The Years of Longdirk- The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  That explained Lady Valda's dagger.

  "Thanks, Littledirk. You know something?"

  "What?" Hamish asked warily.

  "You've taught me as much in the last minute as your pa did in five years of schooling."

  Hamish chuckled, much pleased. "More, I expect, from the way he still talks about you."

  3

  Two people sat on a boulder in the moonlight. The small one, with her hair dangling in two long braids below her bonnet and bare feet showing under the pleats of her dress, was easily recognizable as Meg.

  The second was a youngish man of no great height but notably wide shoulders. He had a clean-shaven face with a high, angular nose. The sword at his belt was a basket-handled short claymore, nothing like Toby's cumbersome broadsword. He wore a tartan shirt under his plaid; he had on hose and shoes. He stood up, still holding his lute.

  As there was no one else present, the singer must have been Meg Tanner. Toby was surprised, yet not sure why—so strong a voice from so small a person, perhaps.

  "Campbells are the most notorious liars in all Scotland," the man announced cheerfully. "They said you were big."

  "I'm not?"

  "Understatement can be carried to deceptive extremes. Still, you are the chivalrous chevalier who saved the damsel and slaughtered the unsavory Sassenach, so I will shake your hand."

  Toby left his fists at his sides, not sure what to make of this stranger in the night. His voice was an odd mixture of Highland burr and English drawl. The fancy words indicated that he was not an ignorant peasant— and implied that Toby was.

  "Sir, I'll shake your hand when I know who you are."

  "Names can be dangerous, i have several." The stranger chuckled and glanced at Meg as if sharing a joke, meanwhile removing his bonnet to scratch at a head of sandy hair braided at the back into a stubby pigtail. The move was slickly done, for when he replaced the bonnet and adjusted it, whatever emblem he had been wearing on it had disappeared. "How about 'Rory'? Rory MacDonald of Glencoe. Will that satisfy you, Toby Strangerson?"

  It had better. There was nothing uncommon about sporting an emblem to show whose man you were, but Toby had a niggling half-recollection that in Rory's case it had been a silver badge. A silver badge meant either a chief or heir to a chief.

  Toby accepted the handclasp. Of course, what Rory MacDonald wore in a deserted glen at night and what Rory MacDonald dared to wear in daylight might not be peas from the same pod. His palm was smooth, but there was no frailty in his grip. He studied Toby's face for a moment with steady pale eyes, then turned to his companion. "What by the demons of Delia have you got there, boy? Been looting the castle, have you?"

  Hamish had lowered his burden to the ground with grunts of relief. "Food, sir, mostly. Clothes. Ma thought—"

  "Mothers always do. You'll sink out of sight with that load. A true Highlander carries one day's rations and nothing more, so throw all the rest away." He aimed an arrogant finger at the broadsword. "And you, Strangerson? What foul monstrosities are you planning to slaughter with that thing?"

  "Lutists."

  MacDonald stared at Toby for several seconds before making a small noise that might indicate amusement or just surprise. "Well, I suppose you can handle the weight. We'll be wading, remember."

  Toby had concluded that he did not like Rory MacDonald of Glencoe. He turned to Meg, who was standing beside him—quite close beside him, eyes downcast. "Hello, Meg."

  She looked up eagerly. "Toby?"

  "I loved your singing. I didn't know you could sing like that."

  "Did you ever ask me?"

  "No ... You're all right?"

  "Thanks to you." She seemed to be waiting for something more.

  He waited also, puzzled.

  She bit her lip and turned away. "I did not have a chance to thank you properly, Master Strangerson, for your dauntless gallantry. It was very brave of you to rescue me like that."

  Toby said, "Any man would have done the same."

  Rory and Hamish were on their knees together, hauling objects out of Hamish's bundle. "Books? Why in the world do you need ..."

  Meg tossed her head without looking around. "Your courage is exceeded only by your modesty and does you great honor, sir. J was indeed fortunate that you were at hand to succor me in my moment of peril."

  She must have got that out of a book, or else she had been infected by that Rory man's flowery way of talking. In Strath Fillan, words were short and meant what they said.

  "Considering how stupid you were to be there by yourself, you certainly were fortunate."

