by Dave Duncan
"Come on!" Rory shouted, jumping up. "We're easy meat on the flats. Let's get into the hills."
5
The land steepened into pasture, then bare hillside. A faint trail climbed the valley of the chattering, frothing Eas a Ghail. Toby discovered that he was alone with Meg for the first time. He wasn't sure if she had arranged this, or he had. It didn't matter. Hamish had gone scurrying on ahead. Father Lachlan and Rory were deep in conversation at the rear.
Her cheeks were bright red; her braids dangled from under a brown bonnet. She looked up expectantly, blinking as the rain blew into her eyes. He smiled. She smiled back—so if she blamed him for her present troubles, she was not going to say so.
Smiling was fine. Talk ... he felt totally tongue-tied. Meg had never affected him like that before. He could recall the nights she had turned up at the castle and he had walked her home ... he could remember himself chattering like a flock of magpies—like Hamish, even— but now he had no idea what about.
"Er... Um ... How're you managing?"
"Fine."
"Cold?"
"Yes."
Oh.
Pause.
"Meg... I'm sorry. I mean, I'm sorry to have dragged you into all this danger."
Her slender eyebrows almost disappeared into her cap. "It wasn't your fault, Master Strangerson. It was my fault for being so stupid, remember?"
"I'm sorry about that."
"You're sorry I was stupid?"
"No! I'm sorry I said that."
"But if a person is stupid, it must be a kindness to tell her so, so that she won't be stupid in future."
Why was talking with women so much harder than talking with men? Why did words seem to change their meanings and simple sentences turn around to bite the tongue that spoke them? Why did humor always become insult and criticism poison?
"You weren't stupid. I was stupid to say you were stupid."
"Then you didn't mean what you said when you said I will soon be a woman and men will start to lust after me?"
Demons! "Did I say that?"
"Indeed you did, sir."
"Then I was wrong."
"Oh?" Danger crackled somewhere in that monosyllable. Bonfires blazing on the mountain...
"I mean, men lust after you already."
"Such as who?"
"Any man!" Toby dearly wished Lady Valda and her demons would descend on him immediately and carry him off. Since that did not happen and he was already in over his head, he snapped, "Me, for Instance."
Meg's eyes opened wider than normal. "Truly?" Then she tossed her head so that her braids danced. "I mean ... Toby Strangerson, that's a terrible thing to say! How dare you say such a thing! What does she look like?"
"Who?"
"Lady Valda. Describe her!"
What had Toby Strangerson ever done to deserve this? He described Lady Valda. Having totally taken leave of his senses, he went on to relate how she had bared her breast in the dungeon. Then the wind felt icy on his heated face, but it was warm compared with Meg Campbell's expression.
"And you dream of her now, I understand?"
Oh, demons! "Never mind about that!" he said hastily.
Fortunately, they had caught up with Hamish, who had reached a fork in the river and was sheltering against a boulder, waiting for directions. Toby had never been more pleased to see anyone.
He grinned at them with chattering teeth. "Having fun?"
"Fun?" Meg said. "Hamish Campbell, you haven't got the brains of a peewit! Freezing in a storm on a mountain, being hunted by Sassenach soldiers and Sassenach demons, and why would you think we're having fun?"
"Why else would you be holding hands? Helping Big Toby up the hill?"
Meg snapped that she would clip his ear. Toby wondered how long he'd been holding her hand and why he hadn't been aware that he was. He realized, too, that Meg regarded Hamish as he did—as just a kid. That meant she was more than a kid, didn't it? How long had he been holding her hand? Helping her up a steep bit, then not letting go ... Had he ever held her hand walking home from Lochy Castle? If this was the first time, why hadn't he been more aware of it? Because he had always thought of her as a child?
"Right fork," Rory said, coming up behind. "I do wish you'd tell me what you're going to do with that sword, boy. How are you faring, Miss Campbell? I wish we did not have to subject a lady to such uncongenial circumstance."
