scales on his belly, and Caspan was concerned that he would get injured. The drake was lucky that no archers had been atop the wall, otherwise things might have been ended badly.

  Still, who am I to complain? Caspan pondered. If it weren’t for Frostbite, Lachlan and Talon, Shanty and I wouldn’t have made it off the wall.

  A further two hours passed before the land began to lower, eventually tapering into hills that bordered the mirror-like surface of a meandering loch. The mist became sparse, appearing as tattered pat
ches here and there, usually in the leeward side of the hills. Caspan had feared that they might come across isolated fishing villages, but they saw no evidence of human settlement apart from an old ruined castle on a promontory jutting out into the loch.

  He shifted in his saddle, trying to bring some relief to his sore thigh muscles and posterior, when Sara pointed at a rare patch of trees cresting a hill directly ahead. The companions descended, dismounted and walked their Wardens up through the copse to the western side of the hill, which fell away in a sheer cliff. They crouched amidst the trees at the edge of the escarpment and spied down into the glen beyond.

  ‘Somebody please tell me that’s not the burial mound,’ Roland muttered. Sara nodded, and he lay dejectedly on the ground and moaned. ‘This day just keeps going from bad to worse. As if making our way through the tomb wasn’t going to be difficult enough. Now we’ve got to deal with that!’

  Caspan stared grimly ahead. There it was, the objective of their journey: a large, man-made mound rising almost a hundred yards above the surrounding valley … right in the heart of a bustling highland fort.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE HIGHLAND FORT

  Things could not have been worse.

  The clansmen had constructed a military base in the glen, its focal point being the burial mound. It was en circled by a tall palisade, with watchtowers and a walkway that ran around its interior. The fort was surrounded by a deep ditch, bristling with stakes, which meant the only way to gain access to the encampment was along a narrow causeway leading through to the main gate. This was heavily guarded by a band of warriors, who Caspan noticed were clad in the tartan kilts of Stewart warriors, the fiercest of the highland clans.

  Inside the stronghold were dozens of tents and thatched-roof cottages. Clansmen busied themselves around fires and iron pots, preparing evening meals or sharpening weapons. Caspan thought he saw a blacksmith and a forge with an adjoining stable off to one side of the burial mound. A stone building on the other side of the fort appeared to be a provisions storehouse.