  She whirled around, braids dancing. "Stupid? I came to warn you of danger!" Her breath was a pearly mist in the frosty moonlight.

  Toby laid his sword and pack on the ground and knelt to inspect the supplies Annie had added to it. Despite his superior airs, the Rory man made sense when he said that carrying unnecessary weight would be folly. Yet nothing in Toby's collection seemed superfluous. He could carry it all without tiring. He decided to leave the bundle as it was.

  Meg's bare feet were still there, one of them tapping angrily on the stony ground. She was riled because he had called her stupid. So she was! Her folly had caused the deaths of Granny Nan and four men. It had led to Toby being possessed by a demon and driven from his home—even if he did not much mind the last bit. Still, he could hardly upset the kid by telling her all that. He looked up and smiled at her.

  "It was a kind thought," he said gently. "But I can look after myself better than you can. You must realize that you're close to being a woman now. Soon men will begin to lust after you. You should have sent a man with the message, if you thought it was that important."

  "Or a real woman, perhaps?"

  The moon was behind her. He could not see her face under the brim of her bonnet.

  "A man, of course. A woman would have had the same trouble."

  The foot tapped faster. She heaved her cloak higher on her shoulders. "I was doubly fortunate that you recognized me in time, though."

  He looked up, puzzled by her tone. "Recognized you? I didn't. I didn't know it was you."

  Meg said, "Oh!" very violently. "You crude, oversized, shambling ox, Toby Strangerson! What does it take to get an idea into that lump of granite you call a head? Why don't you ever even try?" She whirled in a dance of braids and stalked away.

  He shrugged to himself, remembering that last night's experience would have been terrifying for a child and this wild flight into the unknown could hardly be helping calm her down. He should have swallowed his stupid pride and let her rotten brother accompany her ... Fat Vik: her half-brother and probably his, too. She would have felt safer with someone she could trust. Now, if he could fasten the bundle to the hilt of the sword, he would have both hands free ...

  "Do it this way," Rory said, kneeling beside him. "Fine lass, that one."

  "She's a nice kid."

  "You think so?" Rory chuckled softly. "Feisty, I'd call her. There, try that. So you are leaving home, Toby Strangerson? It may be a long whiles before you are able to return safely."

  "When the Fillan flows up Beinn Bheag will be soon enough."

  The pale eyes regarded him steadily, shining in the moonlight. "What of the grieving friends you leave behind?"

  "They'll survive." In truth-no friends.

  "Och, but they will mourn!" Master MacDonald shook his head in sorrow. "And surely there is some small window with a candle lit for you! You have left your heart in trust?"

  To admit that there was no one at all who cared whether Toby Strangerson lived or died would be a statement of cold fact. It proved curiously difficult to say out loud. He could easily lie, of course, but lying would itself be a confession that the truth hurt, and it didn't. He had accepted long ago that a strong man must stand alone. He had no need of friends and he would find a woman to love when he had something more to offer than the shame of bastardy and an empty sporran. He had no need to explain all that to this stranger in the nigh
t. Besides, he had begun to wonder if the man already knew the answers and was making fun of him. He just shook his head.

  Rory sprang to his feet. "We'll be on our way, then. You'll all do exactly as I tell you, because Glen Orchy is no romp in a featherbed."

  "Just how does one get across the bog?"

  "You talk nice to the wisp, of course."

  Hamish said, "The what?" very squeakily.

  "The wisp. The bogy, if you prefer. Bogy, boggle, wisp ... a wild hob. It's not malicious as a rule. It won't meddle with you if you don't meddle with it, but it can get playful, like a bear cub. Come on." Rory hung his lute on his back and turned to go. "Bring the rope, Longdirk."

  "Take it yourself."

  Meg and Hamish gasped aloud. Toby had surprised even himself. He should not be refusing orders from a man of rank, and especially not one armed with a sword. Darkness and remoteness did not matter—he would be in mortal danger in a crowded street now.

  "Indeed?" said the sandy-haired man softly. "Whose man are you, then, that speaks to me so? Who must I deal with when I have taught you your manners, little laddie?"

