The Years of Longdirk- The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  "I beg your pardon, Father?"

  The little man smiled up at him over his spectacles. "I said I think that one has her head on straight."

  Hamish had run off to inspect the river, perhaps hoping to find a suicidal trout to tickle.

  "Uh? Who? Meg?"

  "Meg Campbell. I don't think she's any more fickle than most young ladies. You don't need to be jealous yet."

  "Jealous? Me jealous? I ..." Toby decided not to explain. Let the old man think what he liked.

  "Master Glencoe is a better friend than an enemy, my son."

  "Friend? The likes of him can never be friends with a churl like me."

  "That's not true, my son," the acolyte said gently. "He outranks you, yes, but if you think that prevents him from being your friend, you don't understand the duties of a chief. The relationship between man and master is a very close one. Many legal systems regard it as the closest tie of all, even closer than marriage. My order disagrees, but others do not. A good chief cares very deeply about his men, for they have wagered their lives upon his judgment—as he wagers his upon their courage and loyalty. He values his followers ahead of anything else."

  Toby said nothing.

  After a moment, Father Lachlan continued even more softly, as if musing more to himself than his companion. "You are not of Clan Campbell, of course, and Fillan lost its hereditary laird. Perhaps that is the trouble?" He peered up shrewdly over his glasses. "We must all take the world as it is, Tobias, and make what we can of it. Everyone owes loyalty to someone. If you own land, you need men to defend it. If you do not, you need a leader to defend you. Soldiers obey their officers, lairds obey their kings. Even kings do homage to the Khan. A good master is beyond price. The law should protect everyone, high or low, but in practice it inevitably favors the great. You will never find happiness or security in these troubled times until you find a good master and give him your heart."

  Obviously Toby must now say something tactful. "I admit that I would rather be Rory's man than Lady Valda's. Can you describe this hex you think she put on me, Father?"

  The acolyte sighed and pushed his spectacles up his nose so far that he had to pull them down again to see over them. "Not easily. Remember what I said about powers—hexers have no powers of their own. All Valda can do is use gramarye to compel her demons to carry out her wishes, so what she would have done—if she did it, and remember that we are only guessing—is order one of them to force you—or whoever she wanted to put a hex on, that is—to do whatever it is she wants doing." He frowned as if he had confused even himself with that statement. "And a demon's range is not unlimited. It depends on the training it has had and the hexer's skill. Incarnated demons are less potent than those confined in material objects, like gems." He chuckled squeakily. "The irreverent refer to those as 'bottled' demons, by the way."

  Toby had a strong impression that his question had not been answered at all. He took another look back at Meg.

  He cried out.

  In the far distance, a line of riders was coming in pursuit;

  FIVE

  Events in Clen Shira

  1

  "Run!" Rory bellowed. "Take off that accursed sword, drop your bundle, and run for your life!"

  They were all shouting at him to run. Toby stood with his arms folded and stared over their heads, ignoring them. Run away? Absurd! He couldn't leave Meg. Or Hamish. Or even old Father Lachlan. Rory MacDonald could look out for himself, but the others could not be abandoned to the demons. He must stay and fight. It would be two swordsmen against four, and the four were not only mounted but also superhuman. Even so, he could not run away.

  Hamish was squealing, shriller than ever. "You told me it was stupid to give your life—"

  "This isn't that," he said quickly. This wasn't bravado, show-off Campbell-of-Fillan courage. This was a question of manhood.

  "Toby Strangerson!" Meg shouted. "You are being mulish. I hate you when you act stupid!"

  The riders had disappeared into a slight dip, but they would still be coming.

  Father Lachlan yelled, "Quiet!" and the babble stopped. "You must run, Tobias! It is you they are after. We shall be much safer if we are not with you. We can take cover under the riverbank, and they will go past us. It is our only hope."

  "I promised I would look after Meg!"

  "And this is the best thing you can do for Meg! I'm sure you can run faster than any of us. Leave the sword and head for the shrine. It is only a mile or so. If you can reach it, you will be safe—or at least safer than you are now. Pray for us to the spirit. Now go!"

