by Dave Duncan
Fun! Fun! More! Farther up the glen were other wet slopes just waiting to roll down. . . .
2
"Toby! Toby! Are you all right?"
Dum... Dum...
The first thing he noticed was Meg's face, all black with mire around two white, staring eyes: comical. That had been Meg shouting. Her cape and dress were thick with mud. Rory and Hamish were helping Father Lachlan to his feet, and every one of them was slathered in it, like human pigsties. Funny.
He was all right, just wet.
"Are you all right?" Meg repeated urgently.
"Yes, I think so ..." He was mortal again . . . merely mortal, back in the cold and the wind. He had a waning sense of loss, of heady power lost. Clouds mantled the hills again, but he could still taste the savage joy he had felt when he clawed down a mountainside to destroy a foe.
The glen had fallen silent. A wail of glistening mud blocked it; the air reeked of wet soil. The river flowed no more.
Father Lachlan wiped his spectacles on the sleeve of his robe, and put them on again so he could peer at Toby over them.
"Was that your doing, my son?"
Toby looked down at his hand. There was no dirt under his nails, but he felt as if there should be. He could remember the strange sensation of digging his fingers into the hillside. He had soared with the eagles. He had looked down at the hills.
"Mine? How could I do that?"
"I suppose the rain could have set off the slide," the acolyte muttered uncertainly, as if trying to convince himself.
"It was a very fortuitous rescue," Rory remarked shakily. "Is she dead?"
Toby faced four incredulous stares. They were not fools, none of them. They were all smarter than he was. They could not have seen what he had seen—Toby Strangerson grown to the size of a mountain. If they had seen that, they would be fleeing in all directions. But they must have noticed him behaving oddly, and if he tried to explain, they would flee from him now. He was possessed, demonized, uncanny. Leper!
"Dead? Valda? How should I know?" He did not think she was dead. The demons had been trying to save her. Even if they had succeeded, though, she must be in disarray. No, she was not a threat now—but he dared not say so.
"So it was Valda?" Rory snapped.
Toby shrugged. "Your eyes are as good as mine."
"We had best get out of here!" Father Lachlan said. "There may be more slides ready to fall."
Not unless Toby arranged them. If Meg had not called him back when she did ... He did not want to think about that.
"We'll have to turn back," Rory said. "The road's blocked. No reason not to now, is there?"
"Is the danger over?" Father Lachlan asked, still sounding shaky. He meant: Is Valda still there? He did not believe Toby's denials. None of them did.
Toby said, "We could get by. We can go on to Dumbarton."
"In this weather?" Rory growled. "There's no hurry anymore, is there? Demons, but I'd like to get out of this rain! I have friends here. I can lead us to a warm, dry house and some civilized comfort. I didn't dare go there as long as I thought there was a hexer after us. If we're safe now, then that's where we ought to go before we all freeze to death. We're not in a hurry, are we? Only Sassenachs to worry about now?"
He stared challengingly at Toby.
Toby looked at Meg. Her lips were white. She had done marvelously well. For two whole days, she had survived cold and wet and hunger and physical torment. To submit her to more days and nights of those would be deliberate cruelty. He had promised to look after her, and he must not gamble her life just to safeguard his own skin.
"All right!" he said. "All right! Yes, that was Valda. I don't think I killed her, but I probably destroyed her maid and at least two of her demons, possibly three. She's not going to be a problem for a while." He glowered at the horrified faces and waited for the panic.
Rory smiled at having his suspicions confirmed, but it was a sickly imitation of his customary smirk. "You brought down that slide?"
"My demon did."
Still the panic did not come. They all exchanged glances, but they did not flee in terror, as they should.
"Beautiful!" The rebel laughed. "Attaboy, Little Man! Oh, what we would have given to have had you at Parline Field, when the bowstrings broke in our fingers and our gunpowder turned to salt! Come on, then, all of you—I know where we can find dry beds tonight. Longdirk, you're a hexer after my own heart!"
He moved as if to go, expecting his followers to follow, but everyone just stood. He frowned and folded his arms.
Hamish chewed his lip. "I don't think you're a hexer, Toby." He did not look very certain, though.
