Suddenly, before her loomed the door she had seen in her daytime dreams, a giant carven panel of black stone. The writing upon it was not that of Celts, not Ogham, not Pict, not Norse rune. Faerie-script, that was what she had to believe it to be; a permanent marker for those who would travel the way of the dead.
She stretched out a finger, but the door fell back before her hand ere she made contact. Darkness, thick as tar, yet not so still, lay beyond.
Exhaling slowly, Taffy summoned up her courage. This was it, a point beyond which she was committed to the course. The choice, in plainest terms, was a simple one. She could either intervene in history and attempt to save Malcolm—sparing him an agonizing death and herself a lifelong haunting—or she could hang out the black crepe and mourn for the rest of her dream-haunted days, which were likely to be few in number, if what Jamesy said was true, for those of MacLeod blood were taken away to live with the faeries.
Are ye coming, lass? the low-pitched voice in her head asked.
Was she coming?
“Yes,” she answered for a third time, and with a last breath, she stepped inside the chamber.
Around her was immeasurable space, but space unlike that to be found in any ordinary cave or room. It was without direction. No east. No west. No north or south. No up. No down. The smoky lantern was her only guidepost, but it showed her nothing but more vast, dizzying emptiness. It was a place so blank it had not even human time within it, but all the eons flowing together in a giant, disorienting sea.
There was a slight wind at first, eddying about her feet, but it quickly gathered strength, pushing her into the void—into the black—into the past.
It was time streaming around her. Two-and-one-half centuries were fleeting by, pulling the pins from her hair, flapping her skirts about her legs like the snapping of an ocean vessel’s sails.
Though she was not asleep, another image of Malcolm came to her mind. This time he was as clear as if lit by the sun at high noon on a summer’s day.
Malcolm stood in the tiny ramparts, guards at his sides, watching the white sails fill the horizon.
The Campbells had been lulled by his lack of weapons, thinking he was harmless because he carried no iron. It had amused them—them and that black-hearted bitch!—to keep the MacIntyre’s piper as a plaything, a jester to entertain them. On his promise that he would not try to escape the keep, he had been given the run of the castle, and there he had bided his time, waiting for Colkitto’s return.
Now his foes muttered the MacColla’s name like an invocation, for it seemed their curses had conjured the very devil to their door. The usually canny Irishman had returned! But he came at the castle boldly, unaware of the danger, his ship’s sails plain against the blue sky.
Malcolm had borne no love for the MacColla when first they met, but he knew now why the man fought the Campbells so assiduously—and in that Malcolm would gladly give him aid. Malcolm was a dead man already, as he had known since before this assault. The faeries had marked him for it, and if the choice be his in the manner of his end, he had one last task to perform as the clan piper.
Colkitto was not meant to die this day. It was Malcolm’s duty to see that he got away.
Colkitto’s ship drew closer.
He raised his pipes: the chanter to his lips, the lyart reed in place. He had his piece selected. It was the one he had played on the night he and Colkitto met. Both men knew it well, and like all great pipe music, its cadence was a rigid set of counts of eight. It would be easy enough to drop two counts every third line in the urlar and crun luath—was a trick that had been used before to save MacColla’s father from a trap at Dunyvaig. The MacDonnell would ken his warning in the mutilation of the song while these lowlanders scratched their heads, wondering that their quarry was escaping their trap.
He played, and in the strains his message was clear.
MacColla, fliest thou from the castle. Go with the wind and make for open sea. We have been seized, we have been seized.
The wind was abruptly gone, and another door was waiting before her. The script carved upon it meant nothing to Taffy’s eye, but her heart knew where the passage led. This time, she did not hesitate to pass through the portal. Malcolm felt very near.
