by Ken Hood
A murderer weeping? He had killed again. For the fourth time in one night his hands had killed, and this time he had slain the wrong man. The corpse stiffening in the copse should be Fat Vik, not Colin. Crazy Colin had been born faulty. Whether that was the hob's doing or mere chance, it had certainly not been Crazy Colin's choice. The terror and slaughter at Norford Bridge had spoked his wheels completely, yet the war had not been his fault either. The guilt was Vik's, who had put the knife in his fist.
Who had slain Crazy Colin? Toby Strangerson or the demon? He could no longer deny that he had a demon in his heart. He could no longer believe that the hob had saved him in the dungeon. That had not been the hob taking him over just now to commit another murder, for the hob worked more directly. When the soldiers' drums had annoyed it, the men had been felled by cramps. Years ago, a wandering tinker had tried to chop firewood in the copse; his ax had turned in his hand, slashing his leg, and he had bled to death. Stealing another mortal's body to be executioner was demon stuff, not the hob's style.
The drumming heart and the ghostly blue light were symptoms of the demon. It had taken control of Toby in the castle and led him safely home, but it had not abandoned him then; it had merely dropped the reins for a while. When danger loomed again, it had reasserted its control. The demon must be just as concerned with Toby Strangerson's well-being as he was himself, because now they shared the same body. Crazy Colin had been a threat, so the demon had killed him. It had solved the problem and again withdrawn, like a man turning a warhorse loose in the pasture to frolic and graze. When next the trumpet sounded, the rider would mount the steed once more.
Whose man was he now? He belonged to a demon.
He had sensed that the hob was absent — had it fled when his demon approached its grotto? But then why had it not saved Granny Nan earlier? Perhaps it had known of Lady Valda's arrival and quit the glen altogether. Useless to try and guess… no mortal could understand an elemental.
So twice Toby Strangerson had been possessed. The demon had overlooked the manacles the first time. It must have learned from his thoughts that they would be a problem, so it had disposed of them, knowing that he could not do so by himself. Therefore the demon knew what he was thinking and doing, even when he was not aware of its presence. It was doubtless reading his mind even now, chortling to itself in whatever fashion demons showed mirth. It was learning. It was growing more proficient at using the human body it had stolen.
What would happen next? Who would he kill next? What horrors might he find himself committing? He ought to cut his own throat first, or turn himself in for impalement. Men possessed often took their own lives — like the gravedigger's apprentice in Oban two years ago, who had run amok with a mattock, butchering women and children. They'd found him in bed with his wrists slashed. Could Toby Strangerson do that? Would his hands obey him if he tried? Would suicide be release, or just a victory for the demon?
He kicked the cottage door open, hearing the latch splinter. The fire had crumbled to embers, but his eyes were well adjusted to darkness. There was enough light for him to carry Granny Nan over to the bed and lay her there. He sank to his knees, laid his head on his arms, and let the sobs come until he gasped for breath and his throat ached.
The door thumped shut at his back.
"Go away!"
"No, lad," said the smith. "It is you who must go."
Toby looked around angrily. Old Eric stood there as solid as his own anvil, but the others had remained outside. Shrewd! If Toby had to trust one of them, it would be this one; they had known that.
"We'll see that she is laid to rest," the big man growled, "and the hob will care for her soul. She's been dead a long while. No one will blame you for it."
No, it had not been Toby's hand holding the knife, but if he had heeded Granny Nan's warning, if he had avoided the fight with Forrester, if he had hidden out in the copse instead of letting the soldiers take him… any of those ifs and he could have been here to save her from Crazy Colin.
Why had the hob not defended her, or at least warned her? Why, after all these years, had it proved so fickle?
The other death did not matter. The madman's body would not be found for months or years. No one would mourn Colin, and likely the killing would be attributed to the hob's vengeance anyway.
"The Sassenachs will come soon." Smith moved closer. "Can you make it as far as Annie's, lad? Or must we fetch a donkey?"
