by Dave Duncan
"He's gone hunting up Fort William way." The caution was even more marked. "So they say."
Rory nodded. "I gave Keeper Murray money for the wood we burned and the food we ate—the most expensive meal in the history of Scotland, that was. But he'll never spend it. Would you take a load of peat and—"
"I was planning to, soon as the rain stops. I do that every year."
"Good!" Rory reached for his sporran and his host growled like a dog at a bear-baiting.
Rory smiled thanks. "Apart from that, we have a couple of problems. The Sassenachs are after my man Longdirk, there, and you have a hexer loose in the district."
Sir Torquil nodded. "Aye, you told me. Nobody's seen any strangers."
"She's around."
"Well, you're safe here."
"But we can't stay!" Rory raised a hand to balk argument. "You're close enough to the shrine that the spirit will guard you, but if we hang around, we may endanger the spirit itself."
"Like that, is it?"
"Very much so. We need to decide where to go. Father?"
The little friar blinked, suppressing a burp. "Glasgow. Master, er, Longdirk, needs to visit the sanctuary. Failing that, Dumbarton. But we must get past Inverary."
"That can be arranged," Sir Torquil said, smiling yellow teeth in his red beard.
"Then we should go by Glen Kinglas, over to Loch Lomond. Two days should do it."
Rory nodded thoughtfully. "Hamish Campbell?"
"I go with Toby, sir." Hamish was very pink, fighting an attack of hiccups.
Rory's eyes turned to Meg. "You'll be safe here."
Meg glanced at Toby and then down at her hands.
"You're a Campbell with Campbells in the middle of Campbell country, miss!" Sir Torquil thumped a hairy fist on the table. "No one will lay a hand on her here, Master, er, Rory."
Except perhaps Campbells. Toby had already registered that there were many more males than females in this household. Several young faces were displaying interest already. If Meg wanted a husband, she would have a wide selection available in Glen Shira. Why should that prospect alarm him? It was no business of his, even if she had let him kiss her. She must stay and he must go, out of her life forever.
And what of the alleged MacDonald—the MacDonald who gave orders to Campbells in the middle of Campbell country and had them obeyed instantly? The allegedly handsome smoothie?
He knew who Rory was now.
Still Meg said nothing.
Rory was looking at him expectantly.
Was he really to be allowed to make his own decision? He held the rebel's gaze for a moment while he straightened out his thoughts. He wished he were smarter. If he blundered, he would imperil not just his own life—which was worth very little at the moment—but the others' also. Meg, obviously, must not be taken into more danger. To insist on trying to protect her would be to expose her to Valda's demons. Meg would have to remain at Glen Shira, yes. It was the least of all evils.
"You heard what the spirit said, Master MacDonald." He noted the twitches of amusement in the audience. "It said I might thwart the hexer, although what that means, I don't know. I have to go out and face her. I don't fancy a life of endless miraculous escapes. If I stop running away and go on the offensive, perhaps I'll start enjoying miraculous victories?"
Rory showed none of his usual mocking contempt. "Or just stop escaping? How do you go on the offensive? You've thrown away your sword. What weapon will you use? Fingernails?"
"Boulders!" Hamish declaimed. "There's lots of battles in Scotland been fought by rolling boulders down on the enemy. Pass of Brander in ..." His voice withered away under Rory's glare. "Hic!" he added quietly.
Toby sighed. "Why not boulders? I'll pick them up and throw them. Show me the Dumbarton road and I'll be on my way. The rest of you stay here."
Rory shook his head. "We'll come. We could try and find a boat to take us, of course, but not while the weather's doing what it's doing."
Toby thought about that. "No. If you're all trapped with me in a boat, you'll be too vulnerable. I'd rather walk where I can run."
"Walk it is, then. Not Miss Campbell, of course, but—"
"Me, too," Meg said quietly. "Where Toby goes, I go." She looked up, her face flushed. "He needs looking after!"
Some of the onlookers tittered, but then silence fell.
Rory's jaw was clenched. He was obviously about to exert a veto, and what the alleged MacDonald said here had the force of law.
