Demon Sword

by Ken Hood

  The glen ran straight as a pike, narrow and bare. The right side, beyond the Shira, was precipitously steep. This side was gentler. At the limit of sight in the rain a wooded bluff marked the Shrine of Shira—so Father Lachlan and MacDonald had said. That was where the buildings were; the shrine itself was in a cave, a little higher up the hill.

  They were assuming that the spirit would grant him asylum—if it didn't object to the demon in his heart as the bogy had done, if it was strong enough to resist Valda and her pack, if Valda and her pack didn't come into range and freeze him first. What was their range? They might be close enough already. The hexer might be just enjoying the chase, knowing that she had her trophy in the game bag.

  His feet slapped in the mud of the track. Rain blew in his face. He pushed himself as hard as he dared.

  Demon! Demon, I need you now!

  His appeal went unanswered. His heart thumped madly, but he did not hear the mysterious dum... dum... he had heard before. No weird light, no superhuman strength to fly him down the road. Demon, demon!

  He glanced back. His companions were hurrying to the river. The riders were almost level with them but still coming after him. Hiding from demons was crazy. Valda had brought horses up the Eas a Ghail.

  The shrine seemed as distant as ever. His heart was thundering, his lungs bursting. No use keeping anything in reserve—it was win the race or die. His waterlogged plaid weighed more than a cartload of meal. He fumbled with his belt buckle, dropped the load, and raced on, wearing only his bonnet.

  There was an isolated croft off to his left. A man stood in the doorway, staring at this strange race disturbing his solitude. Toby wanted to yell at him to hide, to warn him that those were demonic creatures pursuing him, but he lacked the breath.

  Where was his demon protector now, the presence that had saved him from the bogy, from Crazy Colin, from Valda in the dungeon? If that had not been a demon, but only a hex, as Father Lachlan suggested, then perhaps Valda had corrected her mistake and removed it.

  He glanced over his shoulder. His companions had disappeared, but the pursuers had not tarried to deal with them—all six were still following. That was good! The plover had led the danger away from the nest. He need not be ashamed of his decision, then. But the race was almost over. Valda was in the lead, and she was already passing the sad little bundle of his plaid lying in the track.

  He turned his face forward again, blinking through the rain. The shrine was closer, yes. He wasn't going to make it. Even if he reached the bluff, he would still have to run up to the buildings in the grove, and then on to the shrine itself. Hopeless!

  His head was about to burst. The world was disappearing behind a black fog. There was a taste of iron in his mouth. He could hear the slapping of his feet and the rough gasps of his breathing... and now he could hear hooves, also. They had him.

  He started to look around, missed his footing, sprawled headlong into the mud.

  Almost before he landed, his hands came down to push him up again. He raised his head... he froze. Every muscle turned to stone. He lay helpless at the mercy of his pursuers, staring fixedly along the road ahead—a road he was destined never to walk as a free man. The shrine was half a mile away, farther than the moon. Valda had him now... naked and helpless as a newborn babe.

  Hooves beat nearer.

  And kept coming.

  The ground shook, mud splattered all over him. A horse thundered by him, its iron feet missing his hand by inches. Lady Valda, robed and riding sidesaddle, but hunched forward as she pursued a prey that lay unseen behind her.

  More tumultuous hoofbeats, mud spraying—one by one, the four hooded demonic creatures followed their mistress. But the last two... their heads were wrong. One was canted forward, chin on chest, and the other flopped horribly to one side, bouncing in time with the horse's stride. And finally went the lady's maid, alone.

  They all rode on without a backward glance. They had not turned, had not looked down, had not seen their quarry in plain view beneath them. Valda, the first two demons, then the two corpses, the maid—all went galloping along the highway and dwindled rapidly into the distance. The sound of hooves faded away into the steady hiss of rain and the rustle of wind in the heather. What did they think they were pursuing?

  Finding himself no longer petrified, Toby scrambled to his feet. His companions were coming back into sight, climbing the riverbank. He was plastered all over with mud, and he had scraped himself when he fell. His plaid still lay in the road. He pushed himself to a weary trot toward it, so he could take it to the river and make both it and himself respectable before the others reached him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  He was shocked to see how exhausted they all were. It had been an arduous day and night would come early. The light was already fading.