  Toby Strangerson was an addlebrained idiot! His bundle hung on the hilt of his sword. By the time he had disposed of that and drawn the monster blade from its ramshackle scabbard, Rory would have put more holes in him than a charge of grapeshot. Even if Rory sportingly waited until they were both armed and ready, he could still win easily.

  Himself, Toby did not need this self-proclaimed MacDonald of Glencoe. Himself, he would brave the hills and take his chances on starvation or freezing or betrayal, but he had given his word to Kenneth Tanner. He had Meg to consider, was responsible for Meg. Hamish Teacher would be no protector for her with Toby lying dead in the bog. He must back down, and quickly, and count himself lucky if he did not get his tongue slit anyway. Yet the apology stuck in his throat.

  "Just don't call me that!" he said.

  Rory made an incredulous sound. "I'll call you anything I want, boy. You'd rather be Toby the Bastard? I said, 'Bring the rope, Longdirk!'"

  In silence, Toby went for the rope and slung it over his shoulder.

  "When I give you an order, Longdirk, you answer, 'Yes, sir!'"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And run, Longdirk."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Remember in future, Longdirk. Come along, everyone. May I carry your pack, Miss Campbell? Will you stroll with me this evening?"

  Toby stalked off with the rope. He did not know what use it was going to be and would rather not know any sooner than he had to. He wondered why he had been so surly and pigheaded. He certainly did not care about his name. He was determined to find himself a new one, so why insist on the old? That was just dimwitted. And why had he made the snippy remark about lutists earlier? Why had he taken such a dislike to Rory of Glencoe?

  He was not usually so childish. Boys of his own age had spurned him, but by the time he was twelve, he had been looking most adults straight in the eye. He had learned that if he acted his size instead of his age, he would often be accepted as one of them. Now the Rory man was here to help him in his time of trouble—a gentleman, probably a noble, well-educated, and wise in the ways of the world. His fancy talk might have been an offer of friendship by gentry ways. So why was Toby Strangerson behaving so loutishly?

  Perhaps because he was sure that the stranger was one of King Fergan's Black Feather rebels and intended to enlist another. If the help was conditional on that, then things were going to be tricky.

  A few moments later, he was annoyed but not at all surprised to find Rory walking at his side, with the two kids following. The questions began:

  "Tell me about your fight with the Sassenach."

  "It was nothing much."

  "Tell me anyway."

  Toby considered his options. If he again challenged the man's right to give him orders, then dawn might find him still trapped in the glen, or lying dead on the heather. He had responsibilities to Meg and in lesser amounts to Hamish. He must cooperate.

  "There wasn't much to it. He was pestering the girl. I knocked him down, he drew his sword, I found his musket lying in the grass, I hit him with it, but too hard. I didn't mean to kill him."

  "Just like that? It's beautiful! And how did you escape from the castle?"

  "Their manacles were old and rusty. I managed to free myself in the cell. Then Lady Valda came down to—"

  "Who?"

  "I'm told that's her name. Her emblem's a black crescent on purple. She rode in from Fort William."

  "Spirits preserve us!" MacDonald muttered. "Black crescent? Black hair and a face to drive men insane?"

  "Black hair, yes. Beautiful, certainly, but not my type."

  "No?" Rory said skeptically. "Lad, if she decided you were her type, then nothing would save you! You'd howl outside her window for the rest of your life. What exactly... Roughly, what did she want of you?"

  "She said she wanted to sponsor me as a prize-fighter. I didn't believe that was what she really wanted. I knocked her men down, got out, stole a horse, and rode home."

  Put like that, it was gibberish. He wondered how in the world he could expect to be believed. He wasn't.

  "A singular narrative!" Rory MacDonald of Glencoe faked a yawn. "Can you add a few plausible details to undermine my native skepticism?"

  "Only that I was raised by the witchwife. I think she enlisted the hob to rescue me."

  "Ah! Now that helps. That does help. Just because hobs aren't smart, people assume that they arent powerful, but if a hob ever gets truly riled about something, it can be deadly. I know of one that shook down a castle and had boulders rolling off the hills. I wonder if it took a dislike to Lady Valda? Would I be completely crazy if I decided to believe you?"

  The footing was very marshy now and there was a boggy scent in the air. Tendrils of faint white mist drifted close to the ground.

