Catherine was faint from cold and terror. The trail they were following had deteriorated to hardly more than a sheep track and had descended into a narrow gorge devoid of any living thing as far as she could see beyond the flickering torchlight. Even the sturdy little garrons balked at the sight of the bleached spines of trees leering out of the darkness and the jagged projections of rock that suddenly thrust forth from the shadows. Catherine even thought she detected a genuine sigh of relief from the man whose horse she shared when Gordon Ross Campbell gave the signal to halt for the night.
The animals were staked around the stump of a gnarled old tree but remained saddled. The torches were doused, the rations limited to a couple of unleavened oatmeal biscuits and a mouthful of sour water. No one thought to provide Catherine with a blanket or a length of tartan. Her body ached from an untold number of bruises, and her temples throbbed with an appalling rhythm all their own. She gingerly tested the lump on the side of her head, just above her ear, where Campbell’s fist had silenced her. The skin had been broken, and her hair and cheek were crusted with old blood that had left muddy, sticky streaks down her neck.
The moon was a crescent-shaped sliver rising over the top of the mountain peak like a scythe. Stars hung suspended by the millions, but the light they shed did little to alleviate the sinister shapes and shadows that distorted the landscape. She was glad she could not see more than a dozen or so paces in any direction, and as she edged her way around the large boulder they had dumped her beside, she hoped the Argylemen were as blinded by the darkness and as disoriented as she was.
The rough stone scraped her hands and wrists as she felt her way around the boulder. She had lost her other slipper somewhere along the way, and the ground was littered with sharp pebbles that cut into the bare sole of her foot. She kept moving, inch by inch, keeping the stone at her back, moving away from the circle of arguing men. They were arguing over her, she imagined, arguing the order of succession. Catherine’s hope for a speedy rescue had died when the three men had been joined by the larger force on the hillside, as had any chance of her being able to reason her way into being delivered unharmed to the Duke of Argyle. One of the newcomers in particular stared at her as if she were fresh meat set before a pack of wolves. He was big and reeked of unclean body parts.
Even if Alex had come after her, even if he was within reach, what could he do against so many? Lochiel had left a skeleton guard at Achnacarry; the most-experienced fighters had gone with him to Arisaig. But even if Alex had a hundred skilled troops with him, how could he possibly follow or hope to find her in the pitch blackness?
Catherine reached the far side of the boulder and groped at the darkness that lay beyond. She kept her eyes and ears trained on the guttural voices nearby, and her panic mushroomed when she heard Gordon Ross Campbell’s laugh rise above the others. He was asking for her, demanding the prisoner be brought to him; it was a matter of mere seconds before they would discover her missing.
Catherine leaned farther out, but her hand found nothing to grasp but air. She heard the scratch of tinder on flint and guessed that a torch was being lit that they all might watch the coming amusement; she had seconds, fractions of seconds, to find a path and hide herself away in one of the hundreds of fissures that riddled the walls of the gorge.
Taking a desperate chance, she pushed away from the boulder and ran into the blackest part of the shadows. She ran with her arms outstretched, and one of them smashed painfully into stone, bringing the sting of tears to her eyes. She forced them back and kept running, kept scraping her way from rock to rock, tumbling and twisting as the cold stone teeth bit into her feet, her legs, her arms. Her skirt snagged on an outcrop and she cried out as she was jerked to an abrupt stop, halted long enough to hear angry shouts of pursuit from behind. She tore at the folds of linen and ran forward again, managing to stumble only a few feet before she felt hands reaching out to grab her. Flung sideways in the darkness, she lost her balance and went down hard, her head cracking against the rough stone, the pain exploding across her temples moments before she was plunged into a black void of unconsciousness.
The pass Struan led them to was not much more than a crevice slashed between two mighty spirals of contorted and overlapped rock that rose hundreds of feet into the sky above them. The entrance to it was covered with brambles and thorn bushes so that in daylight, from more than a score of paces away, it appeared to be a sheer cliff of unbroken stone. As it was, in the darkness, it took MacSorley over an hour to hack his way through the undergrowth and locate the opening.
