The Years of Longdirk- The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  The shimmer drifted toward him.

  "Most Holy Spirit," Father Lachlan squeaked, an octave higher. "We thank you for rescuing us last night from the evil that pursued us. We thank you for giving us sanctuary here. We come seeking guidance. There is one among us who is grievously troubled."

  The cave fell silent. Then:

  "Lachlan, Lachlan!" said a new voice. "Why does a man of peace consort with men of violence?"

  It could have been the voice of a woman, or an adolescent boy. It was soft, tuneful, appealing, it came from Father Murray, but it was emphatically not his voice. He knelt very still, head bowed, face concealed. He was enveloped in the shimmer of the immortal.

  Father Lachlan grunted, and took a moment to frame his reply. "They are not evil men, Holy Shira—no more evil than others. They would gladly go home to their wives and children and be at peace, if only their enemies would do the same."

  "We see," said the spirit, through the keeper. "And how do their enemies feel?"

  "I think they feel the same."

  "Tell us, then, why do they not do this?"

  "If the English will go away to their homes, then the war will end. If the rebels go to theirs first, then the English will kill them."

  "So why do the English remain here?" asked the haunting, insinuating, inhuman whisper. It might be genuinely seeking knowledge on a tricky ethical problem, or it might be trying to make Father Lachlan admit that he was supporting an evil cause—Toby could not tell.

  He did not care overmuch. He had won a victory of some sort. His heart ached for that splendid giant sword, but he was jubilant at having found the strength to discard it—he was not damned yet! But why had it been such an effort? What had the others thought? What had Meg thought?

  Then he realized that Father Lachlan's ordeal had ended and the conversation had turned to him.

  "Let him speak for himself," said whatever spoke through Murray's mouth. "Ask us what you would know, Tobias."

  "Am I possessed by a demon?"

  "You are in great danger. Two dangers. The hexer and her demon host await you. She will not trespass here in search of you, but we cannot defend you at any great distance—and would not, anyway. You must go forth and face her."

  So spirits were capable of evading issues? It had not answered the question.

  "Will you tell me what she wants of me?"

  "Your body and your soul."

  No evasion there! He almost wished he had not asked. Before he could frame another question, the spirit put one of its own, in its calm, delicate voice:

  "Why did you throw away the sword?"

  "I could not stand the smell of it." Then Toby realized that Meg might recognize her father's words. She must have heard that story a thousand times. Too late to call them back…. "Is it a demon sword?"

  "No more than any other sword," the spirit whispered. "Because you gave it to us, Tobias, and because we know what that giving cost you, we shall give you in return what hope we can. We do not fully understand the ethics of the burden you bear, so we shall leave it to others vaster in wisdom. If you can thwart the hexer, which will not be easy, then your troubles will be only starting. We see no great evil in you—not yet—but the possibility is there. So is the possibility of greatness. You are a gathering storm, and we cannot tell where or how you will strike. Be resolute and true to yourself and go with our blessing."

  After a moment of silence, Toby realized that the spirit had departed.

  "Advise us," Father Lachlan cried, "how best we may escape the woman and her unholy minions."

  There was no answer, of course. Toby began to rise. Rory grabbed his shoulder to stop him.

  Toby rose anyway. "It's gone."

  "You could see it?"

  "Yes. Let's get out of here!" He had learned nothing of any use. He had thrown away a valuable sword to no purpose.

  "It is customary to wait for the keeper," Rory snapped. "He needs to recover..."

  Murray stirred and raised his head. "What did you hear?" he mumbled in his normal coarse voice.

  "Nothing much!" Toby reached down and lifted Meg bodily, setting her on her feet. "Let's go!"

  "Take your hands off me!"

  "Fine!" he said. "I'll wait outside." He turned and marched up the tunnel.

  8

  The rain seemed less and the day brighter, but that might just be after the dark of the cave. Toby was staring out at the rain and the narrow glen when the others came blinking into the daylight. They regarded him warily, as well they might. Gathering storm ...! Twaddle!

  "I wish the spirit had advised us how best to proceed," Father Lachlan fussed. "But the fact that it did not shows that it has faith in our judgment."

