by Dave Duncan
One of the men coughed nervously. Toby realized that they were at the copse itself.
"Why don't you wait here?" That was what he was supposed to say.
"Well ... If you don't need us?" Miller said, feigning reluctance.
"Just one of us might be best. Don't want to make it snarly."
They all agreed it would not do to make the hob snarly.
Toby went on alone, climbing the narrow path. He wondered if the hob would be more or less visible by night than it was by day. The most he had ever seen of it was a faint silver shimmer, a sort of glow in the trees, as if all the leaves were twinkling and the air was sweeter. Usually it stayed in its grotto, but sometimes it would come and watch him chop wood. Very rarely, he had detected it elsewhere in the glen. It never spoke to him, only to the witchwife. He was not at all sure that it could speak to anyone else, or that anyone would understand it if it did. He suspected that it had very little intelligence in any human sense. Granny Nan rarely talked about the hob, even to him. She sang to it, and gave it pretty things, and kept it happy.
The path ended abruptly. Granny Nan was quite obviously not there. Directly ahead, a shaft of moonlight illuminated the side of Lightning Rock and the little open crack that was the hob's grotto.
Toby knelt down on the moss. He bent his head, glancing around surreptitiously. He saw nothing, except bright things twinkling inside the hole—offerings of pretty stones, mostly. People with troubles would bring little offerings to Granny Nan and she would take them to the hob and pass on the requests: Gerda Murray's cow is drying up ... the pain in Lachlan Field's back keeps him from earning his bread ...
He decided to begin by introducing himself, just in case it did not remember him. "I am Toby Strangerson, the boy from the cottage, the witchwife's boy." He felt oddly stupid, as if he were talking to himself. "I am very grateful to you for saving me from the demon tonight, and bringing me home safely." Almost safely—no bones broken, anyway.
He fumbled for the two coins, and found something small and sharp also. He remembered that Granny Nan had given him a pretty stone. He left the pebble in his sporran and brought out the money.
"I brought these for you. I hope you like them." He tossed them into the grotto. They clinked on the gravel.
Silence. No sound, no wind. Nothing.
He was suddenly quite certain that the hob was not there. He was talking to himself.
Somewhere a twig cracked.
His heart jumped madly. He peered around, waited, heard nothing.
"We can't find Granny Nan." He spoke faster. "We are worried about her, because she is frail and the night is cold. Will you lead me to her, please? Or send her home?"
Behind him, somebody chuckled.
He was on his feet in an instant, staring into the darkness, aware that he must be visible against the patch of moonlight. His heart thumped in his chest . . . Dum . . . Dum... Somebody sniggered, giggled.
Crazy Colin!
Crazy Colin Campbell was here in the grove, and he would still have the knife.
Shift...
The trunks of the trees gleamed with a frosty light, every leaf and twig clearly visible. The mad drum beat steady time. Off to the left, Granny Nan's body was a tiny crumpled heap in the shrubbery. A man was creeping up the path, knife glittering, teeth bared in an ecstasy of blood lust. He could not hear the drummer, could not see the eerie blue glow.
The husky boy stepped into shade, out of the moonlight. While he watched the killer come, he gripped the rusty bangle on his left wrist, pulled at it until the lock snapped. He tossed it away.
The man jumped and peered around to see where the sound had come from.
The boy worked on the right cuff. That was harder. Blood oozed from his wrist before the foul thing yielded. This time the madman heard the breaking and located the noise. He started forward again, panting with excitement and making little circles in the air with the point of his knife.
When he was within reach, the waiting boy shot out a hand to grip the knife arm; he took the man by the throat with the other. He squeezed until the arm bones crumbled and the blade fell to the ground. Then he crushed the lunatic's throat as a man might crack a flea, watching him die—eyes bulging, mouth open, making no sound audible through the relentless, all-pervading rhythm: Dum . . . Dum . . . Later he tossed the twitching corpse away like an empty eggshell.