The day on the other side was pleasant and normal, though slightly cooler than the one she had left. The westing sun afforded her an adequate, but filtered light. She was in a thick copsewood of mountain ash, she realized with a thrill that fluttered in her slightly upset stomach. If this afternoon’s dream was correct—as it had been so far—to reach the castle wall, she needed only to follow the stream heard bubbling in the distance. If that failed, there was the alarming music floating out into the still air to guide her. She had heard it before, on the morning when she had taken her photographs to Duntrune. It was the same mournful tune.
Malcolm.
Taffy swallowed, pushing down a burgeoning case of nerves.
After her flight through the magicked door, she found the solid ground beneath her feet very reassuring—its common, earthy reek of sheep and cattle dung, of peat smoke, and of green things growing in the rich soil. It upset her to think that she would have to face the awful void again when she returned home, so she pushed the thought from her mind.
Taffy extinguished her lantern, setting it carefully at the base of the hidden door to mark her passageway back to Kilmartin. She hid her satchels and camera, nearby in a hollowed-out tree. She did not allow herself to dwell on what would happen should the door refuse to reopen upon her return. Such worry would only aggravate her nerves and ruin her aim. Nothing could be allowed to interfere with this rescue.
Automatically, she began straightening her disheveled hair. There was no wind yet from the loch, but she knew from past experience that there would be one as the sun went down, and shooting straight was a difficult enough matter without her hair flapping around like a banner.
All day he had played, from sunrise to sunset, never ceasing though his fingers were near lamed. He wanted them so, lifeless and numb when they were stricken off.
He would die without his hands—thus had been the sentence of Lady Dunstaffnage. In another moment, he would go down the stairs and to the courtyard to the block, where the axe would strike and the blood would rush from his body. His eyes and ears would go dark and deaf and be pleased no more by earthly things.
He thought then of all the wondrous beauties he would never see again. The moon shining down on fields at harvest time, the quietude of the meadows on a summer afternoon, the drifts of luckengowen growing wild in a late spring blanket, which would thicken and darken as summer wore on.
But the most beautiful thing he had ever seen was his golden-haired apparition, and he clung to the thought—the hope—that his dreams were true and he read them aright. For if they were, she would very shortly appear and lead him on the “low road” to Caislean na Nor, the golden castle of faerie Elysium. He would be happy there, even if shut off from the heaven of man, were she there with him.
The area about the castle in this century was more thickly cloaked in woods, but the stones were the same and the stream had not diverted its course, so Taffy found her way to the tiny keep with ease.
Grateful for the dull brown of her dress, which matched both deadwood and earth, she crept up to the castle until she came upon a barrack of rock flanked by a thicket. It was the perfect place for her to make a stand; it had a perfect view in through the gate of the keep, boasted lots of cover, and the setting sun would shine directly in their eyes when the enemy turned her way. If only she could lure Malcolm’s captors into the open courtyard, her plan would turn this into what the Americans called a “turkey shoot.”
On that thought, the object of her interest obligingly stepped into plain view. Malcolm. She felt a sharp stab in her chest as he looked up and stared in her direction. His eyes were fey.
“Are ye coming, lass?” his still lips seemed to ask.
It was impossible that he could see her
, of course, but perhaps, just as she thought she had sometimes read his thoughts, he sensed that she was near.
Taffy had already loaded her Winchester rifle, but she made a last check to see that she was truly prepared. The steel was cold beneath her hands.
“Yes, Malcolm. I am coming.”
Absorbed as she was in the task at hand and Malcolm’s steady stare, she was not aware of the rustling in the dry undergrowth behind her, as if the roots of the copsewood trees were being transhifted.
They stood in the courtyard, he and the Black Bitch, staring into each other’s eyes. Freedom was only fifty strides distant had he the desire to strive for it. Through the gate, he could see the surrounding forest just outside the keep. Once in the magic wood, the secret ways would open up and he could disappear within them. He could escape Lady Dunstaffnage and her hatred.
The Campbells on the ramparts had not understood the MacColla’s veering off at the last moment, but Lady Dunstaffnage had seen the Irishman salute the piper through her glass. Unfortunately, she too had recalled the trick that had once saved Colkitto’s father. She alone kenned what had passed. And she had decided to exact her vengeance.