  "Or it doesn't know!" Toby growled.

  "What?" The old man blinked, peering up over his glasses.

  The spirit was frightened of Valda and had not answered Toby's questions because it had no answers. But to say so would just get him accused of blasphemy. Hamish had Cynic! written in his eyes.

  "I promised I'd get Meg to Oban. Which way from here?"

  Rory shrugged disdainfully. "Back the way we came yesterday and through Pass of Brander. The Sassenachs will still be there, I expect. Or you can go down the glen, but that takes you in the wrong direction, and you will have to get past Inverary. In case you don't know, that's the seat of the earl of Argyll, a traitor who never misses a chance to lick the Sassenachs' boots. You will be stopped and questioned."

  Trapped!

  "North it is, then," Toby said. "We'll try Pass of Brander at night. Come along, Meg." He stepped out into the rain and was alone. He turned.

  She was standing very close to Rory with her chin up. "And suppose I don't want to come?"

  What had made her so mad all of a sudden?

  "Then I'll put you over my shoulder and carry you!" Couldn't they see? He had a hexer and four demons to worry about. The spirit had as good as told him he had to go and fight them. He could not keep running away. He must stop and fight—and he had no idea how to begin.

  "You lay a finger on me, Toby Strangerson," Meg screamed, "and..."

  "Yes?"

  "Master Glencoe will defend me! Won't you, sir?"

  Rory doffed his bonnet and clasped it to his heart. "My life is at your command, dear lady. I'm not sure I can defend you from Wee Willie, though—we are dealing with a gathering storm, remember. But I do have a suggestion. A mile or so down the glen lies the home of Sir Torquil Campbell, whose heart is as true to Scotland as the heather. He's also a friend of mine. I dropped in on him this morning and asked him to lay on a meal for eight hungry men. I meant us, you see, counting you as one and the Tyndrum Mauler there as four. Why don't we go and eat, and then perhaps we shall ail feel a little more agreeable?"

  Meg beamed.

  Toby spun around and strode off down the track. Outsmarted again!

  He was shortly joined by Hamish, red-faced, out of breath, and intent on leaving before anyone remembered that he was supposed to stay here.

  Toby stopped at the cottages only long enough to snatch up his bundle. Common sense suggested he should wait there for the others to arrive, but he was too mad to listen to common sense.

  He gained control of his temper when he reached the end of the trees and was faced with the heaviest cloudburst yet. He took shelter under a massive sycamore, leaning against the trunk to wait. At least he was no longer encumbered by a ton of scrap iron on his back.

  Hamish was staring at him in solemn silence. The boy must be ill!

  "So you don't want to be deputy keeper of the shrine? Where are you heading?"

  Hamish bit his lip, looking uncomfortable. "Eric, I suppose. Glasgow. I can write to Pa and explain."

  Toby nodded. Hamish could look after himself, which was more than anyone would say for Toby Strangerson. Why had he gone and upset Meg like that? Worse, he wasn't even sure what he'd done wrong.

  "And you, Toby? Oban?"

  "Not sure ... I wish I knew
what Rory's up to. What's his interest in me?"

  "He's ... I don't know." The kid looked so owlish that he obviously thought he did.

  "Guess."

  "I think . . . Did you notice Cousin Murray call him 'my lord' a couple of times last night?"

  Of course. And it had been right after the first time that Rory had launched into his tale of being imprisoned in London—sons of peasants were not held hostage in Greenwich Palace. But if Toby had worked that out, then Hamish must have.

  "Fergan was a hostage, wasn't he?"

  Hamish shivered and pulled his plaid tighter on his shoulders. "Rory's too young to be Fergan. Fergan's thirty-two."

  "How'd you know that?"

  "Read it in a book of course." He lowered his voice in case the trees overheard. "You want to know who I think Rory really is?"

  The other three came scurrying and slithering down the steep path, huddled against the rain. Father Lachlan seemed lost in thought, but Meg and Rory were chattering busily together. All three went by without stopping.

  "No," Toby said. "I don't want to know." Hamish had not answered his first question.