8
Granny Nan had been dead for hours. Her body was cold and stiff, and it weighed no more than a bundle of branches. Toby cradled it in his arms as he strode down the path, trying not to see the loathsome gash across her throat, black with dried blood.
He went by the waiting men without pause, heading for the cottage, hearing them muttering angrily among themselves as they followed. Quick though he was, they would have seen the tears coursing down his cheeks. It was shameful for a grown man to weep, but he hardly cared.
A murderer weeping? He had killed again. For the fourth time in one night his hands had killed, and this time he had slain the wrong man. The corpse stiffening in the copse should be Fat Vik, not Colin. Crazy Colin had been born faulty. Whether that was the hob's doing or mere chance, it had certainly not been Crazy Colin's choice. The terror and slaughter at Norford Bridge had spoked his wheels completely, yet the war had not been his fault either. The guilt was Vik's, who had put the knife in his fist.
Who had slain Crazy Colin? Toby Strangerson or the demon? He could no longer deny that he had a demon in his heart. He could no longer believe that the hob had saved him in the dungeon. That had not been the hob taking him over just now to commit another murder, for the hob worked more directly. When the soldiers' drums had annoyed it, the men had been felled by cramps. Years ago, a wandering tinker had tried to chop firewood in the copse; his ax had turned in his hand, slashing his leg, and he had bled to death. Stealing another mortal's body to be executioner was demon stuff, not the hob's style.
The drumming heart and the ghostly blue light were symptoms of the demon. It had taken control of Toby in the castle and led him safely home, but it had not abandoned him then; it had merely dropped the reins for a while. When danger loomed again, it had reasserted its control. The demon must be just as concerned with Toby Strangerson's well-being as he was himself, because now they shared the same body. Crazy Colin had been a threat, so the demon had killed him. It had solved the problem and again withdrawn, like a man turning a warhorse loose in the pasture to frolic and graze. When next the trumpet sounded, the rider would mount the steed once more.
Whose man was he now? He belonged to a demon.
He had sensed that the hob was absent—had it fled when his demon approached its grotto? But then why had it not saved Granny Nan earlier? Perhaps it had known of Lady Vaida's arrival and quit the glen altogether. Useless to try and guess ... no mortal could understand an elemental.
So twice Toby Strangerson had been possessed. The demon had overlooked the manacles the first time. It must have learned from his thoughts that they would be a problem, so it had disposed of them, knowing that he could not do so by himself. Therefore the demon knew what he was thinking and doing, even when he was not aware of its presence. It was doubtless reading his mind even now, chortling to itself in whatever fashion demons showed mirth. It was learning. It was growing more proficient at using the human body it had stolen.
What would happen next? Who would he kill next? What horrors might he find himself committing? He ought to cut his own throat first, or turn himself in for impalement. Men possessed often took their own lives—like the gravedigger's apprentice in Oban two years ago, who had run amok with a mattock, butchering women and children. They'd found him in bed with his wrists slashed. Could Toby Strangerson do that? Would his hands obey him if he tried? Would suicide be release, or just a victory for the demon?
He kicked the cottage door open, hearing the latch splinter. The fire had crumbled to embers, but his eyes were well adjusted to darkness. There was enough light for him to carr
y Granny Nan over to the bed and lay her there. He sank to his knees, laid his head on his arms, and let the sobs come until he gasped for breath and his throat ached.
The door thumped shut at his back.
"Go away!"
"No, lad," said the smith. "It is you who must go."
Toby looked around angrily. Old Eric stood there as solid as his own anvil, but the others had remained outside. Shrewd! If Toby had to trust one of them, it would be this one; they had known that.
"We'll see that she is laid to rest," the big man growled, "and the hob will care for her soul. She's been dead a long while. No one will blame you for it."
No, it had not been Toby's hand holding the knife, but if he had heeded Granny Nan's warning, if he had avoided the fight with Forrester, if he had hidden out in the copse instead of letting the soldiers take him ... any of those ifs and he could have been here to save her from Crazy Colin.
