Chapter 6

“We owe you a debt, stranger,” the Boozer exclaimed.

The stranger jumped from the tailgate and walked to the front of the wagon. “These woods are full of blaggards and cutthroats,” he said, a heavy highlander’s accent more evident, now, in his rolling words. “You should’na stopped when you did, boy. Don’t make that mistake again. You cannae trust anybody on this road.”

“Where’re you going?” Daynin asked, as the man walked away.

“Back to Scotia,” the stranger replied. “My business is completed here.”

“Then travel with us,” the Boozer offered. “We’re headed for Insurlak, and would be grateful for your company.”

“I travel alone,” he replied, “and you’ve a sickly woman with you.”

Sabritha poked her head from the front of the wagon, and said, “I’m not sick—just bored. I’ll wager you’d make the trip more interesting, eh?”

Daynin’s ears burned hearing that conniving tone in her voice. “Fare thee well, stranger,” he bellowed, raising the whip to snap Abaddon into stride again. “We thank you for your help.”

Sabritha grabbed Daynin’s wrist and stayed his motion. “We’re in no hurry,” she insisted. “Join us, stranger. It’s a long walk to Scotia.”

The man seemed to hesitate, then agreed. The woman’s beautiful smile was more than he, or any man could resist, it seemed. Daynin waited for him to climb onto the tailgate once more, then angrily snapped the reins, jerking the wagon forward abruptly.

The Boozer grabbed the reins to steady both the boy and old Abaddon. “Yer time’ll come, boy. Best be patient,” he said.

Sabritha’s sharp tongue couldn’t resist the temptation. “That would indeed be a trick of magic,” she sneered, quickly disappearing toward the back of the wagon to engage a more likely prey.

With the morning rushing quickly toward its midday axis, the road to Briarhenge seemed to sprout all manner of men and beasts. The Boozer became impatient with the slow moving traffic. Mustn’t be in too big a hurry, now, he counseled himself. The word should reach Blackgloom by nightfall tonight. By tomorrow at the latest. Then I’ll know if the Seed has taken the bait. After that, my patience will indeed be tested. He glanced at Daynin seated next to him and added, somewhat sadly, as will yours, my young friend.

Annoyed by hours of silence from the stranger, Sabritha finally had to say something. “Sir, you’ve not uttered a word all morning. Are we not worthy of your conversation?”

“Worthiness comes from one’s values when applied to another’s plight,” the stranger recited, almost as if from a manuscript. “Even though I didna seek your company today, yet here I am. Neither did I seek to fight a pitched battle this morning, yet so I did. Now it’s my desire to rrrr-ide with you to Scotia, but that doesna mean I wish to converse whilst we’re about it.”

The hair on the back of Sabritha’s neck stood up at the stranger’s mild rebuke. Not to be outdone, she snapped back, “No need to be haughty, sir highlander. I’ll have you know that I am a personal friend of the Marquis of Greystone.”

“Then you’ve no knowledge of his demise?” the stranger replied.

Sabritha’s anger at the man’s verbal saltiness was quickly overshadowed by her concern for his knowledge of the Marquis’ death. She could not believe the word had spread so far, so rapidly. “Demise?” she dodged. “The Marquis is dead?”

“At the hands of a straw-haired plowboy, so I’m told—in a drunken brawl over some sprightly wench. The Duke’s men’re searching every village from Wingsdale north to Tendalfief. When they find ‘im, they’ll hang ‘im for sure. Him and his cohorts in the deed, that is.”

“Cohorts?” she asked, continuing to feign ignorance.

He stared at her, as if to decide the depth of her interest in the matter. “Curious, m’lady. Of such matters, most women make little note.”

Sabritha avoided the stranger’s gaze by crawling over the Stone to the back of the wagon. She decided to change the direction of their conversation, and quickly. “Have you been away from Scotia for a long time?”

“Aye, too long,” he answered, wistfully. “I hate this cursed country and the Saxon swine who rrr-ule it. With any luck, I’ll not have to venture here again.”