"I do," Toby said.
"Don't say that!" Meg screamed. "Don't even joke about it!"
Father Lachlan was adjusting his spectacles, waiting patiently.
"They were all dead!" Toby said. "Almost all! Dead already, I mean. The two men I killed earlier, and all the horses. And the other woman ... she was breathing, but not... not thinking. Valda was laughing." His voice was becoming shrill. He felt sick.
"The spirit saw no evil in you, my son. Tell me what happened."
"What did you see?"
"Nothing. You just stood and stared."
"That's all?"
The acolyte pulled his hood up as the rain began to grow heavier again. "You did have a strange expression on your face."
"A grin? A sort of idiot simper?"
"I suppose so." He reached up to pat Toby's shoulder ineffectually. "You can tell me later. What matters is that you have chased the evil away, at least for a while. The spirit said you might, remember?"
It had also said that his troubles would be just beginning.
"It was different this time, somehow. It's never quite the same twice. The demon must be learning how to control me better!"
Father Lachlan frowned anxiously. "I still do not believe you are possessed, my son. You cannot be a hexer, for you do not use the rituals of gramarye and you have no demonic creatures at your command. I admit that I do not understand. You seem to fit none of the rules at all! I have studied the lore of demonology for a lifetime, but if an immortal could not fathom you, then how can I hope to? Now we have won time to get you to Glasgow. The tutelary is very benevolent, very wise. I am sure it will help you."
Toby turned away. Did he even want to be helped? He had enjoyed that brief blaze of omnipotence.
"Master!" Hamish shouted. Even under the mud, his face showed alarm. "The river's stopped flowing!"
Rory glanced at the channel, silent pools in a nightmare of boulders. Then he looked at the barrier upstream. "Well, of course it has! Tiny Tim, there, has given Scotland a new loch! Loch Strangerson, the bastard loch?"
"But, sir! That's just mud! This happened somewhere down in the Borders a few years ago, didn't it? A slide? Then, when the river runs over the top, or when it just builds up behind..."
"Spirits save us!" Father Lachlan said. "The boy's right! Near Roxburgh somewhere. If that dam bursts, there's going to be a flood!"
Rory stiffened, then turned to look down the rainy glen. "Cairndow! Demons! We must warn them! We must get them out of there! Come on!" He started to run.
3
Iain lowered the sail and Rae held the tiller as the boat drifted in to the jetty. Iain was a towhead, old Rae was dark as a Castilian, but they would both be Campbells. The pelting rain had turned the surface of the loch to mist, so that it was hard to tell where the sea ended and the air began. Water swilled around in the bottom of the boat, glittering with fish scales.
The passengers sat along the sides. Father Lachlan looked old and tired, although that might be just by way of contrast with Hamish, who had not stopped jabbering questions at the two sailors since they left Cairndow. Toby faced them, with Meg beside him, not quite close enough to be asking for an arm around her. He should have put an arm around her anyway, and all the way across the loch had been cursing himself as a coward for not doing so. But he was very
conscious of Rory on her other side, and those deadly, silver eyes. He could throw their owner overboard if he wanted, but that would do no good—the arrogant louse could probably swim like a shark. To strangle him first would require fighting three Campbells at the same time, and probably Hamish as well.
Hamish was very impressed, even awed. He had confirmed from someone in Cairndow that Rory MacDonald was really Gregor Campbell, the master of Argyll. That ranked him just below the sun, and so far above Toby Strangerson that it was amazing they could even see each other. So what if he was? He sat down to shit like anyone else, didn't he?
They had sounded the alarm in the hamlet. The inhabitants had fled away from the river, carrying possessions, driving livestock. The master had commandeered a boat for the trip down to Inverary and met no argument. He had ordered his companions into it, never doubting that they would obey. They had obeyed. Only the sight of Meg, huddled and shivering, explained to Toby why he had come, but in truth he had had no alternative. He was totally at Rory's mercy now. Gregor's mercy. What mercy?