Toby on a donkey? He heaved himself to his feet, although the effort took every fragment of strength he had left. He leaned his head against a rafter for support, feeling its cold roughness. "I'm not a child! I can walk!"
"Then go. Take your bundle and—" The smith's hand flashed out and seized Toby's wrist.
Toby tried to jerk away, but the man's grip was as tight as his smithy tongs. For a moment they faced off, the two best sets of shoulders in the glen, jaws set… Then the younger man yielded. He would not have been taking the weight-lifting crown this year.
"You're bleeding!" The smith peered at the scrapes. "The hob's doing?"
The hob had not been there, but to say so would provoke unanswerable questions.
"You think I pulled them off by myself?"
Pause for thought… then Eric released him. "No. No man could do that." His scarred and weathered face peered up at Toby appraisingly. "You have been working strange wonders tonight, lad."
Toby looked down at the tiny body on the bed. "Not wonders enough," he whispered.
A heavy hand squeezed his shoulder. "She had more time than most. She was old when I was a pup and when my father was, too. The glen will miss her. She did not say who was to care for the hob after she had gone?"
"No. She said someone would, but she did not say who."
"Well, we'll find out in good time, I'm thinking. Go to Annie, now. She's expecting you, and it's almost dawn already. Stay on the dirt as much as you can, boy, so you don't leave tracks in the frost. We'll get you safely out of the glen."
There was something that should be said now. Oh, yes. "Thank you." Why was that such an effort? Why did he feel so resentful for their help?
"It is we who are grateful," the smith said. "You raised your fist to a swordsman. Courage is a fine thing in a man, but by rights you should have died, lad. Even big men bleed. Don't make a habit of being reckless. Play the odds when you can."
A Campbell of Fillan counseling discretion? Truly, the skies would be full of flying pigs tomorrow. There was nothing more to say. Toby stooped and went to fetch his bundle. As an afterthought, he found Granny Nan's jar of salve. Then he headed for the door. Annie's croft was close to Bridge of Orchy. He could walk another couple of hours without dying of exhaustion; it was no worse than prizefighting.
As he bent for the lintel, the smith said, "May good spirits care for you, Toby of Fillan."
He stopped and looked around, leaning against the jamb. He could still dredge anger from his pit of fatigue, and his resolve had been forged long since. "Oh, no! I will have a new name. I will make my own name in the world, Master Campbell. But it will never be that one."
The big man's jaw clenched at this affront to his beloved glen. "Choose what name you want, then, bastard. Will you have the world love it or hate it?"
"Fear it!" Toby said, leaving his birthplace forever.
PART THREE
Guiding Light
CHAPTER ONE
Annie Bridge was one of four Annie Campbells in the glen. Her cottage was among the largest, with two sizable rooms. Here she had raised three strapping sons after her husband died at Leethoul. When King Fergan had abjured his allegiance to the English in 1511, the oldest had marched off to avenge his father. When Fergan had escaped from captivity in London in 1516 and returned to the Highlands to light the beacon on the hills again, the other two had followed the laird to Parline Field. For the last three years, Annie had lived alone.
She was a gaunt, white-haired woman with all the softness and compassion of a grindstone
. Her face and hands were dried to brown leather by a lifetime's toil and weather. She was stooped but unbending, and she peered menacingly at the world as if daring it to try anything more. She detested the English with passion, and she would do anything at all for a man who had killed one of them. She was also an excellent cook.
Toby had slept, eaten, slept again, washed, and shaved. Every muscle in his body ached and his joints were stiff as gateposts. Normally he enjoyed that familiar feeling — it was a sign of growth and progress and greater strength in future. Now he could find no satisfaction in it. About this same time yesterday, he had prided himself on perfecting the powerful body he had been born with, but then he had watched his own hands crush the life out of men and twist iron bars like dough. Strength was no longer a virtue. The demon had made a mockery of his ambitions.
