The Years of Longdirk- The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  The lunge proved adequate. Weapon and victim were as insubstantial as moonbeams, and yet Toby felt the impact as if he had thrust a real sword into real flesh. The demon screamed an impossibly high note and recoiled, flailing flashes. He kicked the door closed on it and stumbled back against the counter. There was still only smoke to breathe. Hamish moaned, starting to struggle and protest that he was all right. Toby backed across the room, then set him down as gently as he could to leave a hand free for the door. There was no sign of the demon pursuing, but he did not think he had killed it—wounded it, perhaps, if demons could be wounded.

  6

  The fog was thicker than ever, a great heap of white wool filling the street, but the air was clear and fresh, smelling of the sea. Astonishingly, the city was still waking to the new day—like the nightmare it already resembled, the whole Valda episode had not lasted nearly as long as it had-seemed to. Stores were opening for business, workers hurrying to their labors. Wagons rumbled along the street, entering and leaving the burgh; gulls shrieked unseen overhead. No one paid any heed to the two choking, weeping vagrants who emerged from the apothecary's to catch their breath in the cool damp.

  They were blood-spattered and smoke-stained. Shaking with reaction, Toby rearranged his plaid, wondering how a kid like Hamish had managed to hang onto his sanity at all. The dagger was no longer a shining sword of green light, only a fancy dirk with a yellow jewel, but it was one more thing to make him conspicuous, and he tucked it out of sight in the folds at his waist.

  He glanced up at the building. The fire was not showing yet, but the roof must burn through very soon. The absence of a rear window meant there was probably another house hard against it at the back, and there certainly was at the side—a larger, taller structure. He had started a fire in a wooden town; he had loosed a demon.

  Rory had told him he was just a walking disaster.

  Hamish had his feet on the ground, and was leaning on the wall, trying to smile between spasms of coughing. "Gotta get outta here!"

  "Can't! There's a fire!... and a demon!"

  "Oh, no!" Hamish rolled cherry-red eyes. "You gather a crowd, you'll be recognized! Every able-bodied man gets rounded up for firefighting. There's a price on your head. . . ." He pushed himself upright and staggered.

  "I can't leave a demon loose! I can't let innocent men try to fight a fire with a demon in it."

  "What can you do?" The boyish voice became shrill with urgency. "Let the tutelary deal with it!"

  "The tutelary's busy, Valda said. I've got a demon sword, thanks to you." Toby pulled out the dagger again and looked at it doubtfully. The blade was shiny clean; Krygon's blood must have burned away.

  "Me? What'd I do?" Hamish was convulsed with more coughing. His always-dark face was black as a moor's from the smoke.

  "You saved my life, friend! Tell me how these things work."

  The roar of the fire was audible now, and a red glow showed through the window. A band of men was coming along the road from the country, heading for town. They moved like ghosts in the fog, but they must see the fire in a moment. They would smell it—why had no one raised the alarm by now?

  "Me tell you?" Hamish wailed. "I don't know! Nobody knows. You big idiot, you mustn't hang around here. This is suicide! Come on.!"

  "There's no other way out of this building, but I suppose a demon doesn't need doors."

  "It could be a league away by now! Why would it stay around? Toby—you're the one who's going to get impaled. Move!"

  In the adjoining house, someone screamed. The sound came through an open shutter upstairs, but whether it was a man or a woman screaming, Toby could not tell. Nor could he guess whether the screamer had merely detected the fire or Oswood had left the burning building and entered the other.

  As he moved to look in the direction of the sound, the blade in his hand flashed green. He waved it, and it flashed again. Another scream . . . When he aimed the dagger at the noise, it became the glowing demon sword. Again the hilt quivered in his hand, eager to find its destined prey. That way! it was telling him. The men solidified out of the fog, shouting questions, running to investigate the screams.

  "Run!" shouted Hamish.

  "Go find Father Lachlan!" Toby snapped. "If you can't find him, tell the tutelary—if it's willing to listen." He gave Hamish a push and sent him staggering off along the narrow street.