  Hamish had been set to carrying the sword. Not being tall enough to wear it, he held it over his shoulder. He was canted sideways under its weight, but he had a grin to match its size.

  "The spirit!" he yelled. "It saved us! This is its territory. Thanks to Father Lachlan!"

  "Oh, I doubt if I made any difference," the acolyte said. "I think the spirit understands the problem much better than I do—but it never hurts to ask." He adjusted his glasses and beamed benevolently. "Shira has placed us under its protection. Now we must go and give formal thanks."

  Rory's pale eyes shone improbably bright in the twilight. "That's certainly one possible explanation."

  "What's the other?" Toby demanded angrily.

  "Why ask me? You seem to have contrived another of your astonishing escapes—you tell us."

  "I don't know!" Toby glared around at his companions, all suddenly so quiet that he could hear his heart again: Dum... Dum... Balderdash! Everybody's heart beat! Just because he could hear his heart doing its steady slow thump did not mean that his demon had pulled off another rescue. It had been nothing like as loud as he'd heard it in the dungeon or by the hob's grotto. More like Glen Orchy. And he did not recall hearing it like that when he'd been lying naked in the road.

  Whatever had saved him—the spirit of Shira or a personal guardian demon—it certainly had shown no interest in maintaining his self-respect.

  "Don't look at me like that!" he yelled, girding on his sword again. "I don't know any more than you do, any of you! I certainly didn't do anything, if that's what you're wondering. I just fell flat on my face. Will they be back, Father?"

  The acolyte shrugged wearily. "I don't think so. The spirit has shown it can blind the hexer; I am sure she will not dare a direct assault on it. I hope it will enlighten us... Have faith, children! Evil has been balked, that is what matters."

  "You're not hurt?" Meg asked. She looked worried, as well she might. She had not run into Toby's arms to welcome him. Why had he expected her to?

  "I deserve to be." Certainly his pride was hurt. What must she think of him? Great, clumsy oaf—some protector her father had chosen for her! Demons pursued him and he tripped over his own feet.

  Rory snorted. "Let's walk. We need the exercise."

  As they set off, Toby said, "Father? What's a demon sword?"

  The tubby little man peered at him and then at the hilt behind Toby's shoulder. "A blade that has slain a demon—an incarnate demon, of course. The blow through the husk's heart, you know? The blades are supposed to possess power against demons." He glanced apologetically at Rory. "With all due respect... I don't believe in them."

  The rebel shrugged. "One hears stories. I never met one myself."

  "Oh, I have met them. Men bring them to the sanctuary and ask the tutelary to authenticate them. They always turn out to be perfectly ordinary blades. The whole notion is pernicious!" The acolyte had abandoned his normal calm and become quite fervent. "This foolish superstition has killed far too many innocent people! A touch of brain fever, a mysterious accident, or just plain spite... someone gets accused of being possessed and is promptly stabbed through the heart so the killer can claim to own a demon
sword—which he will sell to you for a price, of course! I see no reason to believe that Master Strangerson's blade is anything out of the ordinary."

  "It's a load of scrap iron," Rory agreed solemnly.

  The little man pushed his eyeglasses up his nose. "And the whole idea of stabbing demons through the heart is nonsense! It's ridiculous! How can anyone expect them to stand still for that? You take a sword to a demonic creature, and I'll tell you which one of you is going to die!"

  "I'd much rather not." If Rory was amused by the acolyte's ardor, he was keeping an admirably straight face.

  "Can't you creep up behind them?" Hamish looked so concerned that he must be planning to take up demon-stabbing as a sport.

  "Of course not! The demon could hear you thinking!" Father Lachlan wagged a finger at him. "I don't suppose there are a dozen genuine demon swords in all the realms of the Golden Horde, or ever have been! So who can know anything about their supposed powers?"

  Abashed, Hamish walked on in silence for a moment, then: "What can you do about demons if you can't impale them?"

  "Head to the nearest shrine or sanctuary and pray, of course. Which is exactly what we are doing now."