Why had the hob not defended her, or at least warned her? Why, after all these years, had it proved so fickle?
The other death did not matter. The madman's body would not be found for months or years. No one would mourn Colin, and likely the killing would be attributed to the hob's vengeance anyway.
"The Sassenachs will come soon." Smith moved closer. "Can you make it as far as Annie's, lad? Or must we fetch a donkey?"
Toby on a donkey? He heaved himself to his feet, although the effort took every fragment of strength he had left. He leaned his head against a rafter for support, feeling its cold roughness. "I'm not a child! I can walk!"
"Then go. Take your bundle and—" The smith's hand flashed out and seized Toby's wrist.
Toby tried to jerk away, but the man's grip was as tight as his smithy tongs. For a moment they faced off, the two best sets of shoulders in the glen, jaws set. . . . Then the younger man yielded. He would not have been taking the weight-lifting crown this year.
"You're bleeding!" The smith peered at the scrapes. "The hob's doing?"
The hob had not been there, but to say so would provoke unanswerable questions.
"You think I pulled them off by myself?"
Pause for thought... then Eric released him. "No. No man could do that." His scarred and weathered face peered up at Toby appraisingly. "You have been working strange wonders tonight, lad."
Toby looked down at the tiny body on the bed. "Not wonders enough," he whispered.
A heavy hand squeezed his shoulder. "She had more time than most. She was old when I was a pup and when my father was, too. The glen will miss her. She did not say who was to care for the hob after she had gone?"
"No. She said someone would, but she did not say who."
"Well, we'll find out in good time, I'm thinking. Go to Annie, now. She's expecting you, and it's almost dawn already. Stay on the dirt as much as you can, boy, so you don't leave tracks in the frost. We'll get you safely out of the glen."
There was something that should be said now. Oh, yes. "Thank you." Why was that such an effort? Why did he feel so resentful for their help?
"It is we who are grateful," the smith said. "You raised your fist to a swordsman. Courage is a fine thing in a man, but by rights you should have died, lad. Even big men bleed. Don't make a habit of being reckless. Play the odds when you can."
A Campbell of Fillan counseling discretion? Truly, the skies would be full of flying pigs tomorrow. There was nothing more to say. Toby stooped and went to fetch his bundle. As an afterthought, he found Granny Nan's jar of salve. Then he headed for the door. Annie's croft was close to Bridge of Orchy. He could walk another couple of hours without dying of exhaustion; it was no worse than prizefighting.
As he bent for the lintel, the smith said, "May good spirits care for you, Toby of Fillan."
He stopped and looked around, leaning against the jamb. He could still dredge anger from his pit of fatigue, and his resolve had been forged long since. "Oh, no! I will have a new name. I will make my own name in the world, Master Campbell. But it will never be that one."
The big man's jaw clenched at this affront to his beloved glen. "Choose what name you want, then, bastard. Will you have the world love it or hate it?"
"Fear it!" Toby said, leaving his birthplace forever.
THREE
Guiding Light
1
Annie Bridge was one of four Annie Campbells in the glen. Her cottage was among the largest, with two sizable rooms. Here she had raised three strapping sons after her husband died at Leethoul. When King Fergan had abjured his allegiance to the English in 1511, the oldest had marched off to avenge his father. When Fergan had escaped from captivity in London in 1516 and returned to the Highlands to light the beacon on the hills again, the other two had followed the laird to Parline Field. For the last three years, Annie had lived alone.
She was a gaunt, white-haired woman with all the softness and compassion of a grindstone. Her face and hands were dried to brown leather by a lifetime's toil and weather. She was stooped but unbending, and she peered menacingly at the world as if daring it to try anything more. She detested the English with passion, and she would do anything at all for a man who had killed one of them. She was also an excellent cook.