  Toby had just been called a liar, but that was dangerous bait. He ignored it. "Tell me about Lady Valda—sir."

  "She was Nevil's favorite." Rory glanced around to make sure the youngsters were keeping up. "That's a courtly way of saying mistress. She was a hexer even then. She disappeared about ten years ago. Nevil put a price on her head, but she was never found."

  Feet made sucking noises in the moss.

  "King Nevil offered a reward for her? Why?"

  "He didn't tell me. It was a hefty one."

  "So what's she doing in the Highlands? Is she pardoned now?"

  "I very much doubt it," Rory said firmly. "Wherever she's been, it was beyond Nevil's clutches, probably abroad."

  "Perhaps she hid from him by gramarye."

  "Do you think she's the only hexer in England? The king himself is an adept of renown. I cannot imagine why any woman would masquerade as her, though, so you are probably correct. I suppose I must let you live after all."

  "What do you mean?" Toby growled.

  "What I say. Your account of the fight agrees fairly well with Meg's—allowing for your touching modesty and her romantic fancies. I can't see how the encounter could have been faked, or set up in advance. But that flying-pig-singing-fish tale of your escape from the dungeon is pure malarkey. You're bait, my boy. You've been set up as a lure to lead the Sassenachs to my friends. The question now is whether you know it or not."

  Toby stumbled, not entirely because the footing had just changed to bare rock.

  Rory steadied his elbow with a disconcertingly powerful grip. "We're there. This is where we enter the bog. I'll lead you across alive."

  Toby looked down at him angrily.

  His guide beamed benevolently. "I mean it. Do you doubt that I would kill you? Do you doubt that I could?"

  If he was a competent swordsman, which he probably was, then he was certainly capable of spitting Toby Strangerson. He might, of course, find himself with the same diabolical problems Crazy Colin had run into.

  "If you can catch me."

  Rory laughed, a flash of white teeth in the
moonlight. "We're going to be roped together! But you have my word: I'll see you safely through."

  "This is a change of plan?"

  "Possibly a temporary one. You've made me curious. You're either a spy or a lure. If the Sassenachs set you up, then you're a traitor and a spy. You wouldn't be the first man to buy his life with a few solemn oaths. If Lady Valda is behind it, then there's gramarye involved. Since she's not on Nevil's side, I don't know what game you're playing. No, that's not right. What I mean is, I don't know who's using you, or how. Somebody is. Until I find out who and how, I'll let you live, Little Man." Rory turned to include the two kids in the conversation. "This is the edge of the bogy's bog."

  4

  "I came through last night," Rory continued, "and it never reached my knees, but we could go in up to our waists—icy water and mud. We'll be roped together, because the wisp may try to separate us in the mist."

  Hamish moaned. The mist was closing in already.

  "A wisp's just a sort of hob." Perhaps Rory meant that remark to be comforting. "I'd prefer that you go blindfolded, but you can look if you want. Just don't believe anything your eyes tell you. You'll see lights and strange shapes in the fog. Some of them may be ghoulies, trying to scare you off the path. Pay no attention to those—dead people are the least dangerous sort. Most of what you'll see will be only the wisp's idea of fun."

  The wisp was not the only one with a nasty sense of humor, Toby decided. "And what if it leads us to our deaths?"

  "It may," Rory said seriously. "I warned you this would be tricky. Fortunately, it likes music. I had no trouble last night; of course, there was only one of me." He kicked off his shoes and tucked them into the folds of his plaid. He left his hose on. "I can't guarantee that my lute will stay in tune in the damp, but the wisp doesn't seem to mind a few twangs. Hitch your dress up, Miss Campbell, as far as your modesty allows. Plaids, too."

  The clammy fog was growing thicker, muffling the moonlight. Meg plucked up her dress and somehow tucked it into her belt. Toby hitched his plaid up until the hem was above his knees.

  Rory began looping the rope under their arms. "I'll go first. We'll put this wee fellow next, because he's the strongest. Normally, we'd go in single file, but I'm going to tie both of you to him. Hold your tethers in front of you with a little slack in them, so if one of us falls, we don't drag the rest under, too. There's holes in the muck you can't see."