  So Toby's sword was just a sword, and not even much of one. He was not surprised. He had acquired it after he became hexed, so for it to be hexed as well would require an absurd coincidence. The curious fascination the great bull-sticker held for him was not caused by the sword; it came from some perversion in himself.

  Swords didn't kill people; swordsmen did.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dark was falling by the time the travelers reached the buildings. They were uninviting—old and gloomy, with stone walls and black slate roofs huddled under dripping trees. Some of the roofs had collapsed. The tiny windows were all dark. The overgrown yard looked as if it had been deserted for years, without dogs or chickens, or any signs of life at all.

  "Let me see now," Father Lachlan said fussily. "It's been years since I was here, but I doubt if anything's changed. Which one is the keeper's house, do you recall?"

  "The one at the end," Rory said curtly.

  "Whose are the rest, sir?" Hamish looked worried, very worried.

  Rory just growled.

  The acolyte said, "They are for pilgrims—doesn't look as if we have any company."

  "Understandable!" Rory was glaring around him. "Who would want to visit a sty like this?"

  Father Lachlan made a tactful, soothing noise. "I shall go and inform the keeper of our arrival. I fear it is too late for us to visit the spirit tonight." He plodded off through the weeds.

  "Let's try this one first!" Rory headed for a cottage with the others at his heels.

  Just to get under cover and out of the rain was a huge relief. The prospects were not encouraging otherwise. Only rusty hinges remained to show where the door and shutters had once hung. The interior was dark, but the rebel soon located a lantern with a stub of tallow in it. No other man could possibly have produced dry tinder after such a day, but in seconds he had the lantern lit.

  The central hearth had no chimney; rain had been entering through the smoke hole above it, but the roof seemed fairly sound otherwise. Clearly the hut had not been used for months or years, and the last tenants had not cleaned up before they left. The only furniture was a flattened heap of straw that reminded Toby of the dungeon at Lochy Castle. On this dank fall evening the place reeked of rot and neglect.

  Rory growled again, louder and fiercer. "It's a disgrace, an absolute outrage!"

  "Who is supposed to look after it, sir?" Hamish asked in a very small voice.

  "The keeper, of course! The Reverend Murray Campbell. Your dear cousin is a first-class miser. All pilgrims make offerings to the spirit, but most leave money for the upkeep of the shrine, too. He must have a king's ransom buried somewhere, but he won't spend a farthing of it." Rory had dropped his frivolous manner; for once he sounded as if he really cared about something other than his precious rebellion.

  "But, sir... doesn't the laird have any say in how the shrine is maintained? Doesn't it reflect on the whole glen?"

  "Mind your tongue, lad! Remember who's laird here."

  Toby was no Campbell. "Just because a man's an earl doesn't mean he isn't a fool."

  Rory swung around violently, his hand snaking to the hilt of his sword.

  "Does it?" Toby added, putting his fists on his hips.

  Rory seemed to consider a little punitive bloodletting and then decide against it. "I know more fools who aren't earls. I also know that the Campbell has more than once sent workmen to restore this shrine. The keeper scares them away by telling them they are annoying the spirit. I assume he then uses the lumber for firewood, or sells it. Have you any helpful suggestions to offer?"

  It was a fair question, more than fair. They were all tired and hungry and short-tempered. "No, sir. And I will apologize to His Lordship... when I meet him."

  "You do that!" Rory said, releasing his sword.

  Hamish said, "Um?"

  "Yes?"

  "If the laird were to allow the keeper to charge pilgrims for the use of the repaired cottages, sir?"

  Rory stared at him for a moment, and then chuckled. "Ingenious! Suggest that to the earl... when you meet him!"

  "Yes, sir." Hamish grinned, but briefly. He was understandably more depressed than any of them by this first sight of his new home. "What about food, and fires, and dry clothes?"

  "Ha! What do you think? Pilgrims are supposed to bring their own. You've never met your esteemed cousin?"

  "No, sir."

  "Ah! Well, Murray can be awkward. He's more or less a hermit. He hates men, and women terrify him. I'm not sure how he reacts to boys. Take that feather out of your cap before he sees it." The rebel had become ominously sympathetic all of a sudden.