  He ran, too, but only as far as the door. It was locked. He backed up and hurled his weight at it. It sagged, hinges ripping. He backed up to try again, ignoring throbs of protest from his ribs.

  "What the demons do you think you're up to?" bellowed one of the men. "You, yon big Highlander!" yelled another.

  "Fire!" he shouted, charging the door again. Another scream from overhead. This time the door collapsed, and he stumbled over it into a butcher's shop, smelling of blood, buzzing with flies. Lumps of meat in grotesque shapes hung on hooks over the counter. Hearing shouts of "Fire!" outside, he crossed the room, threw open another door, and found the stairs.

  He met a crowd of people descending, eight or nine of them: children, women carrying babies, all fleeing from the stench of smoke. Most of them screamed at the huge clansman coming racing up at them, waving a dirk. Whether they saw a fiery sword, as Toby did, hardly mattered at that point, for they probably registered only his plaid. Highlanders had a well-earned reputation for havoc and slaughter. These Lowlander burgh dwellers would assume that he was the first of a horde and Dumbarton was being sacked.

  He pushed by them or over them, shouting at them to clear the building. Only when he was past them did he realize he had forgotten to speak English, and they were unlikely to understand Gaelic. He did not think they would linger for a repeat. In a passageway at the top, several doors stood open, one with a very old man peering out in confusion.

  "Fire! Leave! Get out!" Toby charged past him and kicked open the door he wanted without checking to see if it was even latched. Most of the chamber was filled by a bed, its curtains open just enough to show that it was unoccupied. The owner lay on the floor near the window. Toby was too late to save him, or perhaps it had been a her. The flickering blue shape of Oswood crouched over the corpse as it had crouched over Lady Valda. The bed and floor and walls were bright with blood; the air reeked of it.

  Oswood reared up in a glowing blur of hatred and sharpness, chittering anger in a sound that was half insect and half clinking of jewels. It advanced on the intruder.

  Toby's Inverary training leaped to his aid. He put his right foot forward and this time tried a saber slash of his green-shining sword. Again he felt resistance, and a slice of blue fire curled off the hellish thing and faded out. With an ear-piercing, inhuman cry, the demon sprang away, faster than a cat, landing on the bed. As he turned to fend off attack from there, the entire room exploded in flame—bed, clothes chest, rug, and even the door. Then the demon was gone, flicking out through the doorway, a blue glow in the smoke.

  Toby leaped after it, gasping and trying to protect his eyes with his arm. If it could do that to a room, why couldn't it do the same to him? If he had thought of it, when would it? Were demons even dumber than he was, or did the sword protect him? The old man was tottering toward the stairs. Oswood enveloped him and dismembered him in a cloudburst of blood. He died without making a sound, falling in fragments to the floor, but his death had delayed the monster just long enough for Toby to catch up with it.

  He flailed at it with the burning green blade. Its screams drilled agony through his head, but again he spalled chunks off it. It was growing smaller. Again it fled from him. It struck the door at the far end of the corridor and burned right through it, vanishing into the room beyond, showering flaming splinters of wood.

  He was balked. He could not cross that fiery floor with bare feet. Shouts from downstairs told him a mob was gathering. Hamish was right—he would never escape from a crowd without being recognized, and that meant he would never escape. Never mind. The main thing now was the fight wi
th Oswood. He must catch the demon and reduce it to nothing at all.

  He waved the dagger until a flash of green told him he had it pointed where he wanted to go: upward!

  He dashed into the nearest room, dropping the dirk in the folds of his plaid to give him two free hands. He was in luck, for alongside the four-poster bed stood a wooden chest. He jumped up on it, laid his hands against the ceiling boards, and pushed. Timber creaked and snapped, nails pulled free. Muscle! He gained a grip and pulled downward. The plank snapped with a reluctant crack. Smoke poured down from the hole.