Toby had slept, eaten, slept again, washed, and shaved. Every muscle in his body ached and his joints were stiff as gateposts. Normally he enjoyed that familiar feeling—it was a sign of growth and progress and greater strength in future. Now he could find no satisfaction in it. About this same time yesterday, he had prided himself on perfecting the powerful body he had been born with, but then he had watched his own hands crush the life out of men and twist iron bars like dough. Strength was no longer a virtue. The demon had made a mockery of his ambitions.
With sunset angering the western sky, he was eating another meal. The table in the front room held more food than even he could have consumed in a week, although Helga Burnside always told him he ate more than the entire Sassenach garrison. He felt very odd, struggling to come to terms with the sudden shift in his life. He kept picturing ice on a burn—the sudden thaw that turned a smooth white pavement into a foaming torrent. Toby Strangerson's world had just broken up like that, with him not very far across yet.
He should be mourning Granny Nan. He should be worrying about the demon in his heart, the English hunting him, the dangerous passage through Glen Orchy, even the rebels who were probably waiting to recruit him at the far end—and yet all he could feel was a shivering excitement that he was leaving the glen at last to seek his fortune in the world. He chewed, and he wondered.
Seated in the doorway to catch the light, Annie sewed with quick, deft strokes. She turned her head to see how he was faring. "Take more of that beef! And of the goose. The fat'll keep you-warm in the hills."
Toby reached out to slice the beef. Fall was the best time of year for eating, the time when the cattle were slaughtered and even the poor could hope to eat meat. Annie snapped at him to stop being so picky, take a decent helping.
"I'll beggar you!" he protested.
For a fleeting moment, something lit her craggy face as a ray of sun on a snowy day turned drabness to diamonds. "Boy, you don't know what it means to me to feed a man again. It warms my old heart to see you put it away. Empty the board and I'll keep filling it gladly."
What was a man to do but keep eating?
Ask a few discreet questions with his mouth full?
For instance: "Any word from the castle?"
Annie lifted her work to her teeth and bit off a thread. "Aye. The Sassenachs have been in a pretty turmoil, I'm glad to say. They've put guards on the roads, and they're riding the hills."
Toby chewed for a while, waiting for more. Then he asked, "Not searching the village or threatening to take hostages?"
"Now why would they be doing that?" Annie raised a needle to eye level and squinted to thread it. "Why would they be looking in the village when there's a horse missing?"
"Oh. The horse hasn't been found?"
"Well, they've not tho
ught to look under Murray MacDougal's bed yet."
Fortunately Toby was not trying to swallow anything just at that moment. He laughed. He laughed the laugh that Granny Nan always said was worse than a clap of thunder and would excite the hob. He felt guilty at being able to laugh already, with her not a full day dead yet.
If Falcon was still missing, then the Sassenachs must assume their quarry had ridden off to join the rebels. Annie's serene approval suggested that he might risk other, more dangerous questions.
"And how do they account for my escape from the dungeon?"
The old woman looked at him sharply. "You were there, weren't you?"
"But what I remember and what they tell may not walk hand in hand."
She nodded, stitching again. "It was that fool woman, they say—the one that wanted to hire you. She went down to the cells to persuade you to change your mind about entering her service." The old woman's voice changed timbre. "That's what they're saying she was after, and I don't want to hear any details if it's not the case. They say you knifed her. They're calling you a mad beast and very dangerous."
Toby chewed, marveling that he could speak so easily with old Annie. Usually his tongue froze solid when there were women nearby. He realized she had not mentioned any dead bodies in the dungeon.
"I don't hold with ladies being knifed," Annie added. "As a rule. But there's rules and there's rules, and if that one is what they say she is, then it's a true shame you didn't do a better job while you were at it."
So Valda had explained the wound in her breast.
How had she accounted for the table, the scroll, the blood-stained bowl, and all the other gear of her gramarye? Perhaps she had hexed them out of sight, but what had become of the bodies ... or had there been no bodies? Toby had brained one man and broken another's neck. His demon vision had seen the four as other than human, and the lack of mention of bodies was unwelcome confirmation. The bodies had recovered and walked away. If someone now broke Toby Strangerson's neck... would he do the same?