  "Drop the sword, Strangerson!" Rory snapped.

  "No!"

  They all started yapping again like a litter of puppies. This time it was Rory MacDonald who shouted them down, flushed with anger, silver eyes blazing. "Is that a demon sword? Is that why you won't be parted from it?"

  "Huh? What's a demon sword?"

  "No, it isn't!" said Father Lachlan. "It's just a sword. A neighbor gave it to him, after all the trouble started. Well take care of your sword, my son. You have my word. Now, hurry!"

  The riders came into view, much closer, seeming to move faster than before.

  "My sword will be of more use against horsemen than yours will, Master Rory," Toby remarked.

  "Bonehead! You think demons will let you draw it? They'll turn you to stone."

  "Please, Toby!" Meg said. "The mother plover, remember? You must draw the demons away from us. Please? For my sake?"

  Oh! Put like that, running away did not seem so unthinkable. Reluctantly, he dragged the scabbard strap from his shoulder. Rory took the sword. The relief from the weight was extraordinary.

  Toby turned and began to run.

  It felt all wrong. He almost stopped and went back, but then he found his stride and it was too late. Mother plover: draw the danger away from the nestlings. Faking a broken wing would not be required in this case. They knew he couldn't fly.

  He was built for sprinting, not for distance. The shrine was a horribly long way off.

  The glen ran straight as a pike, narrow and bare. The right side, beyond the Shira, was precipitously steep. This side was gentler. At the limit of sight in the rain a wooded bluff marked the Shrine of Shira—so Father Lachlan and MacDonald had said. That was where the buildings were; the shrine itself was in a cave, a little higher up the hill.

  They were assuming that the spirit would grant him asylum—if it didn't object to the demon in his heart as the bogy had done, if it was strong enough to resist Valda and her pack, if Valda and her pack didn't come into range and freeze him first. What was their range? They might be close enough already. The hexer might be just enjoying the chase, knowing that she had her trophy in the game bag.

  His feet slapped in the mud of the track. Rain blew in his face. He pushed himself as hard as he dared.

  Demon! Demon, I need you now!

  His appeal went unanswered. His heart thumped madly, but he did not hear the mysterious dum... dum... he had heard before. No weird light, no superhuman strength to fly him down the road. Demon, demon!

  He glanced back. His companions were hurrying to the river. The riders were almost level with them but still coming after him. Hiding from demons was crazy. Valda had brought horses up the Eas a Ghail.

  The shrine seemed as distant as ever. His heart was thundering, his lungs bursting. No use keeping anything in reserve—it was win the race or die. His waterlogged plaid weighed more than a cartload of meal. He fumbled with his belt buckle, dropped the load, and raced on, wearing only his bonnet.

  There was an isolated croft off to his left. A man stood in the doorway, staring at this strange race disturbing his solitude. Toby wanted to yell at him to hide, to warn him that those were demonic creatures pursuing him, but he lacked the breath.

  Where was his demon protector now, the presence that had saved him from the bogy, from Crazy Colin, from Valda in the dungeon? If that had not been a demon, but only a hex, as Father Lachl
an suggested, then perhaps Valda had corrected her mistake and removed it.

  He glanced over his shoulder. His companions had disappeared, but the pursuers had not tarried to deal with them—all six were still following. That was good! The plover had led the danger away from the nest. He need not be ashamed of his decision, then. But the race was almost over. Valda was in the lead, and she was already passing the sad little bundle of his plaid lying in the track.

  He turned his face forward again, blinking through the rain. The shrine was closer, yes. He wasn't going to make it. Even if he reached the bluff, he would still have to run up to the buildings in the grove, and then on to the shrine itself. Hopeless!

  His head was about to burst. The world was disappearing behind a black fog. There was a taste of iron in his mouth. He could hear the slapping of his feet and the rough gasps of his breathing ... and now he could hear hooves, also. They had him.

  He started to look around, missed his footing, sprawled headlong into the mud.

