Chapter 19

Brude pushed the priest aside, oblivious to the monk’s presence now that a real adversary had arrived. “Anglish dogs! Brude McAlpin yields to neh man ner monster. Step forward and see what form your doom has taken.”

At the base of the wellkeep, Earl deLongait hesitated, obviously unsure what he was facing, or from which direction that terrible boast had come. The heavy rasping voice seemed to echo from every direction at once. He plucked Novice John out of the lead and shoved him bodily back toward the wellkeep, careful to make sure the candelabra remained intact.

“Don’t lose the light boy or we’re damned for sure. That’s no human voice we just heard, wager that. Be it demon, devil, or duke, Draco will deal with it as long as I can see what I’m facing.”

Torn between running for his life and waiting to see what awful apparition had come from the bowels of the catacombs, the novice crossed himself and took a step forward to close on deLongait’s back, preferring the protection of that giant headsman’s axe to a simple wooden cross.

“Bloody hell!” deLongait gasped.

Out of the corner of his eye, Novice John caught the flash of a sword singing its way through the dusty gloom. He ducked, allowing Draco to meet the full force of the attack just in time to keep it from parting deLongait’s skull. A loud “clang” rocked the walls of the chamber, sending sparks flying like those off a blacksmith’s anvil.

The shock of the impact almost buckled deLongait. He must never have been struck with such force. Worst still, his attacker seemed to disappear. “Where is he boy? Can you see him?”

Novice John waved the candelabra around them in a circle, to no avail. “A ddd—ddd—demon, for sure m’lord. That was no human form.”

“Demon my ass!” deLongait roared, turning a half circle to face the next attack. “Whatever it is, it swings that broadsword like a bloody battering ram.”

“Look out!” the novice screamed.

Again the “whoosh” of Brude’s double-edged blade fell upon them. This time it struck deLongait a glancing blow to the side of his helmet, sending his armored coif crashing across the chamber floor and bouncing away into the darkness.

Echoes rang out from everywhere, the din of battle deafening in the confines of the stone walled corridor. “Damn that hurt,” deLongait swore, but he had no time to lament the loss of his helm. He shook his head, turned about once more and there before him stood the largest adversary he had ever hoped to meet in battle. “You move with the deftness of a cat for one your size. Are you a man or the devil’s minion?”

“Aye, a cat—a Cruithni cat—come to take your black heart, Anglish.”

“Many a man have I sent to hell with one swat from Draco, fool. Now back off before you’re added to the list! I’ve no quarrel with you this day.”

The two moved in a wary semicircle, sizing each other up like angry bulls waiting for the other to charge first. The giant spoke again. “There are ten thousand days for which your kind must pay, philkin-grood. Ten thousand days your people raped my land, but no more.”

Whether deLongait was dazzled by the shining bits of armor dancing in the candlelight, or dazed by the whack on his head, he never saw Brude’s next move coming. It fell with the swiftness of a lightning bolt and nearly the same lethality. A resounding “crangggg” bounced from wall to wall as Brude’s blade rent deLongait’s shoulder armor in one horrendous blow, penetrating all the way to the flesh.

The Duke’s man, though unusually large for a Saxon, crumpled under the vicious assault. Blood erupted from the breach in his armor, quickly turning his tunic to a crimson collage. Novice John reeled in terror. He dropped to his knees beside deLongait to await his trip to paradise.

Brude poised his sword to send the monk to his rewards, but hesitated. “Are there more of these Anglish bandits on the way, blackbird? Speak up or I’ll drop yer head in yer own lap!”

Terrified by that image, Novice John unclasped his death grip from the shaft of the candelabra and raised a shaky hand toward the wellkeep. “Th—th—th—there may be m—m—m’lord. Uu—up there. This one ssss—sss—spoke of others on the way.”

“Stay your tongue, boy,” deLongait managed to growl. Despite his agony, he remained a part of the Duke’s legion and would no doubt choose to die that way. “Tell this bastard nothing, or I warn you . . .”

Two steps forward brought Brude towering over his fallen enemy. He thrust his sword tip under deLongait’s chin, stopping only a whisper short of a coup-de-grace. “How many and how soon? Tell me boy, or this dog’s death is on your hands.”

By now, the novice quaked uncontrollably, crying and nearly at the point of collapse. His training in the priestly arts had never prepared him for such a violent arena. It was all he could do to bow his head and mutter, “I cannot say, your Lordship. I—I—I just know he mentioned others.”

“This better be the truth, cloistermahn,” Brude’s thundering voice declared. A brief protest from deLongait ended with a large Pictish horseboot planted squarely onto the ghastly wound in his shoulder. “Anglish armor—good for court, but hardly worth its weight in a real battle, eh fewgtik?”

DeLongait squirmed under the awful pain, able to do little else at that moment. His head rolled from side to side in bitter anguish. He moaned, “That towheaded boy—my life for a damned plowboy.”

“What boy?” Brude demanded. He pushed harder with his heel, as if to bring a faster response.

“Arrrgghhh. Damn you blaggard. That boy, I should imagine!” DeLongait’s good arm gestured back toward the Saracen arch where Daynin and Prior Bede had just appeared from out of the gloom.

“How know you this boy?” the torture went on.

“We have—a warrant—three felons—Duke Harold’s enemies . . .” With a final gasp, deLongait’s arm dropped when he passed out from the pain.

Brude turned to face the arch. “Is this true, boy? These Anglish—they are your sworn enemies?”