The chasm was just wide enough to accommodate the breadth of a horse’s flanks. Shadow, by far the largest of the animals, balked at the entrance, his nostrils dilating, his muscles quivering with undisguised fear. Alex stroked the gleaming neck and soothed the stallion as best he could, but even he had to fight back a strong and intense revulsion to the idea of entering the black maw. Struan’s torch threw ghostly illumination off the slime-covered rock overhead; the air became thick with smoke and made the men’s eyes water until the ceiling lifted and a draft sucked the fumes upward. Then there came an even more terrifying assault on the senses: Thousands of bats began to screech and scream and stir the air into a black boil of stinging wings.
Alex kept Shadow moving forward, kept his eyes fastened on the flare of Struan’s torch ahead of him. His knees were scraped raw on the walls of stone, and he did not want to think of what might happen should the torches fail or the horses become stuck, or the mountains shift suddenly and crush the jaws of the trap closed. His eyes were burning from the smoke and his ears rang from the high-pitched shrilling of the bats. He did not turn around to see if the next man in line was faring any better, for his own nerves would not bear too much more pressure before they snapped and he screamed as loud as the bats.
Fifty yards into the bowels of the mountain, a chilled, wailing wind forced each rider to lower his head to protect his eyes from flying bits of dirt and grit. The flames of the torches streaked straight back, and Alex followed Struan’s example and held his tartan up to protect the light. He found that he was holding his breath; his skin was clammy and cold, and there was an uncontrollable urge to void his bladder, like a child caught in the grip of some unimaginable nightmare.
One hundred yards … two hundred yards … and the men’s brains began to feel as if they might explode from the pressure. Two of the four torches had been snuffed, and the men shouted back and forth, encouraging each other, encouraging the petrified animals.
Three hundred yards into the howling chasm and the walls began to relent. The wind stopped as abruptly as it had started, and although any exposed skin still felt as if it was being whipped and sliced into bloody strips, the men could sit straighter in the saddles and ease the terrible strain on their spines.
Alex wiped the streaming moisture from his eyes and saw that they were entering a chamber of sorts, an oval cavern hollowed out of the rock, twenty paces across by perhaps forty paces in length. In the middle was a still, glasslike pool of water. Huddled around the rim was a silent audience of gruesomely emaciated stone pillars, some so lifelike in size and shape that they appeared to shuffle uncomfortably in the glow of the torchlight. Some boasted faces hewn out of the rock, grizzly distortions of half-rotted noses and sunken eye sockets.
“A hellish sight, is it no’?” Struan whispered. “Legend claims these are the men turned tae stone by the dark gods f’ae their lack o’ courage.”
Alex glanced at MacSorley and was mildly surprised to see the same fat beads of moisture shining on the soot-stained brow as he felt dripping off his own.
“Hellish indeed. How do we get out of here?”
There were cracks in the walls of the cavern every few feet, none of them seeming wide enough to afford an exit.
Struan relit the doused torches and grinned easily as he led the way toward one of the fissures on the far side of the pool. As he passed between two of the stalagmites, he reached out and patted one o
f them on what might have been an incredibly well-endowed bosom.
“Take heed o’ Beulah the Bitch if ye ever need come this way again. Mind ye gie her a wee pat on the teat f’ae lettin’ ye go through. She’ll remember if ye dinna an’ she’ll change the stones on ye out o’ spite.”
Alex had no reservations whatsoever about leaning over and caressing the rough stone breasts. Each man in line did likewise until the last one was swallowed into the vastness of the mountain tomb again.
22
When the sun poked its bloodshot eye over the horizon, the Cameron clansmen were in position at the southern exit of Hell’s Gate. They had ridden most of the night, but true to MacSorley’s promise they were settled into a perfect ambuscade where the Campbells would least expect to find them. Alexander, Aluinn, and MacSorley waited out the dawn at the mouth of the pass, keeping sharp eyes on the distant column of men as they coaxed their reluctant animals through the last half mile of treacherously broken terrain. Campbell had wisely chosen not to attempt the Gate at night and their encampment had been invisible in the darkness, but as the sky began to spill color down the side of the mountain, the tiny figures could be seen moving through the rock and bracken. The gorge, heavily pocketed with mist, was below them; three keen pairs of eyes were above.