  Almost before he landed, his hands came down to push him up again. He raised his head ... he froze. Every muscle turned to stone. He lay helpless at the mercy of his pursuers, staring fixedly along the road ahead—a road he was destined never to walk as a free man. The shrine was half a mile away, farther than the moon. Valda had him now... naked and helpless as a newborn babe.

  Hooves beat nearer.

  And kept coming.

  The ground shook, mud splattered all over him. A horse thundered by him, its iron feet missing his hand by inches. Lady Valda, robed and riding sidesaddle, but hunched forward as she pursued a prey that lay unseen behind her.

  More tumultuous hoofbeats, mud spraying—one by one, the four hooded demonic creatures followed their mistress. But the last two . . . their heads were wrong. One was canted forward, chin on chest, and the other flopped horribly to one side, bouncing in time with the horse's stride. And finally went the lady's maid, alone.

  They all rode on without a backward glance. They had not turned, had not looked down, had not seen their quarry in plain view beneath them. Valda, the first two demons, then the two corpses, the maid—all went galloping along the highway and dwindled rapidly into the distance. The sound of hooves faded away into the steady hiss of rain and the rustle of wind in the heather. What did they think they were pursuing?

  Finding himself no longer petrified, Toby scrambled to his feet. His companions were coming back into sight, climbing the riverbank. He was plastered all over with mud, and he had scraped himself when he fell. His plaid still lay in the road. He pushed himself to a weary trot toward it, so he could take it to the river and make both it and himself respectable before the others reached him.

  2

  He was shocked to see how exhausted they all were. It had been an arduous day and night would come early. The light was already fading.

  Hamish had been set to carrying the sword. Not being tall enough to wear it, he held it over his shoulder. He was canted sideways under its weight, but he had a grin to match its size.

  "The spirit!" he yelled. "It saved us! This is its territory. Thanks to Father Lachlan!"

  "Oh, I doubt if I made any difference," the acolyte said. "I think the spirit understands the problem much better than I do—but it never hurts to ask." He adjusted his glasses and beamed benevolently. "Shira has placed us under its protection. Now we must go and give formal thanks."

  Rory's pale eyes shone improbably bright in the twilight. "That's certainly one possible explanation."

  "What's the other?" Toby demanded angrily.

  "Why ask me? You seem to have contrived another of your astonishing escapes—you tell us."

  "I don't know!" Toby glared around at his companions, all suddenly so quiet that he could hear his heart again: Dum . . . Dum . . . Balderdash! Everybody's heart beat! Just because he could hear his heart doing its steady slow thump did not mean that his demon had pulled off another rescue. It had been nothing like as loud as he'd heard it in the dungeon or by the hob's grotto. More like Glen Orchy. And he did not recall hearing it like that when he'd been lying naked in the road.

  Whatever had saved him—the spirit of Shira or a personal guardian demon—it certainly had shown no interest in maintaining his self-respect.

  "Don't look at me like that!" he yelled, girding on his sword again. "I don't know any more than you do, any of you! I certainly didn't do anything, if that's what you're wondering. I just fell flat on my face. Will they be back, Father?"

  The acolyte shrugged wearily. "I don't think so. The spirit has shown it can blind the hexer; I am sure she will not dare a direct assault on it. I hope it will enlighten us….Have faith, children! Evil has been balked, that is what matters."

  "You're not hurt?" Meg asked. She looked worried, as well she might. She had not run into Toby's arms to welcome him. Why had he expected her to?

  "I deserve to be." Certainly his pride was hurt. What must she think of him? Great, clumsy oaf—some protector her father had chosen for her! Demons pursued him and he tripped over his own feet.

  Rory snorted. "Let's walk. We need the exercise."

  As they set off, Toby said, "Father? What's a demon sword?"

  The tubby little man peered at him and then at the hilt behind Toby's shoulder. "A blade that has slain a demon—an incarnate demon, of course. The blow through the husk's heart, you know? The blades are supposed to possess power against demons." He glanced apologetically at Rory. "With all due respect ... I don't believe in them."

  The rebel shrugged. "One hears stories. I never met one myself."