"Yes," Toby said, "I do need looking after. Let's all go. When we sight Lady Valda, you turn back and I'll go on alone." If Meg was there, there would be less chance for heroics from any of the others—Hamish, or Father Lachlan. They would rally around Meg.
Rory drummed his fingers on the table. Then he shrugged. "We'll see you as far as Kinglas, then. Valda'll not likely try anything before that." He turned to Sir Torquil, who was looking deeply shocked. "Can you get us by Inverary without the earl's men questioning us?"
Their host smiled. "Aye, Master, I think we can that."
SIX
Dead or Alive
1
Sir Torquil had offered ponies, which Rory had refused, much to his companions' relief, but half a dozen young Campbells had ridden off, presumably to clear the way. Leather capes were another matter— Torquil had insisted on providing them, and no one had argued very hard. He had wanted to donate shoes also, muttering about walking on shingle. Everyone knew that shoes would soon cramp feet unaccustomed to them, so the shoes were declined with thanks.
A short walk brought them to Loch Fyne—forty miles long, Hamish announced, reaching all the way to the Mull of Kintyre and the Isle of Butte. As the rain hid everything out of bowshot, Toby was not impressed by the information. He had never seen the sea before, and found even the smell of it intriguing. The tide was out, exposing smooth gray rocks coated with strange weeds and barnacles. He would have liked to see the ships that Hamish insisted would be anchored off Inverary, but had to be content with bobbing gulls and the little boats that lay on the strand near every cottage, surrounded by intriguing tackle.
"Fishing nets," Hamish said, unnecessarily. "Lobster creels. They dry fish on those racks, don't they, Master MacDonald? And see yon harpoon!"
According to Rory, they passed within a mile of Inverary Castle itself, but the rain obscured it totally. Few folk were mad enough to be about in such weather, and any who had reason to watch for strangers must have been discouraged by the Campbells of Shira. The fugitives saw hardly a soul.
Their way lay east, a crude trail where the hills met the sea. At high tide, it might have been impassable. Hamish quartered like a questing hound, trotting back with shells and crabs and jellyfish to show.
The world was starting to offer novelty. With a cape to keep off the worst of the rain and free of his weighty sword, Toby was having a better day. Better was a relative term, of course.
They reached the mouth of the River Fyne and turned south, still following the shore. At the hamlet of Cairndow, two men emerged from the rain to interrogate the strangers. Rory stalked on ahead to speak with them, and they reacted in the now familiar fashion, doffing bonnets and bowing. The travelers were allowed to pass.
They crossed a river on stepping stones that were mostly underwater. They turned inland.
Miraculously, the rain had eased to a drizzle, revealing a straight glen ahead, almost narrow enough to be called a gorge. On the left, beyond the river, the hill was an imposing wall, soaring into the clouds without a break. It was not quite a cliff, although a man would need go up it on all fours. The near side was more gentle, although still too steep for any use but cattle. The river might be just a peaty burn most of the time, but days of rain had turned it into a roaring brown torrent, which had taken over the track in places and was washing it away in others. It frothed and thundered over boulders, setting Toby's teeth on edge with a sepulchral rumble of rocks rolling along its bed.
"Where is this?" he
demanded after a while.
Rory said, "It's Glen Kinglas—" and stopped.
Toby looked back, seeing a glimpse of Loch Fyne framed in the glen mouth, with hints of the hill beyond like a wall of mist. "Then here we part."
Silence, except for rain and wind and the growling of the river.
He had calculated well in bringing Meg along. Now the moment of farewell had arrived, the other men were reluctant to desert him, even though they knew they could give him no aid.
"Go back," he said. "This is my battle. You have done more than was required, by many a mile, all of you."
"Just because you have escaped the woman before, Tobias ..." Father Lachlan began, but he did not finish. What he meant was that there was no spirit of Glen Shira here, no hob of Fillan. Toby was alone.
He had always been alone. He always would be. Strong men could stand alone. The time for running away was over.
"Go back," he repeated, speaking to Rory's angry stare. "If you had a warband at your back, you could not help me now. Find a warm hearth down there in Calrndow, or somewhere. Or go back to Sir Torquil's."