Meg simpered, but she had not released Toby's hand. "Oh, I fare well, thank you, sir! Are we not like the mother plover, who feigns a broken wing and so leads the foe away from her nestlings? We have drawn the hexer away from Fillan!"
"So you have! A very poetic allusion!"
"The plover runs toward danger, not away from it!" Toby said.
Meg looked up at him with disgust.
Rory laughed.
The track soon disappeared altogether. The entire world disappeared behind walls of sleet and draperies of rain. Reality was reduced to rocks, grass, patches of heather, fading swiftly to gray in all directions. It moved underfoot, but never arrived anywhere or changed significantly. The journey had become an endurance test. The only hints of excitement came from the little stream, whose peaty brown waters already frothed at the lip of the banks. The wind buffeted, snatching away breath, trying to freeze any flesh it could reach, turning even raindrops into needles. Rory decreed the way with undiminished confidence, although Toby was hard put to believe he could possibly know where he was.
Hamish lost some of his enthusiasm, no longer questing ahead like a hound. He was the most agile, with Meg a close second, hampered by her long dress. Father Lachlan kept up a steady pace. Toby cursed his outrageous sword and himself for being such a fool. He could not admit defeat and discard it now, of course. A man had pride.
The way grew steeper. Snow swirled in the air now, starting to coat the ground. Only Rory had shoes. Toby had never worn such sissy things in his life, although he had kept a couple of leathers he would wrap around his feet when he attended to the chores in winter. In really bad weather he just stayed home. True Highlanders prided themselves on being hardy, but even true Highlanders had to make concessions to the rigors of their climate sometimes. With a regular job at the castle and his feet grown to full size—they couldn't be going to get any bigger!—he had been reconciling himself to acquiring a pair of shoes and probably a leather cape. He could use them now....
"Can't bring horses up here!" Hamish crowed, scrambling on hands and knees up a scree slope. "This'll stop the demons! Won't it, Father?"
"I expect it will," Rory said cheerfully. "We'll find them waiting for us at the top."
"Is that possible?" Meg asked.
Father Lachlan just nodded grimly and kept on plodding.
Once they came to an overhanging rocky wall that had even Hamish looking baffled. Toby cupped his hands and hoisted him overhead until he found a handhold and scrambled up. Meg smiled gratefully and offered a foot. Then it was Father Lachlan's turn—Hamish and Meg grabbed his arms and pulled him after them.
Rory beamed royally and raised a muddy shoe. Scowling, Toby cupped his hands once more. That left him alone, but he jumped, caught a grip, and swung himself up unaided, sword and all. He found Rory waiting for him, while the other three had moved on ahead.
"You are definitely useful, Muscles." The silver eyes twinkled devilishly. "Too good to waste."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you are promising material. You have strength and a certain raw brute courage, even if your brains leave much to be desired. I'll turn you into a rebel yet! Field craft, horsemanship, swordsmanship, unarmed combat—a month or two should do it. We'll make you the terror of the Sassenachs from the Mull of Galloway to John o' Groat's."
I'll choose my own enemies, thank you. And my own friends."
MacDonald shook his head. "Lummox, you have already chosen your enemies, and they plan to hang you. Now you need friends, don't you?"
Toby scowled and said nothing. S
ome men were strong enough to stand alone.
"You don't want any more enemies, do you?"
"Is that a threat?"
"Could be."
It was time to change the subject. "Listen. I've been thinking."
"A novel experience?"
Toby's fists clenched. "If you're so smart, Master MacDonald of Glencoe, then explain something to me. Ten years ago, King Nevil put a price on Lady Valda's head. Has she ever been pardoned?"
"Not as far as I know."
"Then if she's not on Nevil's side, perhaps she's on your side—the rebels' side."
Rory sobered. "Never! She's the sort of help that nobody needs." He strode in silence for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. "All right—here's how I see it. Any hexer is inherently evil. Valda may still be opposed to Nevil, but Oreste certainly isn't. In that case, he's come hunting her for his master and you're mixed up in some sort of demonic duel. If she's made her peace with the king of England, then she's hand in glove with Oreste, which is even worse."