  9

  They walked a mile and saw no sign of Valda. They saw no one. They could barely see each other—the air was thick enough to swim through. Water danced on the mud and flowed over the fields in sheets. In places the road was ankle-deep.

  Sir Torquil's house was a grand affair of two stories, surrounded by a retinue of trees, sheds, cottages, barns, and horse paddocks. It stood on the right bank of the Shira, the travelers stood on the left, and the river foamed betwixt. Bloated by the rain, it was lapping greedily over some of the stepping stones. Rory had stopped to consider the crossing. Toby and Hamish arrived at his back.

  "It's risen since I was here earlier," he said. "If you want to wait a minute, Meg, I'm sure Torquil will send a horse as soon as he sees us."

  That was funny. The river was considerably more deadly than the one at Tyndrum and the crossing longer, but the stones were closer together and more regular. Meg Tanner could hitch up her dress and skip across there with an agility Master MacDonald had lost years ago.

  Meg turned around to Toby and said, "Carry me!"

  There was absolutely no accounting for women.

  Toby threw his bundle to Hamish and was on the third stepping stone with Meg in his arms before it hit. She looked up at him with a grin and sparkles of water on her eyelashes. He knew there was no use asking why she felt a need to be carried. Whatever the reason, he probably wouldn't understand it. Demons, who cared?

  "You weigh more when you're waterlogged."

  Her grin widened. "I'm sorry I snapped at you."

  "I'm sure I deserved it. Don't try to explain what I did wrong, though. It would waste too much valuable time." Having reached the middle of the stream, Toby stopped. He would never get a better chance.

  Devilry danced in her eyes like sunlight on water. "Valuable for what?"

  "Toll."

  "How much?"

  "A kiss, of course."

  "Long or short?"

  "As long as you like." Then his heart failed him— decent women did not kiss men in public places. "If you don't mind?"

  "You big lummox, that's what I wanted!"

  Whatever Toby might have said then remained forever unspoken. . . .

  It lasted much longer than he expected. He had believed that kisses were brief affairs. He should have picked a stone where the icy water was not running over his feet. He wondered what would happen if he swooned and fell off the boulder. Again, who cared? When it was over he opened his eyes, savoring the taste of her mouth. . . .

  "There's two of us," he said hoarsely. "Passenger pays toll for both."

  "He's waiting right behind you," Meg said softly. "We've made the point."

  Pity. He made a long stride to the next stone. "What point?"

  "If you don't know that, Tobias Strangerson, then you are a bigger fool than you pretend to be."

  Another stone, leaving only three to go. "It's not pretending, Meg. I really am a fool. Less brains than an ox."

  "But more muscle."

  "Don't trust him, Meg. He's rich and probably noble—"

  "And handsome, and I'm only a tanner's daughter, who can be sweet-talked into yielding her virtue and then be discarded. Have I got that right?"

  "No, you haven't. He is not handsome." Another stone. One to go.

  "Sorry, Toby darling. Yes, he is. You turned every girl's head in the glen, but Rory could turn them back again."

  None to go—last stone. Toby could think of nothing more to say, so he kissed her again. She did not refuse him, and he twisted around so that Rory, waiting on the previous boulder, would have a clear and unobstructed view. It was only when Meg broke away that he realized he had an audience on the bank as well.

  He set her down on the turf and stepped aside as Rory came ashore and the welcoming committee surged forward.

  He had done it. He had kissed her.

  Sir Torquil Campbell of Shira must rule a minor clan of his own. He was a loud, short, broad man with a flaming red beard. The woman at his side could be assumed to be his wife, and she had flaming red braids. They had brought a retinue of men, women, youths, maidens, boys, girls, toddlers, and babies. As every one of them was loud, short, broad, and afflicted with flaming red hair of varying amounts, they must all be related. Every one of them had been waiting in the rain, while Toby...

  While Toby kissed his girl! Pipe bands and drumbeats! He had kissed her!

  "Master," Sir Torquil exclaimed, "er, Rory, that is! And the good Father Lachlan! And who's the bonnie lass? You'll all be coming in out of the weather, it being a touch damp now."