"The tide is in!" Rory snapped. His pride was burning him alive. He was the leader. Sons of chiefs did not stay behind when their followers went into danger—he regarded Toby as his man, even if Toby refused to bend a knee to him.
"I am sure you have other friends close, to offer you shelter, Master... MacDonald."
That hint made the gray eyes glint dangerously. "Father Lachlan, you take the girl and the boy and—"
"No, my son," the friar said quietly. "This battle is not for you. Remember your grandfather."
"I'm going with you!" Hamish announced—bravely enough, although there was a strange whiteness around his eyes.
He was a puppy yapping at a bull, but Toby was touched. The courage of the Campbells of Fillan was very real to the teacher's son, and not to be mocked now. He squeezed the boy's shoulder. "Thanks, my friend. I know I promised you we would hang on the same gallows, but I'm not headed to the gallows today."
"Go with our prayers, Tobias," the friar said. "You can follow the trail without trouble, over Rest and be thankful—"
"What?"
"A pass. That's its name, Rest and be thankful. Then down into Glen Croe, between the Cobbler and the Brack, to Arrochar. You'll be only a mile or two west of the Loch Lomond Road, then. When you get to Dumbarton, ask at the sanctuary for Father Gregor..."
If he got that far. Toby braced himself. He had never reneged on a promise before, but in this case it was a distasteful duty. "I must ask you for your oath, Father. Promise me that Meg Campbell—"
The friar cried out. "Where is Meg Campbell?"
Meg Campbell was a tiny figure in the distance, trudging along the road, indistinct in the rain. With a roar, Toby took off in pursuit. He heard feet slapping in the mud behind him. How had she managed to get so far without them noticing?
He caught up with her and grabbed her arm. She swung around furiously.
"Take your hands off me!"
He took his hands off her.
She started walking again. He tracked beside her, fuming. "What the demons are you doing?"
"Going where you go. I told you."
She was being so stupid that he didn't know where to start.
"Meg, I'm an outlawed murderer, a demonic husk, a penniless vagrant. I've got a price on my head, a hexer at my heels..."
She glanced back at the posse. "Yes, but I feel safer with you than I do with Rory. Oh, Toby, I can't explain ... I trust you. I more than just trust you, I..."
"You what?"
"Never mind. Rory frightens me!" She smiled suddenly, seeing his shock. "I don't mean he threatens me. He's witty and charming and attentive. But... I am afraid when I'm with him. Not afraid of him, so much as afraid of me!"
"What does that mean?"
Again she glanced back at the pursuers. "I don't know. I mean, I don't know how to tell you without hurting you."
"Try me!" He had never seen fiery little Meg Campbell so off-balance, so unsure of herself. Rory would be here in seconds.
She bit her lip. "He's so devious! He could steal a horse's shoes without lifting its feet."
"He's clever and I'm not, you mean?"
"Oh, you know that's not what I mean! He promises... You really think he's a rebel?"
What in the world was she trying to say?
Then Rory came splashing up to them, obviously furious that his followers were not following as he expected. Hamish was close behind him, handicapped by his bundle. Father Lachlan would come in a distant fourth. Below his leather cape, the hem of his white robe flapped madly, like a housewife's duster.
"Meg, you are being foolish!" Rory said sharply. "You go on, Longdirk." He reached for Meg's arm.
Toby struck his hand away. "She goes with me if she wants."
"To face Valda? And demons? Are you out of your minds, both of you?" Again Rory reached for her arm. "Come with us, Meg. You go on, Longdirk. We'll talk sense into—"
Again Toby smacked the rebel's hand away. "I am not your man and she is not your woman."
Rory stared at him incredulously and drew. "By the demons of Delia, I have taken all I can from you, you ignorant ox. Now I am going to teach you some manners!"
Toby edged away from Meg, clutching his bundle in both hands before him. It was the only weapon or shield he had. He ought to drop to his knees and beg forgiveness, but he would rather drop dead.
"Armed, this time, my lord? The last lesson misfired, didn't it? Your match was a little damp."