“Soldiers!” the Boozer gasped from the front of the wagon. “Sabritha, under the blankets, quickly! And you as well, Daynin.”

“That’s the first place they’ll look, old mahn,” the stranger said, with a knowing tone in his voice. “Let me take the boy through the woods and we’ll meet you at the Widow’s Bridge over the Tweed.”

The Boozer hesitated, then apparently realized the stranger knew exactly who it was he was traveling with---and that the stranger was right. “Go with ‘im, boy. Ye’ve no chance here if they search the wagon.”

“But Boozer,” Daynin pleaded, “I don’t want to go with him!”

“Come on, boy, we’ve no time to waste,” the stranger ordered.

Before they could move, the Boozer stopped them. “Wait,” he said. “They’re not searching the wagons. There’s just a big crowd ahead. Daynin, you get in the back and hide with Sabritha. Stranger, come join me here in front. We’ll bluff our way through whilst the soldiers are busy.”

The stranger did as he was asked. The instant he reached the wagon’s front seat, he knew what the hubbub ahead was all about. “It’s a flogging,” he said. “Probably some poor pilgrim caught stealing food. Or one of my kinsmen in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Highlander it is, eh?” the Boozer probed. “I thought so. Damned few of your countrymen would wear the tartan so boldly in the Duke’s realm.”

“The Duke’s realm, indeed,” the stranger scoffed. “Only by treachery and deceit, it is. Otherwise, t’would still be the land of mah kinsmen. And someday t’will be so again, have I and my mates anything to say of it.”

“Do you know who the boy is?” the Boozer whispered to the stranger.

“Aye. I do now. Like as not, he’s the one that laid low the Marquis of Greystone. And you’d be the scarecrow that helped ‘im in the deed.”

“But how did you hear of it so quickly? It was only . . .”

“I was there, old mahn—in the inn, that is—upstairs. And your boy there did a deed t’was meant for me to do. I was sent by mah kinsmen to take the Marquis, or to kill ‘im, whichever. We planned to trade ‘im for one of our chiefs held captive in Tendalfief. I’ve been following you ever since to see if the boy’s deed was a fluke or a task given ‘im by others.”

“It was a fluke, trust me, but why does it matter? Where’s the profit in pursuing him?” the Boozer fished.

“It’s said your boy’s of Scotian blood. If that be true, the honor of avenging mah kinsmen is his and I intend to see that they know about him and what he did for us. If I can get him to Donnegal, his deed will help us raise a hundred more like me, then a thousand, then ten thousand. With that many clansmen, we can make these bloody Anglish pay for two hundred yearrr-s of tyranny in the highlands. ”

“That may not be so easy, my friend,” the Boozer continued. “I must warn you, this boy has a task ahead of him even the stoutest of hearts would do well to avoid. I can tell you no more of it, as that is all I know for sure.”

“It matters not, old mahn. The clans must know that even a farm boy can face the Duke and live to tell of it. To that end, I’ll follow ‘im to the very gates o’ hell if need be.”

The Boozer shook his head and cracked a wry smile. “Ye may be closer to that end than either of us wants to know, good sir. By the bye, what is it that we should call you, or would you prefer to stay a stranger?”

“McCloud, of the Dunlock Moor McClouds,” he said, extending his hand. “Caelum’s mah given name, but it’s seldom used where I come from. Most call me Cale, as was my father’s name, and his father afore him.”

The throng gathered about the soldiers seemed unusually quiet as the Boozer’s wagon passed by on the road. Suddenly a unanimous groan went up when the first “crack” of a whip split the still morning air. Cale shuddered at that sound, knowing well the pain that a nine-tail could inflict. He stood up on the wagon seat to see if he knew the unfortunate soul on the sharp end of the cat.

“Stop the wagon!” Cale ordered.

The Boozer jerked Abaddon to a halt. “What’s wrong?”