  The visitors were led indoors and upstairs. Meg was rushed away by the women into one room, and the men directed into another. It was a big chamber, with a ceiling so far above Toby's head that he could barely have touched it if he tried, but there was not much space for five men to stand between two chairs, several oaken chests, and a real bed—complete with feather mattress and curtains and bolsters and all.

  Sir Torquil had followed them in. "Doff your wet things now. There's cloths there to dry yourselves, and dry plaids. You'll not mind that, Father, while the women see to your robe, now? And I've brought a dram of something to warm you. That's a terrible bruise on your chest, Master, er, Master Rory. Was it a horse kicking you?"

  "It felt like that," Rory said.

  He took a long swig from the flagon and handed it to the friar, who in turn passed it to Toby. Toby tilted it, but did not swallow. The trace of whisky he got in his mouth was enough to paralyze his tongue and dissolve his teeth. Eyes watering, he passed the bottle to Hamish in necessary silence.

  Sir Torquil continued his soliloquy. "You'll be putting on these dry plaids now, Master—Rory. We have no robes here, I'm afraid, Father. I don't know about your man, there. He can just wrap himself in two of these for now, and we'll see what we can find for him after you've all come downstairs and—"

  Hamish exploded.

  Father Lachlan rescued the flagon; Rory and Toby took turns thumping the corpse on the back until it began breathing again.

  "You'd best have another drink, lad," Sir Torquil said solicitously, "like being thrown from a horse—a man has to get on again right away to show who's master."

  "Very sound idea!" Rory agreed. "Don't you think so, Longdirk?"

  "Two might be safer," Toby said.

  Hamish looked at them despairingly with red and weeping eyes, then manfully took another sip.

  Swathed in borrowed plaids, they went downstairs to eat.

  The kitchen was almost as big as the one in Lochy Castle. Sir Torquil sat at the table with his guests and the rest of the space was filled by redheads, who stood around and stared. They varied in size from wet-nosed toddlers to pregnant mothers and thick-armed laborers smelling of cattle.

  The food was superb. Before every guest was laid a slab of bread cut from loaves straight ou
t of the oven; on that were piled beans, juicy hot meat, and fresh fish. There was whisky to drink, although the fainthearted might dilute it with water if they wished. The refugees from the Reverend Murray's meager hospitality fell to with avid purpose while Sir Torquil talked—of the weather, of the ships in the loch, of reports of fighting up near Banff, of rumors that the Sassenach king had razed another town in Europe somewhere with his customary fearful slaughter. His assembled clan stood with folded arms, listening, studying the visitors, and speaking only when their patriarch addressed them.

  Toby did eat enough for four, but Hamish came a close second, and the others did not skimp. If a man was going to die, it was best to do so on a full stomach. The world mellowed to a kinder, easier place. He could forget for a little while that he might be possessed by a demon, that a notorious hexer was hunting him, that the Sassenachs had probably set a price on his head, that he was responsible for seeing Meg Campbell of Tyndrum safely to Oban. What matter? He had escaped from the prison of his childhood. He was no longer Toby the Bastard, he was making his way in the world. He was going to make his name also.

  Toby of Tyndrum, Toby of Fillan? Never!

  Toby of the Highlands? Too vague.

  "Annie," Sir Torquil told one of the redheads, "Master Longdirk needs more beef."

  "Nonsense, Father! He's got more beef than I've seen in years."

  Toby heard his own laugh over all the rest.

  Gradually the voids were filled and the eating slowed. Rory wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, licked his fingers, and folded his arms. He refused offers of more. He began to talk, ignoring the huge audience with apparent confidence that his words would never be reported to outsiders.

  "What news of Lord Robert?"

  "The Campbell's in Edinburgh still," Sir Torquil said cautiously, "with his lady. Attending Parliament."

  Rory did not repeat his earlier description of the chief of Clan Campbell as a boot-licker—his hosts lived only an hour's walk from Inverary. He did not parrot the usual rebel description of the current parliament as a farce of traitor puppets.

  "And the master?"