He had been a fool to rile a swordsman, a noble. Rory would be within his rights in chopping off an ear or two. Indeed, if Rory just ran the churl through, then who would bring justice against him? Who would seek vengeance for Toby Strangerson? He had no clan, he was no man's man, whereas Rory was a very important personage indeed.
"Or are you just annoyed that an ignorant ox managed to work out who you were? Managed to see through all the childish lies!"
Meg shouted, "No! Stop this!" She tried to move between them, but Rory dodged past her, pushing her away.
"Stay out of this, woman!" He advanced slowly on Toby again, lips white with fury, silver eyes shining, steel glinting. Any moment he would leap forward and lunge.
Toby continued backing away. Spirits, let me get in one good punch! Let me just smash his nose, if I have to run up his sword to do it. ... "If you're so good with a sword, Master MacDonald, then why didn't you draw on the bogy? You didn't even hit it with your lute, did you? You were going to drown, Master—"
He stopped, his feet stuck. They looked all right, but they felt as if they were buried in mortar.
Rory, too, was staring down in dismay.
Hamish screamed, "Valda! It's the woman!"
About half a mile up the glen, a line of riders was advancing toward them. Five—no, six. Where had they come from?
"Well!" Rory said, sheathing his sword. "Do you suppose that's just the local cattlemen's association holding its annual meeting?" He had switched instantly from fury to icy calm.
Meg cried, "Toby!"
Again Toby tried to move, but his feet stayed rooted to the road. Trapped! He glanced over his companions and saw that they were all transfixed. He had promised to guard Meg and then led her into more danger than her father could have dreamed in his worst nightmares. With a howl of fury he hurled his bundle away from him.
Shift...
He looked down at the five mortals. They stood in a loathsome pool of demonic power. He blew it away. Apart from that, they were unharmed.
Dum . .. Dum ... Dum ...
He looked up the glen. The mounted six trotting along the road ... The hexer smiled gloatingly as she led her odious pack along the trail. Their horses were dead—ridden to death and beyond death. The other woman lived, but her mind had been tormented away to nothing. Two of the males were corpses, their resident demons fully occupied in running the decaying bodies they inhabited. They cou
ld contribute nothing. Of the other two, one was directing the horses and also had an overriding directive to protect the hexer. That left only one fully operational, and even that one was encumbered by shackles of gramarye.
Back to the five. . . The big one, the witchwife's lad, the curly-haired one ... he grew. He swelled to a giant, a mountain, looming over Glen Kinglas. Ignoring the clouds and the rain, he surveyed the hills: the trail, heading straight for big Beinn Ime and then bending right to find the pass, gentle Beinn an Lochain on the right, and the sheer, straight face of Binrein an Fhidhleir, soaring up two thousand feet without a break on the left.
Weapon?
Dum . .. Dum ...
Roll boulders on them, the teacher's boy had said. Why not?
He reached out a cloud-sized arm and sank fingers into the slope above the riders, clawing at it. The soil was sodden and saturated by so much rain. It moved easily.
This game was fun! Too late, the one available demon sensed the opposing power. It rose like black smoke to give battle, and then paused with evil glee as it saw the ploy. The damage was already done, anyway.
The side of the hill slid away bodily. Green slope became a carpet of brown mud, slithering downward, ripping up bushes, tearing out rocks, picking up speed. The ground moved in waves. Unbearable sound filled the valley. A gale roared ahead of the landslide. Valda looked up and screamed. The demon fled back to aid her. On the far slope, long-horned cattle stampeded in terror.
The mud slide poured down the mountain, burying the river, burying the road, rushing partway up the opposite slope. In seconds, the heap rose like brown dough, filling the gorge, building a mountain, spreading out sideways along the trail. Boulders bounced free ahead of the advancing wall. The thunder was a palpable presence, paralyzing the mortals. They could do nothing but stare at the approaching cataclysm; and then the hurricane bowled them over, hurling them to the ground and rolling them—all except the big one, who leaned into the wind.
The mass steadied before it reached them, the muck bubbling and writhing like a giant slug as it settled in place, its deathly roar fading to a steady, comforting beat: Dum... Dum...
