Chapter 18

Swept half a league down the ragged north bank of the Liddle River, Mediah desperately clung to the mane of his horse. A vain attempt to rescue Kruzurk from the dark swirling waters had long since given way to despair for the normally stouthearted Greek. He allowed his mare to tow him toward the beach with little more than a backward glance at the black murky swells that had seemingly just claimed his only friend in the world.

Struggling up the bank ahead of Mediah, Kruzurk’s stallion defiantly shook itself off, none the worse for wear after the arduous swim from the barge. The mare followed behind, barely managing to drag herself and her passenger to dry land.

Mediah collapsed into a muddy, shivering heap, his body scraped and bruised by the maze of sharp rocks that lined the Scotian bank. “Insha Allah,” he vowed, almost unable to force the prayer through his chattering teeth. “Forgive me dear friend, for I failed you in your time of need. May Allah give your soul its rewards.”

Before the words were lost in a rising easterly wind, a familiar though somewhat shaky voice sang out from behind him. “I guess Allah will have to wait a while longer for this old soul.”

A surge of joy, energy and surprise propelled Mediah to his feet. “Kruze!” he cried out, seeing the spindly old man teetering toward him on bare feet, a drooping breechcloth his only clothing.

The two ran together, embracing like long lost brothers. “I thought you had gone down for good, m’lord! You turned blue as soon as you hit the water.”

“Aye. That water felt considerably colder than I expected. Fortunately it was not too deep, though. I’m glad you made it.”

“As am I, m’lord. But we’d best be off. The Duke’s men must surely have seen us from the castle ramparts.”

Kruzurk cast a mindful eye to the battlements perched on the bluffs above the river, remembering the urgency of their mission. He broke into a half sprint toward the trees and shouted, “Bring the horses, Mediah. We must hurry. I sense something awful is about to happen to Daynin.”

* Ravensport *

“You, below decks there—show yerselves.”

The sudden breach of his dream world caused Ean to flinch, then reach for his sgian du. He drew the blade instinctively, years of practice having honed that reflex to a fine edge. He glanced at Troon and realized the arrowsmith lay fast asleep or still drunk from his session with the butcher. Either way, Simon would be of no use in a fight with the Duke’s men.

Ean dragged himself up the fo’c’sle ladder, poked his head out of the hatch and almost blinded himself from the bright light. “Bloody hell,” he winced.

“Aye. That’s what I hollered at ya for,” the captain said, smiling through a nearly toothless grin. “It’s clearing off in the east. We best be settin’ sail straightaway, soon as that bloody tide changes in our favor.”

“So what’s the problem?” Ean replied. “Get a move on.”

The captain jabbed a finger through the air, pointing back toward the beach. “Them’s what’s the problem, old man. For you, that is. Makes no never mind to me, but I figgered you might be wantin’ to know. They’s a dozen horsemen just dropped over the bluff from Ravensport less than half a league distance and riding hard toward us.”

Clambering for a better view, Ean pulled himself onto the deck. He shinnied up one of the ratlines. “Och! I knew t’would only be a matter of time. It’s the Duke’s men for sure, come to hang me and Troon.”

“A hangin’ is it?” the captain roared. “Not on my deck, it bloody well ain’t. That’s bad luck for a ship, ya know.” He turned sharply on his heels and barked, “Make sail, you lot! Cut the mooring lines. Skim that anchor—we got the Sheriff’s men comin’ for a neck stretchin’!”

Ean disappeared below decks, quickly reappearing with his longbow and a batch of arrows to make a fight of it, even if it would be a brief one. “Those cocky Saxon crows won’t be decorating your yardarms with this clansman, captain—not without a fight.”

The captain let out a boisterous laugh. “Hah-har! Stay yerself, you old warhorse. The wind’s up. Unless that troop be ridin’ animals what can fly, you got no worries. Put that weapon down and make yerself useful. Get up there and help the lads tack that mainsul. We’ve got us a fair easterly wind and I dinnae intend to waste it.”

* Near Abbotsford Priory *

Nothing made for more noise and hubbub in an encampment than a band of rowdy Caledonians sharing their lard, lies, and lechery. Geile Plumat made every effort to block their commotion from his mind that he might better concentrate on planning the dangerous task at hand. He knew the risks of traveling further north into Scotia with so few troops, but he would be forced to do so unless they were able to catch their prey soon.