With sunset angering the western sky, he was eating another meal. The table in the front room held more food than even he could have consumed in a week, although Helga Burnside always told him he ate more than the entire Sassenach garrison. He felt very odd, struggling to come to terms with the sudden shift in his life. He kept picturing ice on a burn — the sudden thaw that turned a smooth white pavement into a foaming torrent. Toby Strangerson's world had just broken up like that, with him not very far across yet.
He should be mourning Granny Nan. He should be worrying about the demon in his heart, the English hunting him, the dangerous passage through Glen Orchy, even the rebels who were probably waiting to recruit him at the far end — and yet all he could feel was a shivering excitement that he was leaving the glen at last to seek his fortune in the world. He chewed, and he wondered.
Seated in the doorway to catch the light, Annie sewed with quick, deft strokes. She turned her head to see how he was faring. "Take more of that beef! And of the goose. The fat'll keep you warm in the hills."
Toby reached out to slice the beef. Fall was the best time of year for eating, the time when the cattle were slaughtered and even the poor could hope to eat meat. Annie snapped at him to stop being so picky, take a decent helping.
"I'll beggar you!" he protested.
For a fleeting moment, something lit her craggy face as a ray of sun on a snowy day turned drabness to diamonds. "Boy, you don't know what it means to me to feed a man again. It warms my old heart to see you put it away. Empty the board and I'll keep filling it gladly."
What was a man to do but keep eating?
Ask a few discreet questions with his mouth full?
For instance: "Any word from the castle?"
Annie lifted her work to her teeth and bit off a thread. "Aye. The Sassenachs have been in a pretty turmoil, I'm glad to say. They've put guards on the roads, and they're riding the hills."
Toby chewed for a while, waiting for more. Then he asked, "Not searching the village or threatening to take hostages?"
"Now why would they be doing that?" Annie raised a needle to eye level and squinted to thread it. "Why would they be looking in the village when there's a horse missing?"
"Oh. The horse hasn't been found?"
"Well, they've not thought to look under Murray MacDougal's bed yet."
Fortunately Toby was not trying to swallow anything just at that moment. He laughed. He laughed the laugh that Granny Nan always said was worse than a clap of thunder and would excite the hob. He felt guilty at being able to laugh already, with her not a full day dead yet.
If Falcon was still missing, then the Sassenachs must assume their quarry had ridden off to join the rebels. Annie's serene approval suggested that he might risk other, more dangerous questions.
"And how do they account for my escape from the dungeon?"
The old woman looked at him sharply. "You were there, weren't you?"
"But what I remember and what they tell may not walk hand in hand."
She nodded, stitching again. "It was that fool woman, they say — the one that wanted to hire you. She went down to the cells to persuade you to change your mind about entering her service." The old woman's voice changed timbre. "That's what they're saying she was after, and I don't want to hear any details if it's not the case. They say you knifed her. They're calling you a mad beast and very dangerous."
Toby chewed, marveling that he could speak so easily with old Annie. Usually his tongue froze solid when there were women nearby. He realized she had not mentioned any dead bodies in the dungeon.
"I don't hold with ladies being knifed," Annie added. "As a rule. But there's rules and there's rules, and if that one is what they say she is, then it's a true shame you didn't do a better job while you were at it."
So Valda had explained the wound in her breast. How had she accounted for the table, the scroll, the blood-stained bowl, and all the other gear of her gramarye? Perhaps she had hexed them out of sight, but what had become of the bodies… or had there been no bodies? Toby had brained one man and broken another's neck. His demon vision had seen the four as other than human, and the lack of mention of bodies was unwelcome confirmation. The bodies had recovered and walked away. If someone now broke Toby Strangerson's neck… would he do the same?
Again Annie bit a thread. "Here, try them on."
He rose and went to accept the trews she had been making. She ostentatiously turned her back to observe the sunset, but Toby turned his back, too. He removed his belt, letting his plaid hang from his shoulder while he pulled the trews on. The new tweed was pleasantly rough on his legs and came with its own fresh peaty smell, but he hated the thought of having to wear such a restrictive garment. He laced up the embarrassing flap in the front and then let Annie inspect the result.