Alex stared hard at each horse and rider as they moved closer, and he noticed the bright splash of yellow hair at almost the same instant as Aluinn’s finger jabbed out over the boulder.
“There,” Aluinn spat. “Right in the middle.”
“I see her,” Alex murmured. The relief he had expected to feel on seeing Catherine alive and relatively safe did not accompany his nod. Instead, he felt an annoying, itching sensation at the back of his neck, as if there was something more down there he should be seeing but was not. The closer they came, the more persistent the itching grew; his nerves tautened and his instincts were screaming at him to look … look!… but whatever he was supposed to see eluded him.
He glanced at Struan and saw that the big Highlander had stiffened as well, like a wolfhound catching the scent of fresh blood. What was it? What was it they both sensed but could not identify? Something was out there, something deadly and dangerous and evil.
“Good God,” Aluinn whispered.
Alex saw him then. Second in line in the column, sitting fat and squat on a pony whose back and belly sagged beneath the bulk of the man. Half of his face looked human enough under the cocked blue bonnet, but the other half had the texture and appearance of lava spewed from some demonic volcano, left to cool around the distorted crater of an eyeless socket. His nose was a misshapen mass of darkly pigmented skin, split with spidery red veins. His hair was greasy and parted around a diagonal welt of a scar that ran from the crown of his head to the hollow of his throat. His arms were so thick they were held away from the trunk of his body; his legs were like tree stumps, the flesh as scarred and ridged as bark where it showed between the hem of his kilt and the top of his hose.
“Where the bloody Christ did he come from?” Aluinn asked through the grate of his teeth.
Alex could not answer past the smothering constriction in his throat. A wave of hatred, black and burning like acid, boiled up from some hidden depth of his soul, flushing through his blood and cramping the muscles in his belly and thighs.
“Malcolm Campbell.” The name was squeezed through taut white lips. “I should have known. He never would have trusted such a prize to another man, bastard son or not.”
As if Campbell heard the words spoken out loud, he jerked on the reins of his horse and called an abrupt halt to the forward motion of the column. The single reptilian eye narrowed, almost disappearing into the porous folds of skin.
He has picked up the scent too, Alex thought with malicious pleasure. He’s feeling it crawl along his skin, but he doesn’t know what it is, or where it’s coming from.
Gordon Ross Campbell edged his horse alongside his father’s.
“Sum’mit smells wrong here,” Malcolm snarled, his voice like the sound of two marble slabs grinding together.
Gordon Ross studied the formidably steep peaks of the surrounding mountains, but sensed nothing other than the desolation of barren rock.
“Are ye certain there’s nae ither way around?”
“No’ unless a man sprouts wings an’ flies,” Gordon Ross said confidently. “Asides, they canna be in two places at the once.”
Malcolm Campbell kept his eye trained on the shadows and corries even as he grunted in grudging agreement. The men they had left in the rear had reported seeing the Cameron trackers closing on their heels—a remarkable feat in itself, all things considered. To think they could have somehow passed them in the night did not even warrant the flattery.
He had to think it was just the sweet taste of revenge that was starting the glands in his mouth watering. It was likely just the anticipation of finally confronting his hated enemy after all these years that had the sweat squeaking between the leather of his saddle and the flesh of his bare thighs.