Plumat had heard the tales of highland-dwelling madmen who would rush out of the rocks and slaughter entire cavalcades, disappearing without a trace. And then there were the yarns, though not well documented, of giant beasts swimming the lakes and rivers. It was said they could swallow a twenty-oared snekke in one gulp, crew and all.

Just as Plumat relegated those thoughts to the realm of myth, the sound of hooves on the rocky track brought him back to reality. He swept his helm off the ground and sprang instantly to his feet. Miles Aubrecht beat a hasty path straight toward him—alone.

“M’lord! M’lord! Come quickly!” Miles called.

Reaching out for the reins of the boy’s horse, Plumat hauled him to an abrupt stop. “What’s the matter with you, boy? Where is deLongait? Is there trouble on the road? Speak up, damn you!”

The hard ride had Miles so winded all he could do was point. “Church—he went—down there. Big rumbling noise. I couldn’t see—something terrible—has—happened.”

Plumat threw himself onto Cauldron’s back, shouting over the din of the motley crew at the river, “To horse, men! We’ve a battle at hand!”

Whether enticed by plunder or blood, a dozen Caledonians dropped everything and grabbed their weapons. In less time than it takes for a rooster to crow the sunrise, the gang mounted and made ready for action. With Plumat in the lead, they were off toward the ridgeline, hell bent for whatever might lay ahead. Plumat could only hope the Caledonians were as good in a fight as they were in legend, for he knew that they were all about to be tested like they had never been tested before.

* Abbotsford Priory *

For a novice suddenly cast into the midst of a scriptural nightmare come to life, and despite being dragged along by a man twice his size, Novice John regained his composure quickly. “There—through those doors,” he said, gesturing toward the back entrance of the nave.

“You best be telling me the truth, cleric,” deLongait growled, “or you’ll have the devil to pay when the Sheriff arrives.”

“He’s down there, I tell you. He went there to find a place to hide his books.”

“Books eh? Is there booty, as well? What did these scoundrels bring with them?”

Novice John pointed to the miller’s cart, tethered behind the refectory. To avoid the mortal sin of deception as well as protect the priory’s part of the bounty, he hesitated, then replied, “I’m not privy to what is in their wagon—yonder m’lord—but the brethren say the highlanders plan to take their real treasure to a place called Rhum.”

A hard cuff on the back of his head was the novice’s reward for that information. “Rhum is it? Your lot is sworn to tell the truth, boy. Breaking your vow of veracity will be the least of your worries if I find out otherwise.” As if to further emphasize the point, deLongait delivered another sharp “thwack” across the novice’s bald spot.

* The Catacombs *

“Ven der vais der coomb di-ya?” came a voice like a rockslide.

Hearing such an unearthly growl only a stone’s throw from them, Daynin almost leapt out of his skin. He wanted to break for the wellkeep, but his feet would not allow him to desert the Prior. They were both frozen in place with nowhere to run in the pitch black catacombs and nowhere to hide.

Again the voice growled, “Ven der vais der coomin?” The words stretched out of the dark, rhythmically and plainly demanding to know something—but what?

Without thinking, Daynin blurted out a semblance of a reply. “Vee nicht der coomin. Venez los alterstaygin.”

They heard no response except an awful screeching sound growing louder. Prior Bede thrust the candelabra out ahead of Daynin, hoping for a glimpse of whatever or whoever approached them. The light glanced off hundreds of metallic surfaces, each moving in unison with the massive physique to which they were attached. For an instant, the Prior smiled at the thought of a giant scaly fish marching straight at them, but his smile quickly gave way to a grimace of horror.

The dull black, heavily riveted shape of a helmet suddenly towered above them. Huge—larger than a ten stone pail turned upside down—its two narrow eye slits gave no evidence of the man’s—or being’s—identity. A sword the size of a small wagon tongue bounced menacingly against one enormous mailed palm, as if in anticipation of some imminent bloodletting. An ornate bronzish-red hauberk—wider than a waterwheel—came into view next, yet Daynin and the Prior could still make no attempt to escape.

“Tuvas vender yah?” Daynin asked, his voice trembling slightly.

“What did you ask it—er, him?” Prior Bede whispered.

“I think I asked, ‘where do you come from’ but he’s speaking a Pictish dialect I cannae barely understand.”

The being stopped far enough away to survey his adversaries. “Vox cloistermahn commen Cruithni caltrap?”