  After that it was a matter of seconds before he had ripped a gap big enough to pull himself through. The attic was furnished with straw and discarded clothes, but it was also chokingly full of smoke, for the fire below had burned through to the sky. He braced his shoulders against the battens between the rafters and heaved bodily. The thatch above was old and rotten, else even his strength would not have been able to rip it open, but it yielded. With the aid of the dagger, he ripped a hole to daylight. The straw around his feet was already smoking.

  Gripping the rafters, he pulled himself up and stuck his head out through the hole. Only when he had done so did he realize the demon might be waiting for him up there. It wasn't, fortunately. The apothecary's house was a pillar of fire, and this one was already shooting flames up into the fog. He dragged himself out onto the steeply sloping thatch, then scrambled to relative safety on the ridge while he fumbled for the dagger.

  "There he is!" roared voices below. "Up yonder—the hexer! The demon-raiser. Five thousand marks!"

  He turned the dagger until it glowed faintly green. Oswood was either too small or too far off to raise much reaction from the blade—and it had apparently crossed the street.

  Toby would have to cross also. The burgh's roads were narrow. He had jumped farther than that in the Glen Games. But then he had not faced a bone-smashing drop and had been landing on sand, not a steeply pitched slope of hard and slippery thatch. The house on the far side was slightly higher than the one he was on— but he didn't need to run all the way to the eave.

  If he didn't jump, the crowd or the fire would get him.

  He pulled the amethyst from the fold of his plaid. "Hob!" he said. "Fillan, I'm talking to you. If you want to see the world with me, then you'd better put some spring in my legs!"

  He popped the gem in his mouth for safekeeping, bounded down the roof, and leaped out into the fog. For a moment he seemed to hang in the air above the crowd.

  He landed, pitching forward on hands and knees, and then flat on his belly. He began to slide. He thrust the dagger into the straw and came to a stop with his legs hanging out over the drop. With fingers and blade, he scrambled up the slope to the crest. Then he was on his feet, running along the ridge.

  What followed was a mad chase across the rooftops of the burgh. Jumping streets and alleys, he soon outdistanced the angry, roaring mob below. He caught up with the demon. It was wounded, or just diminished. Perhaps it was dying, but he dared not count on that. He cornered it against a chimney, his demon sword blazed joyfully, and he hacked the monster away to nothing. The light in the blade faded out.

  7

  So much for Oswoodl The next problem was to save Toby Strangerson.

  He leaned for a moment against the chimney, catching his breath and prodding his wits. The fog swirling around him was hardly thicker than the fog inside his head. The mob had lost him for the moment, but word would race through the burgh that the wanted hexer was at large. Every sword and kitchen cleaver would be after him.

  He could not see the spire of the sanctuary, which would have been a useful landmark, nor could he locate the presence of the tutelary itself, as he had the previous evening. He had no idea of the way to Fergan's house. He was lost.

  However, the roofs that faded off into the mist like miniature mountains did not extend very far to his right. Either the harbor or open country must lie in that direction. There was certainly no point in waiting around on the housetops until the fog lifted. He found a low eave overlooking a cramped little yard, clambered down to the roof of a privy, and jumped. Then he went out into the street, trying to move with the confident stride of the innocent. A high-piled wagon was heading the way he wanted to go; he walked alongside it, accepting the horse's deliberate pace, keeping back from the driver's notice.

  He came to the harbor and found it almost deserted. No vessel could arrive or leave in this weather; there was nothing left to load or unload. Everything in sight was soaking wet, and even the water of the river itself looked leaden and depressed. He helped himself to a lobster trap and put it on his shoulder to hide his face. Then he walked out along the pier, blurred and damp. A Highlander with no bonnet and carrying a burden was acting out of character, but the few men he passed did not react with alarm.

  So he came to the Maid of Arran. The plank had been hauled in. He dropped his burden, grasped the side of the ship and hauled himself aboard. Then he squatted down so he would not be visible from the pier. Three crewmen were working at repairing ropes. Another was scraping the deck.

  "Hey, you!" shouted an angry voice, and Captain MacLeod himself came marching over. "Longdirk!"

  Toby looked up with a hopeful grin. "Morning, sir."

  "Trouble?"