"Doing what?"
"I wish I knew! Hunting down Fergan? That would not be difficult for them. Either of them could find him easily, and then destroy him. Demons are his worst danger. It's no secret—the reason we Scots tend to lose when we fight the English is not just that they have more men and better guns. The Sassenachs often use gramarye, too, and we've never had many hexers in the hills. Theirs is the sort of help you're better off without. Fergan feels that way, or I assume he does, because of the way his father died. You know about that?"
"King Malcolm died at Leethoul, the Battle of the Century." Toby had managed to forget most of the history Hamish's father had taught him; that fragment must have escaped.
"Eyewitnesses claimed he drew his dirk as the fighting started and cut his own throat. Perhaps it's not true, but it could well be. A single demon can't destroy a whole army bodily, but it can swing a battle!
"So even if Valda has dreams of raising an army here to carry on her fight with Nevil, whatever that fight is, I don't want anything to do with her, and I'm certain that Fergan doesn't either. If we won with her help, we'd probably end up wishing we hadn't, and be in a worse state than before." Rory wiped rain from his face. He was very familiar with his king's thinking.
"I don't know what she's up to, but I'm sure I would hate it. One possibility is that she's come to the Highlands to harvest some more demons. Father Lachlan says she has at least four already. With that much power at her command, she can enslave any elemental she can locate, understand? And not just elementals—spirits, even tutelaries!"
"Tutelaries aren't demons!"
"They can be made into demons! They can be enslaved, ripped from their locales ... And tutelaries are more ... I suppose 'sophisticated' would be the right word—Father Lachlan can explain this better than I can. He says when tutelaries are perverted they make even deadlier demons than simple elementals do. Just because we've never had many adepts here in the hills, we still have more native spirits than the more populated parts of Europe do. You've heard of the siege of Oban? It wasn't the armies that decided that—it was when York's demons overcame the tutelary that the town fell, and the demons roamed the streets, burning people and tearing them apart. So Valda and Oreste between them can do more damage around the Highlands than whole regiments of fusiliers. I just hope they are enemies still, and not partners!"
Toby almost wished he had not asked, but it was a pleasant change to have the rebel drop his flippancy and address him as an adult. It tied in with some of what Father Lachlan had hinted about his motives. Meg had stopped and was waiting for them, but he asked anyway:
"So what's your interest in me, sir? Where do I come into this?"
Rory cocked an eyebrow at him. "Valda wants you as a lover, of course! Lucky lad! Are you willing?"
"Never!"
"No? Quite certain? Don't you lust at all to fondle that pale aristocratic flesh?"
'No!"
"Ha! Any woman scorned can be a dangerous enemy, Longdirk, and that one is hell in a basket! You seem to have a knack for collecting enemies. Don't you think you need all the friends you can get?" With a laugh, the rebel pushed on up the slope to rejoin Father Lachlan.
"Isn't he wonderful?" Meg signd.
"Wonderful?" That was not a word Toby would have used to describe the man in question.
"Oh, yes! He's a real gentleman!"
"And Lady Valda is a real lady!" Toby snapped.
6
The snow had turned back to sleet and then to mere rain. The travelers had reached the pass, a windswept moor flanked by steep hills on either hand. Clouds streamed low overhead, and wind thrashed the heather.
"See the burn?" Hamish exclaimed. "It's flowing the same way we're going! It's leading us!"
"I wish I could move that fast!" Meg sighed.
"Well, it means we're going downhill. . . . Toby? What'ch you looking at?"
Toby had stopped. Everyone looked where he was staring. "Those rocks? You see anything odd there?"
No one commented until Father Lachlan said:
"What do you see, my son?"
"I think I see a hob."
"Indeed? I see nothing, but my eyes are not as good as they were. Anyone else see it?"
"Just rocks," Rory said. "What does a hob look like?"
"Nothing at all when I look straight," Toby admitted. "But out of the corner of my eye ... a sort of shimmer. It's right by that pointed one at the moment. It's the way the hob looks, back in the glen."