  "Do I call him 'Father'?"

  "If you want. He's not a full acolyte, so you'll be flattering him. You can call the spirit a tutelary, too. Again, that's just a courtesy."

  Toby had removed his sword and was stretching his shoulders luxuriously. "What's the difference between a spirit and a tutelary? Strength?"

  Rory hesitated. "Strength? No, not at all. Talk with Father Lachlan if you want to discuss theological niceties. You will not go too far wrong if you think of a hob as a child, a spirit as an adolescent, and a tutelary as an adult. It has nothing to do with age, because they are all immortal. Just... experience." There was warning in his eyes.

  "Oh—thanks!" Being familiar with the Fillan hob's tantrums, Toby should not have asked such a question here in the precincts of the shrine. Hobs could be touchy and unpredictable, even dangerous. So could adolescents.

  Rory turned his attention back to Hamish, who was looking more apprehensive than ever.

  "Did you bring any money, laddie?"

  "Pa gave me some."

  "Hang on to it! Murray has never learned that the stuff can be spent, too. Go and see if any of the other cottages are any more habitable. Brawny laddie, you go find some firewood."

  Toby shrugged and followed Hamish out into the rain. He strode over to the cottage that had been named as the keeper's. Finding a miserably small woodpile there, he began stacking logs on his arm.

  The door opened and Father Lachlan emerged. He said, "Oh!" Then he said, "No one there, I'm afraid." He had taken a surprisingly long time to hunt for a man in a one-room cottage, and his guilty air showed that he thought that Toby thought that.

  Toby said, "Would you mind giving me a hand, Father?"

  He held out both arms so the acolyte could load logs on them.

  "No fire lit, but the house is inhabited. I was trying to establish how long the keeper has been gone. One always worries that he might have fallen sick or had an accident."

  One always thought, Toby thought, that the spirit would take care of the keeper. He couldn't think of anything tactful to say, so he said nothing. He assumed that acolytes were capable of being nosy, like anyone else. Father Lachlan had likel
y just been measuring the staleness of crusts and estimating the thickness of dust.

  Bearing a good third of the woodpile, Toby returned to the cottage. Hamish and Meg were sweeping the floor with handfuls of broom, while Rory knelt at the hearth, nurturing a seedling of fire. He glanced up, apparently back in his usual irreverent good humor.

  "Any signs of the holy Murray?"

  "No fire lit," Father Lachlan said. "From the warmth of the fireplace, he must have been here last night. He may have gone down to the loch for supplies."

  "Then we shouldn't expect him back tonight. Can we raid his larder?" Rory bent to blow on his fledgling blaze.

  "Larder? I saw no larder! Fasting purifies the soul." The acolyte beamed cheerfully over his spectacles.

  "My tastes run more to cannibalism. Shall we draw lots?"

  A shadow darkened the doorway. "Oh it's you, is it?" roared a new voice. "I might have guessed."

  Everyone jumped, except Rory, who rose, beaming amiably. "All good spirits be with you, Father Murray."

  "Trouble! You always bring trouble." The newcomer lumbered forward into the pale flicker of the lantern. He leaned on a thick, gnarled staff, moving as if his joints hurt. He was old and gaunt, even skinnier than Hamish—it must run in the family. His faded, waterlogged plaid revealed arms and legs like twigs. His face was a craggy construction, all nose and high cheekbones and protruding jaw, its weathered texture visible through wispy white whiskers. Streaks of silver hair had escaped from under his bonnet, plastered to his face by the wet.

  Hamish's mouth had fallen open and his eyes showed white all around the irises.

  "Trouble is the lot of us mortals, is it not?" Clearly, Rory was intent on being insufferably angelic. "You know the Reverend Father Lachlan of Glasgow, of course. You will also recall that my name is Rory of Glen—"

  "Your name is Trouble!"

  "Thank you. Rory of Trouble, I must remember that. I am also happy to present—"

  "Who are you fleeing from this time?" The old man's voice creaked like Iain Campbell's mill. "I saw you running to hide down by the road. Who was that after you? Where are they? English, I'll be bound, ready to hang you at last. Outlaw!"