Cale dropped down onto the seat and reached for his dirk. “I know the mahn being flogged,” he whispered. “He’s Toobar the Ferret. He helped me escape the Duke’s dungeon when I was Daynin’s age. Save for him, I would have grown no older. I have to help him.”

“There’s a score of soldiers, highlander. What do you think you’ll accomplish by yourself? Wait ‘til the flogging’s over; then make your move.”

“He’ll likely be dead when they’re through with him. You just be on your way and if we can, we’ll catch up to you at the bridge.”

The Boozer waited for a few seconds while Cale disappeared into the crowd, then decided his oath to Merlin would not permit him to risk further involvement. He urged the horse on as another loud crack echoed behind them.

Half a league down the road, a great roar erupted back in the village. The magician knew what it signaled, and instinctively lashed out at Abaddon to put distance between them and the problem.

The sudden lurch in speed brought Daynin to the wagon’s front. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Where’s the stranger?”

“Where we don’t want to be, I’m afraid,” the Boozer replied. He lashed the horse harder, scattering pilgrims in the road ahead. “Keep a sharp eye out the back, Daynin. We’ve trouble on our heels.”

No sooner had Daynin turned than the Boozer’s warning proved out. “Riders coming—hard!” Daynin shouted. “Looks like soldiers and they’re chasing somebody—a man—and a boy—on horseback.”

“Open the keg of axle grease and be ready to dump it when I say. That’s our only chance to stop ‘em this side of the bridge.”

“It’s the stranger!” Daynin screamed in recognition. “How much farther to the bridge, Boozer? The soldiers have almost caught up to them!”

The Boozer whooped, “There’s the bridge! Wait ‘til they’re upon us, boy, then dump that grease so’s to catch as many of the soldiers as ye can.”

Old Abaddon’s hooves clattered like hailstones when they hit the great stone bridge over the Tweed. It was the signal Daynin awaited. Cale and his companion were but a wagon’s length behind them now. Sabritha helped Daynin tip the heavy keg as the Boozer shouted, “Now, boy! Do it now!”

Over his shoulder, the Boozer watched the thick goop splatter heavily on the road, barely missing Cale’s hard charging animal. The first two soldiers avoided the slippery mess as well, but the third went down in a confused heap, his animal losing all traction. The rest of the soldiers drew up and stopped well back from the bridge, fearing the same disastrous fate as their companion.

In a moment of unplanned joy, Daynin and Sabritha hugged each other and shouted, “We did it!” almost at the same instant.

The Boozer pulled hard on Abaddon’s reins at the far side of the bridge. He turned the wagon broadside in the road, knowing the horsemen would be forced to stop or go headlong into the Tweed. The plan worked.

Cale’s horse buckled first, throwing his much smaller companion under the wagon with the sudden stop. The lead soldier’s horse slammed into Cale’s fallen mount and collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The second catapulted the first and crashed into the side of the wagon, throwing its rider into the wagon cover. Cale and the first soldier immediately became entangled in close combat with their dirks. The second soldier lashed out at the wagon cover to free himself and quickly joined the fight. The little man under the wagon leaped onto the back of the second soldier to keep him busy while Cale continued the fight with the other.

Across the bridge, the Boozer spied a half score of dismounted soldiers forming up to rush the wagon. He knew the fight would be brief if those men were able to cross the bridge. Suddenly, his attention was drawn away from the battle to an enormous black cloud that had appeared overhead.

A heavy, deep rolling rumble seemed to stop all the action in place. Every head turned to watch the awesome spectacle unfolding above the bridge. The cloud churned and rumbled again, a monstrous blue black, snake-like funnel formed and danced across the sky. With an accompanying flash of brilliant lightning, the huge vortex darted straight down and engulfed the wagon and everything near it. A howling wind whirled violently, sucking the wagon, men, and horses high into the air.

With the cataclysmic event unfolding around them, the Boozer held on to the wagon and smiled, knowing the first part of his plan had succeeded. Blackgloom can only be entered by the use of sorcery, he mused. The Seed has taken the bait at last! If only the rest of the plan works as well . . .