  "Oh, I have met them. Men bring them to the sanctuary and ask the tutelary to authenticate them. They always turn out to be perfectly ordinary blades. The whole notion is pernicious!" The acolyte had abandoned his normal calm and become quite fervent. "This foolish superstition has killed far too many innocent people! A touch of brain fever, a mysterious accident, or just plain spite ... someone gets accused of being possessed and is promptly stabbed through the heart so the killer can claim to own a demon sword—which he will sell to you for a price, of course! I see no reason to believe that Master Strangerson's blade is anything out of the ordinary."

  "It's a load of scrap iron," Rory agreed solemnly.

  The little man pushed his eyeglasses up his nose. "And the whole idea of stabbing demons through the heart is nonsense! It's ridiculous! How can anyone expect them to stand still for that? You take a sword to a demonic creature, and I'll tell you which one of you is going to die!"

  "I'd much rather not." If Rory was amused by the acolyte's ardor, he was keeping an admirably straight face.

  "Can't you creep up behind them?" Hamish looked so concerned that he must be planning to take up demon-stabbing as a sport.

  "Of course not! The demon could hear you thinking!" Father Lachlan wagged a finger at him. "I don't suppose there are a dozen genuine demon swords in all the realms of the Golden Horde, or ever have been! So who can know anything about their supposed powers?"

  Abashed, Hamish walked on in silence for a moment, then: "What can you do about demons if you can't impale them?"

  "Head to the nearest shrine or sanctuary and pray, of course. Which is exactly what we are doing now."

  So Toby's sword was just a sword, and not even much of one. He was not surprised. He had acquired it after he became hexed, so for it to be hexed as well would require an absurd coincidence. The curious fascination the great bull-sticker held for him was not caused by the sword; it came from some perversion in himself.

  Swords didn't kill people; swordsmen did.

  3

  Dark was falling by the time the travelers reached the buildings. They were uninviting—old and gloomy, with stone walls and black slate roofs huddled under dripping trees. Some of the roofs had collapsed. The tiny windows were all dark. The overgrown yard looked as if it had been deserted for years, without dogs or chickens, or any signs of life at all.

  "Let me see now," Father Lachlan said fussily.
"It's years since I was here, but I doubt if anything's changed. Which one is the keeper's house, do you recall?"

  "The one at the end," Rory said curtly.

  "Whose are the rest, sir?" Hamish looked worried, very worried.

  Rory just growled.

  The acolyte said, "They are for pilgrims—doesn't look as if we have any company."

  "Understandable!" Rory was glaring around him. "Who would want to visit a sty like this?"

  Father Lachlan made a tactful, soothing noise. "I shall go and inform the keeper of our arrival. I fear it is too late for us to visit the spirit tonight." He plodded off through the weeds.

  "Let's try this one first!" Rory headed for a cottage with the others at his heels.

  Just to get under cover and out of the rain was a huge relief. The prospects were not encouraging otherwise. Only rusty hinges remained to show where the door and shutters had once hung. The interior was dark, but the rebel soon located a lantern with a stub of tallow in it. No other man could possibly have produced dry tinder alter such a day, but in seconds he had the lantern lit.

  The central hearth had no chimney; rain had been entering through the smoke hole above it, but the roof seemed fairly sound otherwise. Clearly the hut had not been used for months or years, and the last tenants had not cleaned up before they left. The only furniture was a flattened heap of straw that reminded Toby of the dungeon at Lochy Castle. On this dank fall evening the place reeked of rot and neglect.

  Rory growled again, louder and fiercer. "It's a disgrace, an absolute outrage!"

  "Who is supposed to look after it, sir?" Hamish asked in a very small voice.

  The keeper, of course! The Reverend Murray Campbell. Your dear cousin is a first-class miser. All pilgrims make offerings to the spirit, but most leave money for the upkeep of the shrine, too. He must have a king's ransom buried somewhere, but he won't spend a farthing of it." Rory had dropped his frivolous manner; for once he sounded as if he really cared about something other than his precious rebellion.