Hamish squeaked. "I never saw the hob in the glen!"
"I did, sometimes."
"Where?" His eyes were wide, not wanting to disbelieve his hero, but worried that he was being kidded.
"Several places. Outside the schoolhouse a few times. At the games, once—finding out what we were all up to, I suppose. It's nosy!"
"If that one's just watching us," Father Lachlan said, "then I think we should just proceed. Staring may alarm it."
He shepherded them onward. They moved faster than before, edging away from the rocks. The shimmer flitted to another boulder.
"I expect it's merely curious," the friar continued soothingly. "It won't be a hob, not up here, just a wild elemental. They're usually called specters in mountains. Those that inhabit groves of trees are dryads. Bogies in bogs, naiads when they live in water... I doubt if there's any significant difference between the various types."
"Why not a hob?" Toby asked
"Hobs have some experience with people. But to see any immortal is unusual. This is very interesting! Of course Fillan knew you, so it let you see it. But a wild elemental is another matter altogether! I am truly surprised that you can see it, my son, and more surprised that it is interested in you, because it obviously must be. Most curious."
Toby had to turn his head to watch now, for they had gone by. "Could I go and speak with it? If I gave it an offering, would it help me? Ask it to stop Lady Valda—"
"No, lad," Father Lachlan said sadly. "First, you can never trust a wild elemental. It might turn on you or betray you to the hexer instead of aiding you—remember the wisp? Secondly, to make it understand what you wanted of it would be almost impossible; and then it would probably forget the whole affair as soon as you left. Thirdly, adepts like Lady Valda are constantly on the lookout for more demonic slaves. If she detects that one, she may seek to entrap it—if not now, then later, when she is not pressed for time. That is why I am surprised that it has allowed you to see it. Elementals are naturally distrustful of mortals for that very reason."
"Valda can't be following us!" Hamish protested. 'No one could get horses up that hill!"
Father Lachlan did not reply, but Toby was sure he disagreed. Hamish began speaking in Latin with him. The old man responded, seeming to spend more time correcting his grammar than telling him anything.
Quite soon after that, the way pitched downward. The wind was still vicious, but the world grew larger: life began to seem more tolerable. Green
hillsides dotted with cattle came into view below the thick flannel sky. The glen ahead was narrow and steep-sided, and apparently almost uninhabited.
Toby was sore, hungry, and soaked to the skin, and he knew none of his companions were in any better shape. The idiotic broadsword had bruised his backbone and made his shoulders ache—but everyone else must be in just as bad a mess, and he felt better being able to see where he was going.
This was new country for him, his first glimpse of the world waiting for him outside the glen. It wasn't much different, except for the absence of cottages.
Hamish had noted that also. "Why aren't there more people?" he demanded of Father Lachlan. The three of them were together at the head of the parade.
"You'd best ask Master Rory about that." The acolyte had pulled his hood back, seemingly oblivious to the drizzle. "I think the earl reserves Glen Shira for hunting."
"Nice for the deer."
Father Lachlan chuckled. "Until he comes for them! Another reason may be Loch Fyne. People would rather live close to the water." A gleam of eyes over glasses suggested that the remark was intended as a question.
"So they can get about in boats."
"Right you are."
"And Loch Fyne is a sea loch, of course, and the sea is the greatest highway of them all. You can sail from Loch Fyne to anywhere in the world, can't you, Father?"
"If you have a ship."
"France," Hamish said. "Castile, Flanders, Aquitaine, the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies ..."
"You'd like that, would you?" Toby asked.
He was granted a cheeky grin. "What I'd like most right now would be a warm fire, a dry plaid, and a dead cow on a spit."
"Add one for me," said Father Lachlan, "and two more for Master Toby."
They were both bearing up very well, the boy and the older man. And so was Meg. Toby glanced back. Rory was yattering his head off at her. That was beginning to seem serious! She was very young. That ax-nosed smoothie was trying to impress her with his smarmy manners. Toby had promised her pa he would look after her, but he couldn't handle Rory. Rory could tie him in knots, even without drawing his sword....
