The Blackgloom Bounty

Book One In The Scythian Stone Saga

by

Jon F. Baxley

Copyright 2021 Jon F. Baxley

All Rights Reserved

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without the expressed written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

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Prologue: Britain, Spring, 988AD

It came to him in a dream. Or was it a dream? Merlin’s image seemed so real. Then the image spoke and Kruze knew he was not dreaming.

“Kruzurk Makshare, the time has come to avenge me,” the image said, gliding closer to the back of the wagon.

“Merlin? Is it really you or have I passed to the other side?”

The silky, colorless image floated into the wagon and settled in front of him. It hesitated, as if studying the craggy lines of the old man’s hideous features. “It is I, Merlin. Has it been so long that you have forgotten your teacher?”

“Merlin? It is you! It’s been—how long—sixty, no seventy seasons. It’s true, then, what they say about your powers of making. I never really believed that you could . . .”

The image interrupted, saying, “Kruze, my old friend! I have little time, and much to say. My powers have weakened from the long stay on the other side. There is no need of magic there, you see. But I must ask of you a boon. It will take great courage, and I can think of no other better suited for the task.”

“Merlin, you need only ask.”

“Avenge me, Kruzurk,” the image said. “The Seed has gained great powers. He must be stopped. All that you will need is contained herein.”

A tightly rolled black oilskin scroll appeared in Kruzurk’s lap. “The powers of light be with you, old friend, for I can help you no further.”

As the image seemed to dissipate in a sparkle of moonlight, Kruzurk cried out, “It will be done, Merlin—upon my magician’s oath, I swear it!”

Chapter 1

“On with you, now!” the old man cried out, his voice becoming distant and hollow in the damp evening’s clamminess. “Pull my ladies!” he shrieked. “‘Tis but a waine strip you’ve ta complete afore the light fails. On with you, now! Pull, ya big-butted sisters of perrr-dition.”

Daynin waited patiently at the edge of the field as his grandfather finished plowing the last three rows for the seasonal planting. The boy amused himself by slinging the small gray stones for which his adopted shire had been named. Already his keen eye and quick release had felled two of the fat, hairy rodents that scurried in and about the deep ruts his grandfather’s plow had furrowed only moments before.

His amusement was cut short by a loud snort from one of the two great Rhone mares on his grandfather’s team. Quickly, the other mare snorted and joined the revolt against the heavy strain the team had encountered in the last row of the field. The old man slapped at the horses’ backsides with a heavy leather thong that Daynin had grown to know all too well.

“Curse ye, get on!” the old man bellowed.

Daynin was unaccustomed to hearing his grandfather swear like that, and in none of his fifteen previous planting seasons, had he ever seen him strike one of the animals in anger. “Something’s wrong,” he whispered aloud.

The sound of the lash on bare horseflesh caused the boy to shudder. He agonized for the mares, knowing how badly that thong could sting when wielded by a man as stout as was Ean McKinnon. Sixty planting seasons and three terms as bowman in the service of Scottish lords had done little to weaken the stocky, stone hard features that Daynin had come to know and love above all others.

“Bring a staff and come ‘ere, boy!” came a shout from across the rows.

“What’s wrong, grandfather?” Daynin shouted through the thickening darkness. Staff in hand, he was already halfway across the field.

“I’ll be a blaggard’s whore if I can tell ye, boy. A bloody great stone is buried here, where none has ever been afore. Agnes and Matildy cannae barely budge it. Some black evil it is that’s left this here booty in my field.”

Upon reaching the far side of the plowed field Daynin could see, square in the middle of the last furrow, an upturned edge of what appeared to be a great round headstone. The few curious markings that were visible in the failing light gave little evidence of the stone’s meaning to the two McKinnons.

With Daynin’s help and a mighty heave from the mares, they dragged the stone from the furrow and cast it aside for the night. Ean and his grandson, both tired from the long day’s work, talked little of the stone on the way back to their hovel. Daynin asked at supper what his grandfather intended to do with the stone, and was met with a brief, pointed rebuke for reminding the elder McKinnon of the stone’s annoying presence.

The next day was market day for the village. Daynin had little to do except wander around and investigate all the wonderful things the traveling merchants had brought to Hafdeway to sell. He stopped at one wagon and stared for a long time at three magnificent books on display in the back. The ornate covers and beautifully inscribed writing fascinated the boy. He had not had the pleasure of being so close to a real book in a long time.

When he reached out to explore the cover of one book, a thin wooden stick struck from nowhere, slapping across his knuckles with the swiftness of a black snake. Tears welled in Daynin’s eyes as he rubbed the stinging flesh on his hand.

“Look ye, brat, but touch ye not!” came a harsh admonishment from inside the wagon. “Lest, of course, ye be the Duke’s heir and have brought me ten pieces of silver for the pleasure,” the gruff, squeaking voice continued.

“But I was just . . .” Daynin protested.

“Just is dust when profit I must, says I,” the voice interrupted again.

Daynin peered carefully around the tailgate of the wagon to see whence his admonishment came. A mop of long, unclean, stringy hair growing from a too-small head, sitting atop a too-small body met his eyes.

“Nosey bit o’ work, ain’t ye, sprite?” the hairy head asked.