To harm a piper was to bring misfortune upon one’s clan, but ill-luck or no, the Black Bitch’s wrathful punishment would fall upon Malcolm for her humiliation. Her pride demanded it, whatever the cost.
There was no time for lamentation. Malcolm had known he would not return from this assault on Duntrune. And should his death bring misfortune to Dunstaffnage and her men, gladly would he surrender the here and now for the better hereafter he believed would follow.
A movement in the woods caught his eye. It was only the smallest flash of gold, but he knew it well. It was his spirit lass come to guide him! He allowed himself a small inward smile.
“Are ye coming, lass?” he whispered.
She did not reply at once, and immediately he could sense that she was somehow altered. She seemed solid and not wandering in some fathomless way, but studying the castle with determined eyes. Alongside her cheek, the flesh now bleached pale as linen, was what looked to be one of the Sassenach’s unreliable flintlocks.
“Yes, Malcolm. I am coming,” said a soft, but determined voice in his head.
Malcolm stared in disbelief, a sense of odd dizziness overtaking him. Exhausted indifference fled. Seeing his apparition—suddenly made in vulnerable flesh and prepared to rush into mortal danger—he found a reason to take up arms and rejoin the fight. Alarm pumped strength and quickness into his tired muscles, and his desire to die took flight.
Suddenly there was an eruption of shots, louder than any he had ever heard. The man beside him leapt back, as though receiving a blow to the breast. His readied axe dropped to the ground.
Without hesitation, Malcolm snatched up the weapon in his bruised and bound fists and swung it into the nearest Campbell’s chest.
The axe pulled away only with difficulty as it had lodged somewhat firmly with the force of his blow. Thereafter, reluctant to lose his weapon to a careless cleave, Malcolm spent some time in nimble avoidance of the other guards’ dirks. Reversing his axe, he swung the blunted end up into his nearest captor’s bearded chin.
There was another crack of flintlock fire followed by a sharp cry. Malcolm spun about, amazed that a path was being systematically cleared before him. Without hesitation, he sprinted for the gate, hands still tied in front of him, leaping over wounded Campbells with an agility born of sudden hope.
He felt the tug of an arrow as it passed through his plaid but did not look back to see how closely danger followed, rather he sprang like a wolf after a fleeing hart and ran with all his strength.
His eyes burning with some new inner fire that had slipped free of his control, Malcolm bared his teeth in a feral smile that frightened the remaining Campbells into falling back from the gates rather than face the strange, inhuman power burning within him.
He did not know what manner of weapon his golden savior carried, but it was more effective and grievous than any Sassenach flintlock he’d ever seen. And more powerful than anything he’d ever recalled wielded by the still-folk.
The Campbells seemed confused by the repeated gunfire, Taffy was elated to see. Doubtless, they thought that a company of the MacColla’s men had come upon them through the covering forest.
Her first shot had sent the axeman staggering. Her second and third went into Malcolm’s nearest guards, wounding though not killing them. The next would have been sent into the breast of the woman responsible for Malcolm’s torment, but she had already fled into a doorway below the now familiar and hated banner. Taffy had to content herself with clearing a path for the piper’s escape.
She pumped the lever rapidly and brass shellshot fell to the ground nearby with tiny pings. She aimed for those nearest the castle gate who were in the best position to interfere with Malcolm’s escape. The piper had felled two more guards, she was pleased to see, but there were still several more between him and freedom. Fortunately, they were now focused on the outlying threat to the castle and did not perceive the danger behind them.
The gun snicked without firing, telling her that she was out of ammunition and needed to reload. She dropped behind a large boulder and began to thumb shells into her rifle. The barrel was burning hot to the touch.