"They're fine," he said. "Perfect fit. I don't know how to—"
"Bend over. Yes, they'll do. I wish there was time for me to make you a shirt, too, and a jerkin. Couldn't manage boots, of course…"
"You've done more than enough already. But you'll excuse me if I stay with the plaid for now?" He stepped by her and went outside, round to the back of the house in search of an area large enough to dress in.
He was unhappy at the thought of giving up his plaid. Legs and arms covered? Feet crammed into boots? But if he was going off to the Lowlands and other foreign parts, Annie had insisted, then he would have to dress like a Sassenach. The same idea had evidently occurred to others. Neighbors had delivered two shirts, a tabard, and a pair of boots — curiosities that had found their way to the glen years ago by one way or another and been lying in clothes chests ever since. None of them had come close to fitting him.
It was troubling — were these tributes rewards for killing Godwin Forrester, blood money? Or did the glen really care about Toby Strangerson after all? Likely he was just being handed his fare out of town and good riddance.
He returned with the trews over his arm. Annie took them as he returned to the table.
"I'll put them in with your things." She fussed with his bundle, which she seemed to have been adding to all day. "You'd best be putting this in your sporran for safekeeping." She dropped Grannie Nan's purse in front of him.
As he obeyed, his fingers found something in there already. He took it out and looked at it properly for the first time. It was clear and angular, one end broken and the other perfectly faceted, gleaming in rich purple — amethyst, obviously, for amethyst was common in the glen. A wandering tinker might pay a couple of pennies for a good crystal like that.
Annie's sharp eyes had noticed.
He tucked it away again quickly. "It was a present from Granny Nan. You know how she was always looking for pretty things to take to the hob, but lately she grew quite odd about it, worrying, hunting and hunting. And last night… saying good-bye… think she confused me with the hob… Just want to keep it for a while…" That was enough explanation. Annie wouldn't tell anyone, and why should it matter if she did? He took a very large bite of fresh bap, not as good as Granny Nan's, but quite adequate.
Annie nodded solemnly. "When Eric left, I gave him a new plaid. The old one's still hanging on the pe
g, waiting to be washed." She gathered up her sewing bag. She paused on her way by the table. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he mumbled. Her husband had died before Toby was born.
"You were giving me an awful funny look, Toby Strangerson!"
He felt his face redden from his chin to his hair. "I was just thinking that I never suspected you of being a sentimental person. And I was wondering why you told me about the plaid."
She went on her way, out of his sight. "You've got some growing up to do yet. You're a cynical lad, Toby. Understandable, of course. There's a sword ben the house that you are to take with you."
"Sword? I can't use a sword!"
She appeared at his side again, dangling a bucket in each hand. "And who's ever going to find out? The likes of you wearing a sword will not meet many challenges, I doubt. One look and they'll be tipping their hats to you. Old Bran Westburn sent it. He says it's drunk much English blood in its time, but it's getting thirsty again. So you'll take it. I'm off to milk."
"I can do that for you!"
"You stay here!" Annie snapped. "Eat until you can eat no more. Then take the sword and your bundle and be on your way like I said. We'll have no good-byes."
Toby started to rise.
"Eat!" she barked.
He sank back on the stool. He was completely full, but he reached for the meat again to please her. How to put his gratitude into words? He was a tangle-tongue, with no gift for speeches. "I don't know how to begin to—"
"Then don't. I want no thanks from you, Toby Strangerson." She paused in the doorway. "You're a nice enough lad, but I'm glad you're leaving, more glad than I can say. The whole glen will be cheering to see you gone and the only pity is that you aren't taking the no-good Vik Tanner with you. We'll get him out somehow, though, or some husband'll knife him, and that'll be all of you."
Stunned, he said, "All…?"