The shock of seeing the head talk, seemingly without the benefit of a mouth, temporarily struck the boy dumb. He stepped back from the tailgate and briefly considered running away. Strangely, his feet wouldn’t respond to the warning his brain screamed at him.

“Rat got your tongue, boy?” the hair demanded.

“Uhh, no, I—uhh, I just uhh . . .”

The hairy head turned and screeched, somewhat less loudly, “There ye go using that just word again. Ain’t no profit in that word, boy. You got to be pure, or sure, elsewise you ain’t fit for nothin’ but cleanin’ up horse droppin’s in the middle of the road. Remember that, lad! Remember what old Boozer tells ye, ‘cause there’s profit in it, if’n ye’ll listen and mark it well.”

Daynin’s eyes grew large as the screaming in his head exploded again. His feet still refused to move. The ugliness of the heavily scarred face staring down at him from the wagon was almost more than he could bear.

The boy’s eyes dropped, preferring to stare instead at the mud and animal dung caked on the wagon’s axle. Words totally escaped him. The horror of the man’s face and of the whole situation made him hope he was dreaming and not really there.

“Ye never see’d a face like this afore, have ye, boy? Never see’d a face spoilt like this one, eh? Here, give us a good look at that sweet cherub smile of yours,” the hairy face said. A long bony hand reached down to cup the boy’s face in its palm.

Daynin cringed at the touch of the hairy thing’s rough skin. He noted a strange color in the hand—a kind of bluish white flesh tone. The hand slowly pulled his chin up, forcing his eyes to meet those of his tormentor.

“Please, I only wanted to look at the . . .” Daynin pleaded.

“Manuscripts? Truly it is with everyone. And what happens if I let every curious bloke touch me books? ‘Ere long, the covers get tore, the pages bespoiled and then me books are as worthless as three-day-old pig guts. What’s yer name, cherub? What is it they call you, or do you just go by boy? Eh—speak up!”

“Daynin’s my name, sir. I live just, er, uhh, half a league outside the village.”

“Daynin, eh? Bloody curious christenment for these parts, says I.”

“I’m not from here, m’lord. My grandfather brought me here from the highlands of Scotia. He is a McKinnon, of the McKlennan clans.”

“Then what need have ye of books, master McKinnon? ‘Tis common knowledge that highlanders are a wild lot and have little need of education. Their swords do most of their talking, so I’m told.”

Daynin rankled at that notion. He thought of the books in his father’s house, and how they had smelled as the great fire engulfed all that he had known of life in the highlands. His mind flashed to the blood splattered snow and the image of his father’s still warm brains melting a hole in it. Gone was the clan of McKinnon, killed one and all by the order of men he knew not. All gone, save for Daynin and his grandfather and they alive only by the grace of good providence and the luck of being caught out in a late winter’s storm.

He had never forgotten that scene, the smell of the burned flesh, the agony of finding all of his kin murdered in one bloody afternoon. He seethed with anger at the loss of the books his family had cherished so much.

“I have to go,” Daynin replied sheepishly. “I have chores . . .”

“Run away if ye must, lad, but stay, if me books you wish to muse.”

“But you said . . .”

“Not many have the stomach to stay and chat with old Boozer. Let alone make an argument with ‘im that has the looks of the devil’s own nightmare. You got the grip, boy, and that’s rare these days. What say you, now? Have ye a readin’ eye, or was ye only lookin’ outta curiosity?”

“I can read,” Daynin replied, matter-of-factly. “Latin and some Greek, but it’s been a long time.”

The Boozer held up a small sign and said, “Then read this, and I’ll let ye spy me books. If’n ye can’t, I’ll swat ye again for bein’ the liar.”

“Boozer’s Books and Magical Items,” the boy read out loud.

“Hanged if ye ain’t a reader!” the hairy one declared excitedly. “Sit down and tell me what the village of Hafdeway is doin’ with one as bright as you.”

Daynin reluctantly agreed, his mind having finally convinced his feet that he was in no mortal danger for the moment. He jumped up on the wagon’s tailgate opposite the Boozer and began to describe how he and his grandfather managed their harrowing exodus from the highlands.

The Boozer listened attentively for a while. Then the boy’s story reached its climax at yesterday’s finding of the great stone in his grandfather’s field.

“Headstone, says you?” the Boozer asked excitedly. “Rounded like and wider than a man is tall, with strange markings on it?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Gimme the lay of those markings, boy. If they weren’t Latin, tell me what they looked like.”

“Like that,” Daynin replied, pointing to an ancient astrological chart the Boozer had hanging inside his wagon.

The old man’s head twisted around rapidly, as though not connected to his body by a neck. “Runes, says you!” he spat out. “On a bloody great stone, buried in a highlander’s field. Friar’s Rush, boy, that ain’t no headstone! No wonder t’was never found. The legend says a highlander’s field—but it don’t say the field is in Scotia,” he crowed.

“What are you talking about?” Daynin replied.

“Every mage for a thousand years has been lookin’ for that sacrosanct slab of infernal sedition, and it took a cherub like you to find it. Luck is indeed with you, boy. The powers of all the heavens is alayin’ out there in that field right now. You could well have discovered the Scythian Stone!”