Inverary Castle loomed out of the rain, far larger and grander than Lochy, towering over a sprawl of buildings, cottages, animal paddocks, orchards, and vegetable gardens, a sizable village. One of the corner towers was framed in scaffolding, being repaired or still under construction. The Sassenachs would have spread the word. How big a garrison would they have placed in a fortress this size? Their warrant would be known here in Inverary.
Toby leaned around Meg. Rory stared back with dislike, raising a pale eyebrow.
Toby said, "Didn't you tell us that the earl of Argyll was a traitor who licked English boots?"
The helmsman overheard and gasped in horror.
Rory chuckled—doubtless for the eavesdropper's benefit—but there was murder in the silver eyes. He removed his bonnet, took the black feather from it, and placed it in his sporran. Then he put his bonnet on again. "One has to remain in character."
"And the Sassenachs want to hang me!"
The master's mouth twisted in a familiar sneer. "Who can blame them? Getting nervous, are you? Well, you have no cause to worry. Just because Lord Robert is such a notorious boot-licker, the English haven't posted a garrison on him. No fusiliers here! He's in Edinburgh, as you know. His mother, Lady Lora, is a most formidable lady, and a rabid patriot. And then there's me." He wasn't sure if his disguise had been penetrated. Getting no reaction, he smiled benevolently and added: "Nobody hangs one of my men without my permission."
"I am not your man!"
The boat jostled against stone steps. Rory shrugged. Then I offer you hospitality as my guest, as I offer my home to your charming companion. Nobody hangs my guests, either. Not even me—it's bad manners. Miss Campbell?"
He handed Meg ashore, then offered help to Father Lachlan, who shot Toby a disapproving and warning frown.
Toby and Hamish were left to manage by themselves, following up a paved road to the castle, bent against the driving rain. The few people they met on the way all recognized their leader. Bonnets came off. Men bowed, women curtseyed.
Hamish walked at first in worried silence, clutching his muddy bundle. Then he muttered, Toby, you'd better take care! He's the Campbell's son! He's the heir to Argyll—that's what 'master' means!"
"I know that! And I would still like to ram his teeth down his throat!"
"Toby!" Hamish's voice rose to a batlike squeak. "He'll have you beaten! Or branded! He can throw you in a dungeon."
"That's no way to treat guests, either. And he wouldn't dare now!" That hurt more than anything—nobody would dare threaten the hexer who could haul down mountains. Inhuman! Leper! "You know what he wants of me, don't you?" Getting no reply except an unhappy nod, he said, "Well? He thinks I'm an adept. He wants me to hex the bloody Sassenachs for him!"
And what did he want of Meg?
Hamish mumbled, "Maybe."
"What else, then?"
"Earl Robert's one of King Nevil's strongest supporters in Scotland. What's his son doing running with rebels? And do we know that he is a rebel at all just because he wears a feather in his cap? Or is he trying to find Fergan and betray him?"
Toby thought about it as they hurried to the barbican. "You worry about that," he concluded. "I don't care either way."
By then, Hamish had forgotten the problem and was gaping up at the towers and battlements. "This is one of the strongest castles in Scotland. It's never been taken."
No Scottish lord had cannon to blast a way into a citadel like this, so of course the earl would be on the side of the English. And strongholds made good prisons. Toby saw the arch with its daunting portcullis like a giant mouth about to swallow him whole. He was an outlaw, with every man's hand against him. His only possessions were the sodden clothes on his back, a few coins, and a pretty stone in his sporran. It was too late to run, though, and he had nowhere to go.
"You suppose a great castle like this would have a library?" Hamish muttered.
More to the point, would it have a gallows?
The archway cut off the rain at last. Two guards stood in their path, but they were Highlanders in plaids and leathers, shoes and steel helmets; they held pikes and wore swords. They jumped to attention and saluted—which was a surprising courtesy to offer a band of mud-plastered vagrants—but they seemed more interested in Toby than in their chief's son. Why?
"Bran!" Rory said cheerfully. "How's Ella? The twins all right? Inform Lady Lora that her favorite headache has returned, will you? And Sir Malcolm." He glanced around at Toby and Hamish. "You'd better come along, too. Leave your trash here."