  "Aye, trouble!"

  "Come inside."

  The captain's cabin was under the raised deck at the stern where the steersman stood. It was very small, with a bunk on one side, a chest opposite, and a built-in table under the window at the back. It contained one chair, and no space for more. With a shelf of books and charts on the wall, it was businesslike, but the rumpled bedclothes and the dirty dishes on the table made it homey. Toby had his usual problem with the ceiling.

  "Sit!" said the captain, waving at the chest. He closed the door and stood with folded arms, solid and bulky in a cloak of oiled leather that glistened with the moisture of the fog. Under a conical leather hat, his weathered face was solemn, but not unfriendly. He had a tangled, reddish beard that seemed to have been windswept into a state of permanent confusion. It sparkled with fine drops of damp.

  "I'm lost, Captain. Would you send word to Master Stringer's house for me?"

  "I could have a man take you there."

  Toby shook his head. "There's a hue and cry after me."

  A faint smile softened the sailor's stare. "And a price on your head. He told me."

  Had the king admitted what that price was, though? For a moment, MacLeod seemed to weigh possibilities. If Toby had betrayed the cause, he would not be asking for word to be sent to the rebel headquarters. He nodded.

  "I'll send the boy. You want to write a note?"

  Writing was not Toby's specialty. "No. Just have him say I'm here, and in trouble." He wondered about asking for his sporran with all his money in it and decided not to mention that. Dead men had no use for silver. He felt a stirring of hope—the captain was a bluff, honest man. He might throw Toby to the sharks if he thought that to be his duty, but not without saying so.

  "We'll not be casting off lines for a whiles yet. You smell like you've been in a fire. I'll bring you some water to clean that soot off your face. Could you use food?"

  Toby tested his teeth with his tongue. He thought he could chew again, if he was careful. "That would be more than kind of you, sir."

  MacLeod smiled almost bashfully. "I saw you fight, lad. Och, a braw show that was!" He turned quickly and went out.

  Toby relaxed in a great wallow of relief. It was good to have friends.

  8

  Less than two weeks ago, he had been odd-job boy in the laird's castle. Now a king came to call on him.

  They trooped in, filling the tiny cabin to suffocation—King Fergan, Father Lachlan, Kenneth Kennedy, and Hamish. Captain MacLeod followed, pulling the door closed behind him with difficulty.

  The tall king smiled faintly at Toby's efforts to stand, for he had the same problem, if not quite so severely. "Be seated," he said, taking t
he chair for himself. "And the rest of you, gentlemen."

  Toby settled on the chest again. Kennedy joined him. Father Lachlan and Hamish perched on the bunk. Then they could see one another, although there was barely room for all their feet. The captain remained on his feet by the door, as if to demonstrate that on his vessel he took orders from no one, not even a monarch.

  Toby braced himself for a struggle. He was fairly sure his life was about to make a sharp turn. It might even come to a sudden stop, because he was a serious danger to the rebels now. The king, the captain, and Kennedy were all armed.

  Father Lachlan looked haggard and worried. His white robe was cleaner than usual, but the conspicuous dust stains on the skirt suggested he had been spending much time on his knees.

  Hamish was wearing Lowlander disguise. The doublet was too wide for him, and his breeches were pleated at the waist, pulled in by his belt. He was obviously relieved to see his hero alive and well, but he lacked his normal chirrup—Hamish looked as Hamish looked when in trouble. He smiled weakly at Toby and tugged at a bulky object in his pocket, drawing it out far enough so that Toby could recognize his sporran and know that his money was safe.

  Kenneth Kennedy slouched in morose silence. He stank as if his overnight carouse had ended in an attack of vomiting.

  The thin man in the chair might be balding and in need of more chin; his kingdom might be purely hypothetical, but he could dominate a cabin full of his own followers. They waited on his word. He began by directing a cold glance at Toby.

  "The boy knows who I am. He claims you did not tell him."

  "I didn't, sire. He knew before I did. He recognized you from your coins."

  "So he claims. His mother has one of them. But why did you not report this?"