“Bloody hell!” she swore, as a new threat in the form of an arrow splintered against the boulder that shielded her. Another struck, quivering angrily in the ground, to her left. Pounding footsteps heralded Malcolm’s approach—directly into the path of the archer’s fire.
Taffy rolled to her knees, moving some distance to the right and began scanning for the archer. She had him in an instant, an arrogant silhouette with a crossbow standing against the reddening sky. He crumpled nicely when she put a bullet in his thigh.
All at once, there was a crash and then a rustle, as if tree limbs had been smashed violently together. Before she could bring her rifle around to defend herself, a battle-enraged Campbell was standing over her, slashing down with a gleaming claymore.
She had no time even to scream, for in an instant Malcolm was there, and the Campbell was swallowed by the nearby shrubbery, an axe buried in his chest. His wicked sword clattered to the ground beside her, slicing deeply into her skirt.
“Come wi’ me,” Malcolm ordered, jerking her to her feet with a single tug of his bound hands. He headed into the heart of the thicket where, miraculously, the seemingly solid wall of plants gave way for them.
“The claymore!” she suggested. But he did not bother to retrieve the sword.
“Never mind it! We’ve no time for a stirrup-cup.”
A hound bayed loudly from within the castle walls, calling to Taffy’s mind the tales of how Campbells had hunted down their enemies, letting their animals rip their victims to pieces when they had them cornered in the glen.
With that image in her head, Taffy didn’t argue. Hearing the sounds of pursuit behind her, she put the Winchester over her shoulder and discharged a round in the general direction of the castle, hoping to temporarily deter their enemies.
For her pains, she caught a stray limb in her hair, which tugged painfully until Malcolm pulled her free.
“Dinnae bother, lass. They’ll be skedaddled in the woods.” Then Malcolm set his leather bonds to his lips where he bit down with hard, white teeth. In a flash, the binding was shed from his wrists and flung violently away.
The now free hand that towed Taffy also guided her, which was a fortunate thing as her hair was again loose and falling over her eyes. Through that golden veil, she thought she saw a wall of brambles fold apart and then, as she turned her head to stare in disbelief, weave itself together behind her. She had the uneasy impression that the very greensward around them was being rearranged as they passed through it, becoming denser behind, but she could not see clearly enough through her hair to know if it was true.
Presently, all noise behind them ceased, and Malcolm slowed their pace, which was for
tunate as fatigue and sickness were finally overtaking her. Whatever battle-rage it was that had guided her into setting the bloody ambush was departing quickly, leaving a sort of lightheaded horror behind and her stranded in the middle of a nightmare.
Taffy bent over at the waist and took some calming breaths. She absolutely, completely, and utterly rejected her stomach’s suggestion that she empty the remains of her supper onto the forest floor. But as a precaution, she removed the heavy belts of ammunition that were pressing on her chest. She took a few deep breaths.
Malcolm looked at the apparition—nay, the lass!—and felt some of the strange and awful power that had flooded his body folding back in on itself.
“Ye are real,” he muttered, for human she certainly was, and doing poorly. Her face was pale rather than the pink it should be from their run, and she looked to be on the verge of gut sickness.
“Are ye ill, lass?” he asked gently, running his eyes over her slender form to see if she had been hurt from the Campbell’s claymore. For one with even a hint of faerie blood, the simplest wound from cold iron could sometimes prove fatal. “Are ye wounded?”
“No.” She swallowed and straightened valiantly. “Just…just…tired. I’ve had a busy day, shooting people, running through the woods.…”
Malcolm forewent a smile; such a mettlesome reply deserved better than teasing. Gently, he tucked her straying hair behind her lovely pointed ears. The expression on her face was one of confused disbelief and wariness.
He didn’t know what aspect he himself wore. A strange but giddy mix of euphoria and desire beat at his temples and drove his blood fiercely through his pounding heart. Not all of the heady new power had left his head, though, and he made an effort to throttle it before it frightened her. Despite her brave attack upon the Campbells, he kenned that this lass was tenderly made.
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