by Ken Hood
"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 Cairndow, 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 aw
ay.
"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 could 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...
Fun! Fun! More! Farther up the glen were other wet slopes just waiting to roll down...
CHAPTER TWO
"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 wall 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."