Daynin had no idea how to answer Brude’s question. The sight of so much blood on the stranger made him queasy, as well as unsure what answer might keep him alive. He remembered what Kruzurk had told him about truth and decided to follow the path of least travail. “I cannae say for certain, but my guess is he’s come to hang me for the murder of the Marquis of Greystone, Duke Harold’s cousin.”

Prior Bede lurched backward in horror. “Murder? You said nothing of murder! My God, boy, what blacksouled deceit is this? You come to my priory with the stain of murder on your hands and ask for help?”

“It was a fair fight, Prior,” Daynin sighed. “He attacked the woman, and I . . .”

“You took his heart, did ya boy?” Brude pressed.

Daynin turned defiantly to face the Great Deceiver. “It’s Daynin, by God—not boy! I’m seventeen—not that it matters to you, but I’m tired of being called a boy!”

“Hahaar,” the giant roared, his delight obvious at seeing the lad’s mettle boil to the surface. “Seventeen and already took a Marquis’ heart in single combat—and an Anglish one at that. I had a feeling you kept more behind your eyes than I could scare out of you, highlander. You have the stare of him who’s tasted enemy blood and liked it.”

For the first time in his life, Daynin had been called ‘highlander’ openly and it felt good—much more manly than ‘boy’ and certainly a step up from plowboy. The moniker struck him like the hind leg of a skittish ass. I am a man now, his brain screamed. Not just in my own mind, but outwardly as well. And it’s high time I started acting like one.

His chest swelled with a pride he had never been allowed to know before, except in his grandfather’s hovel when the old man had told him of battles against the Caledonians, the Britons, the Irish, and the Norse. The passion of a hundred clan generations ran through his veins. Yet at that moment, only three things flashed in his mind—Sabritha and the Island of Rhum—and that humongous sword waving in his face, glistening with fresh blood.

Apparently conscious of the boy’s anxiety, Brude stood his broadsword on its tip, allowing both of his massive gauntlets to rest on the pommel in a pensive pose. “The Cruithni have a saying, highlander. ‘The enemy of my enemy wars as my ally.’ So it shall be with you—for I have need of allies in my quest. But I warn you—at the first hint of treachery, I’ll cut you in so many pieces even the crows won’t find enough for a meal. And another thing. ‘Daynin’ is hardly a fit name for the slayer of a Marquis. I shall call you Draygnar as befits a warrior. It means ‘the boy who would be king’ in my language.”

Daynin stared up into the hollow eye slits of the giant’s helmet, still unable to discern any outward signs of humanity or of what lived inside that massive shell of armor. His heart told him that being in league with the devil’s disciple would be nothing less than a mortal sin. However, the news that Duke Harold had come all the way to Scotia to find him, and worse—the possibility of losing Sabritha and the Blackgloom bounty—made him think such an alliance might not be a bad plan. Besides, he might even persuade the giant to leave the church in peace, which did not seem at all likely unless he agreed to the coalition.

“You leave me few choices, m’lord. I’ll join with you, but only until we reach Rhum.”

“This is blasphemy!” Prior Bede gasped. “Daynin, you must not join in this diablerie. Turn yourself in to the Duke and plead for self-defense, but don’t give your soul to this devil.”

“I’d sooner jump in a well, Prior. I’ve seen the Duke’s justice firsthand. The choice is always the same—die on the rack before or after you confess.”

“Haaaahaaarrr!” McAlpin reached out to slap Daynin on the side of his shoulder, nearly knocking him down. “T’would seem things have’na changed much while I’ve slept these many years, eh Draygnar?”

“It’s Daynin. Day-nin. And what would you prefer I call you, m’lord, now that we are in league against the Duke?”

“You may call me Brude, as was the custom among my friends—those few who lived long enough to become my friends, that is.”

“Then we should be off before the rest of the Duke’s army shows up. I’ve treasure and a woman to protect, and a castle to rebuild.”

Brude leaned forward into the Prior’s flaxen face. “You tell the rest of the Anglish that hell is waiting for them, cloistermahn. And tell them to bring plenty of mourners.”

* Bede's Hovel *

With the Duke’s man gone from the hovel, Sabritha took the opportunity to send her gang of cowardly visitors on their way. “It’s time for you to leave,” she scolded. “That was no goblin. He’s just a big oaf in chainmail that you could have bested, had you tried. If only I had a sword! Oh never mind—stop that praying and get out of here—you should be ashamed of yourselves.”

Prior Stin stepped toward the open door and gestured for the rest of his brood to hurry along. He cast Sabritha the kind of baleful glare that only a cloistered monk can summon, then left her to rant alone.

Quickly, she gathered her things and dashed out onto the priory grounds. Determined not to be there when the Duke’s man or his cohorts returned, Sabritha went looking for Abaddon. Daynin was nowhere to be seen, but at that moment, friends were hardly foremost in her mind. Escape from a long fall on a short rope filled her thoughts, despite an equally greater fear of traveling alone in a dangerous place like the highlands.

Already hitched to the cart, Abaddon waited patiently near the laundry ward, where she finally found him. A light misty rain fell as Sabritha climbed aboard and guided the old warhorse toward the north exit of the priory grounds. She hesitated inside the gate, pulling Abaddon to a stop and allowing herself to wonder for an instant where Daynin might be. She swung around on the seat for one last look and couldn’t believe her eyes. In the distance, a large yellow banner fluttered against the gray backdrop at the south end of the valley.

“Bloody hell!” she gasped. “The Duke’s army is here!”