“Yes!” Daynin said knowingly. “He’s Cruithni, Father—what all of Britain called the Picts before the Romans renamed them for their painted bodies. And he wants to know what a monk is doing on Cruithni land.”

Prior Bede grasped his St. Columba’s cross and slipped its chain over his head. He held it aloft so the candlelight might better display it to their inquisitor. In a version of heavily Romanized Latin he proclaimed, “We have been here for generations, protecting this hallowed ground.”

“Bradden der foooo—beer—kah. Yah cloven stad ben fayler,” the being replied, his vehement disdain for the cross evident to the Prior even without a translation.

Once again, the being’s sword began to bounce ominously in his hands. Little doubt remained that the bronzed bully’s patience was running out. Daynin decided to press his luck, for there were few options remaining at that moment. “Prima urbes inter—divum domus Dalriada,” he repeated from what he could remember of the Latin words carved on the sarcophagus lid. “Give Brude McAlpin his rightful sway,” he added, beginning to repeat the entire litany again.

The being lurched forward, grabbing Daynin’s tunic with his free hand and jerking him violently off the floor. He pulled his face close to the darkened eye slits in the helmet, shook him like a dead cat and bellowed, “How do you know these words?” The guttural English, delivered in conjunction with such a violent and unexpected attack, almost brought Daynin to tears.

“Stay yourself!” Prior Bede demanded. “This is sanctified ground. There will be no violence here.”

“P-p-p-please,” Daynin begged, “I meant no harm. You must be the Great Deceiver the walls of this tomb describe. Is that not so?”

“Vosh neg dekander bloch,” the helmet replied, adding—again in near perfect English, “I am Brude McAlpin, son of Angus and grandson of Wredech the Bold. My clan has owned this land since Dalriada was little more than a dun’s keep.”

The Prior’s head snapped to the right at the same instant Daynin’s snapped to the left. Their eyes met in disbelief that a dead Pictish prince stood before them. “How can this be?” Bede blurted out.

The giant’s grip on Daynin’s tunic relaxed a bit, allowing him to drop to his feet. “You Anglish philkensud. What know you of this land and my people? Cruithni ruled here when your tribes still squat to piss.”

Daynin pushed hard against the mailed grip that held him fast. “I’m not Anglish!” he growled. “I’m a McKinnon, of the McKlennan Clans, sprung from the Regents of Rhum. My father was—”

“A whore’s groom, no doubt,” the booming voice howled with delight. “Think you boy that I care from what bastard Scotian line you come? If you are not Cruithni, you are not worthy of a stone to mark your passing. And since you have no tattoos on you, know I that you are nothing but a heathen, likely come to steal whatever your thieving lot can drag home behind you.”

Pulling hard and backing up two steps finally broke the giant’s grip and gave Daynin a better perspective of his adversary. He looked up into the black helmet slits and decided on another bold gamble. “At least my father had honor and, and died for it. These walls tell of a Great Deceiver, who apparently had no honor—a man who invited his enemies to supper at Scone, then when they were seated at long tables, pulled a bolt that cast them into a deep pit where they were slain like sheep in a well.”

Prior Bede gasped at the boy’s sudden brash defense. No doubt, he expected the colossal sword to swoop down any second and send them both to the next life. But the angry armored entity just stood there, sizing up its enemies.

“You know nothing of the history these walls tell, hovel boy. Cruithni courage is valued above all else. Had you the weapons, I would test your mettle. Then we would see who eats his enemy’s guts for supper.”

“Heathen!” Bede declared, defiantly.

McAlpin thumped Daynin hard in the chest, knocking him backward against the wall. He turned on his heels, sweeping the candelabra aside to face the Prior at close quarters. “Mayhaps there would be more skill to impaling your black robe on my sword, eh prayer mahn?”

The Bede couldn’t back down now, nor could he resist with much more than words. “The Norse believed the stature of a man was told by the valor of his enemies. Where’s the honor in gutting a priest and a boy?”

“I fought the Norse, cloistermahn. My people fought them and the Anglish, then the Caledonians and the Scots. That tale the boy tells of Scone—those were my allies slaughtered in that pit. The Anglish dogs and their cowardly minions, the Caledonians, paid ten fold in blood for that day’s treachery, as you and all who tread this ground will soon learn.”

Brude’s sword began to draw back ominously, ready for its first bloodbath in nearly half a millennium. His motion stopped suddenly, when out of the darkness toward the wellkeep came a loud order, “Yield, in the name of Duke Harold of Anglia!”