The great Camshroinaich Dubh within his grasp at last! A legend—faugh! He, Malcolm Campbell, would be the legend before this day was through. He was already a minor miracle, was he not, for having survived a wound that would have killed any other mere mortal. Cameron’s sword had hacked the flesh from the bone, tearing half his face away and severing the muscles from the left side of his chest. A clansman had roughly stitched the gaping flaps of gristle back in place as a courtesy to his family, but they had dug three graves that day, carved three names into the stone cairn laid to mark his fallen brothers, Angus and Dughall. Through it all, through the shock and the fever and the infections, through the weeks of delirium, only one thought had kept Malcolm Campbell alive: Revenge. He had nurtured that same hatred, that same desire for retribution in his son, and together, by God, they had done it. Before the day was through they would have their victory. They would have the head of the Camshroinaich Dubh and the fear of every Cameron who believed their legendary prodigal to be invincible. It only remained to get through the pass and position themselves on the other side of the granite wall, to settle in and wait for the mighty Alexander Cameron to ride into their swords.
A quarter mile away, Alex thought he detected a smile on the cruel, twisted lips. MacSorley touched him on the shoulder, beckoning him away from the rocks, and the three men raced back through the narrow gulley to where their horses were tethered. They galloped down the rutted slope, stopping several hundred yards beyond a wide avenue carved into the rock and scrub. It was the perfect spot for an ambush. Where the trail cut through the tumbled boulders, it was just wide enough for two men to ride abreast. The banks on either side were chest high and covered with a wild hedgerow tall enough and thick enough to conceal a man. The overall gloom—if the sun obliged by delaying its appearance into the world from behind the slow-moving bank of clouds overhead—would make discovery unlikely until the full troop of Campbell’s men was bottled in the avenue.
Knowing this was undoubtedly the same place Malcolm Campbell would have chosen to set up his own ambush, Alex took particularly primitive delight in the loading and priming of his steel-butted dags. Aluinn was hunkered down beside him, gently massaging his stiffened shoulder, his gray eyes calmly watching without comment as the paper cartridges were torn open and measures of black powder poured into each barrel. The actions of the long, lean fingers were steady and precise—almost loving—as if the man tamping down the wadding and balls knew exactly where each solid round of lead shot would be placed.
“There are twenty-five of them,” MacKail remarked dryly. “Only eight of us.”
“Aye, well,” Struan commented from behind, “they’re only Campbells. We have tae gie ’em some kind o’ advantage, else they’ll run off bleatin’ like stuck pigs.”
Aluinn crooked an eyebrow. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have a man up higher in the rocks with spare rounds of ball and powder. We will have only a few seconds of surprise wherein every shot
will have to count.”
Struan chuckled grimly. “Dinna fret yersel’. I’ve a wee surprise already planned f’ae those deservin’ o’ a quick an’ painless death. Mind, there are ithers who warrant nae such mercy.”
Alex stared at the battered face, knowing his own was hardly in better shape. “Malcolm Campbell is mine,” he said quietly. “I am still holding you to your bond.”
MacSorley’s eyes narrowed. It had nearly killed him fifteen years ago to pledge on his honor not to hunt Malcolm Campbell down like the dog he was and finish the job Alex had started. A score of times he had sucked the last drop out of a whisky jug and staggered off in search of vengeance only to turn back, cursing his own words. But making that pledge had been the only way he could coax Alex to relinquish Annie’s small, lifeless body after a ten-hour vigil that had bordered on madness.
“Aye, lad. I made ye that promise. An’ he’s yers … but I’ll be directly ahind ye, tae be sure he disna cheat Auld Hornie again.”
“Fair enough. Aluinn—” Alex turned to MacKail. “As soon as the first man falls, they’ll know it’s a trap and they’ll be turning their guns on Catherine.”
Aluinn nodded. “I’ll get to her first, don’t worry.”
“Aye,” Struan grunted. “An’ I’ll be directly up yer arse as well, count on it.”
A shrill whistle from the lookout warned the men of Campbell’s approach.
Forcing his mind to go completely blank, Alex ducked into position. He placed his musket beside him on the rocks and checked to make sure his sword was belted securely around his waist. He waited, both pistols cocked and ready, and out of the corner of his eye he could see the other clansmen crouched in their places, not a muscle or hair twitching to betray their presence. Every instinct was tuned to the stillness of the air, every breath was held lest a rising puff of mist betray them.
The Pride of Lions Page 35