4
The hall was larger by far than Castle Lochy's. It rose clear to the roof. The windows were tiny, but glazed, and on this miserable day they gave less light than the blazing pile of driftwood in the great stone fireplace. A long table for feasting occupied the center of the floor, flanked by benches. Chairs like thrones stood on either side of the hearth, but the visitors were all too muddy to sit in them. Meg and Father Lachlan and the master had gathered before the flames to warm themselves.
Toby and Hamish stood back at a respectful distance, wriggling their toes in the rushes. Hamish was gazing open-mouthed at the minstrel gallery, the banners hanging from the rafters, the collections of weapons adorning the stonework. Toby just watched Meg. She seemed content enough, smiling, laughing at Rory's banter, but he remembered what she had told him, and amid all the splendor he saw her as a tiny bird in a cage.
She had wits and spirit—she had her head on straight, as the acolyte had put it. All true, but she was only a tanner's daughter. Rory was master of Argyll, heir to power and wealth. He promises, she had said. I'm not afraid of him, so much as afraid of me. He could promise, he could even threaten, and no one would hold him to account for whatever happened. How long could a poor country lass resist him?
Why should it concern Toby Strangerson? There was nothing a penniless outlaw could do to deflect one of the most powerful men in Scotland—except try personal violence, and even that was unlikely to achieve anything except his own death. His promise to protect her was worthless against an opponent like the master of Argyll.
"Rory!" boomed a new voice, reverberating from the high stone walls. Astonishingly, it seemed to originate from the very small lady now sweeping into the hall with an escort at her heels. This must be Dowager Lady Lora, the earl's mother.
So "Rory" was a family pet name for Gregor. How cute!
"Just look at you, you terrible bairn!" It seemed impossible that so tiny a person could be so loud. Her hair shone pure silver, yet her face was barely wrinkled and she still displayed a delicate charm that testified to the beauty she must have been long years ago. She wore a gown of fine violet velvet; she had jewels on her fingers. Followed by maids, pages, and a dozen armed men—all of them much larger than herself—she was as unobtrusive as a volley of artillery.
"Father Lachlan! How wonderful to see you again! You honor our house."
Toby's attenti
on settled on the man at her side. He was big, gruff, red-bearded, and solid as the castle walls. He wore a gleaming leather jerkin under his plaid. His helmet and sword were grander than the others'. He bore a pistol and powderhorn on his belt. He was appraising Toby with eyes like green pebbles, and with more than trivial curiosity.
Lady Lora turned to Meg and raised carefully tended brows.
"Miss Meg Campbell of Tyndrum, Grandmother," her grandson said, sweeping a bow. "Maiden in distress."
"You poor child, you must be frozen! Have you walked far? Trust that Rory ... J am not surprised you are in distress if he has had anything to do with it. I'm sure you would like a hot tub and some fresh clothes and something to eat before ..."
She registered Toby and the echoes died away into silence.
He overlooked every one of her burly warriors handily. She herself was no bigger than Meg.
"Toby Strangerson of Fillan," Rory said innocently. "Youth in distress. Lora, Dowager Countess of Argyll."
Toby bowed.
Lady Lora gave her grandson the sort of look a mother gives a tiresome two-year-old. Then she turned to the man at her side, as if he had emitted a silent warning. "Sir Malcolm?"
"We received a communication this morning concerning a man of that name, my lord." He produced a paper from his sporran.
Rory beckoned Toby with a nod of his head. Then he took the paper to read and his eyebrows rose.
Toby walked forward with Hamish at his heels. The warriors clasped the hilts of their swords. He bowed again.
Rory looked up, thunderously displeased. "How well did you know the Sassenachs at Lochy?"
"Fairly well, my lord."
"Is one of them an artist?"
"Gavin Mason can draw."
Rory nodded angrily. "Somebody can draw. This is a printed poster with a woodcut of your face on it. It's a fair likeness, except it makes you look like a starving wolf. The description is clear enough: eighteen years old, over nineteen hands tall, heavily muscled, brown eyes, curly hair, and extremely dangerous. Fits you to a tee, doesn't it? A convicted murderer, suspected of conjuring demons. There's quite a price on your head, Longdirk— one hundred marks!"
