Chapter 22

Miles Aubrecht’s horse had nearly run itself to death in the panicked dash from the priory grounds. The squire had long since passed out from his upside down ordeal, and still hung precariously from the stirrup when Daynin and Sabritha happened upon him in the dark. “Whoa boy,” Daynin whispered, trying his best to get close to the squire without spooking the charger again. He barely managed to free the squire’s boot before the horse shied away, bolting into the inky black night.

“What are you going to do with this blaggard now?” Sabritha asked impatiently.

“We don’t have any choice. We’ll have to take him with us. I’m sure we’ll find a place along the way where we can leave him. Besides, I would really like to have that chainmail and helmet he’s wearing. They probably saved his life after being dragged half the night.”

Sabritha dropped down from the back of the cart and raced to Daynin’s side, her eyes ablaze with anger. “Are you daft? Not only will he slow us down, but when he wakes up, he’s likely to cause all manner of problems. That’s the Duke’s heraldry he’s wearing, you know!”

Daynin had to bite his lip to keep from smiling. She’s so beautiful, he mused. Especially when she’s angry. He stood up to see her more clearly. At that same instant she edged closer to where he had been kneeling over the squire. Their gaze embraced from only a hand span’s distance, the deep blue of his eyes so warm and welcoming that the fire in hers turned from anger to passion before either of them realized it.

Nothing short of an avalanche could have stopped what happened next. Sabritha’s hands went to Daynin’s waist. His hands cupped the soft pink of her wind-burned cheeks, their lips meeting somewhere in between. Neither could have said how, but for a few magical moments, the two were totally lost in a passion they had never expected to share with another human being.

For the young highlander, that first kiss seemed to last forever. His mind raced from the breathtaking sparkle in her eyes to the taste of her lips and thence to the fire in his gut and back again. Not in his wildest night fancies had he imagined something feeling so good—so right—and yet so incredibly confusing.

A vivid image of that awful night in Blackgloom when the sorcerer used Sabritha’s image to fool him, popped into Daynin’s head. The Seed said he duplicated her down to the last detail. She was so beautiful, her naked skin so perfect—even though she was only an image then. But this is real—she is real—and she’s kissing me!

“Owwww!” Miles groaned. One arm thrashed out blindly at Daynin’s ankle, the other groped along his belt, perhaps for a hidden dirk.

The sudden outburst startled the two lovers, instantly separating all but their eyes from one another. “See? I told you he’d bring nothing but trouble,” Sabritha said.

Daynin sidestepped the squire’s grip. He planted a foot firmly on the arm groping for the knife. “Take care, Saxon. You’ve had a bad ride. I wouldn’t make any rash moves were I you.”

“Curse the Saxons and all they stand for,” came the squire’s angry retort.

Dropping to one knee again, Daynin peered into a face that he had just come to realize was as young, or younger, than his own. “Who are you that you bear the Duke’s heraldry, yet curse his name?”

“The name they gave me is Miles Aubrecht. I’m a squire-in-training for Geile Plumat who was sent here by Duke Harold to hang some felons. Who are you?”

“No doubt, the very felons of which you speak,” Daynin declared flatly. “But you’ve nothing to fear from us, provided you agree to cooperate. Elsewise, we’ll be leaving you here for the wolves.”

The squire attempted to right himself, only to roll back in the mud dizzily. “May as well kill me now, for my master will surely do so when he finds me.”

“Daynin, we really need to go,” Sabritha interrupted. “It will be light soon.”

Daynin cast a wary eye to the road behind them, then up at the first pinkish hint of daylight glowing behind the peaks to the east. “Aye, we have to move. If you want to go with us, boy, you’ll have to give me your warrant that you’ll not cry out, try to escape, or otherwise cause me to regret taking you along. And I’ll be taking that dirk as well. If you cross me . . .”

“No, no—take it—and take me along, please!” Miles begged. “I’ve nothing to go back to with that mob of bountiers. Nothing but more dirty work, clouts on the head and a life of indentured misery. I give you my word I’ll not cause you grief. Vincit veritas!”

Sabritha threw her hands up in the air, spun around and climbed back onto the wagon. Daynin could hear her muttering, “Heroes, headaches and heretics—what the hell have I gotten myself into?”

* South of Abbotsford Priory *

Riding single file on the narrow, almost invisible track, Kruzurk, Mediah and their beggar guide had traversed most of the distance to Abbotsford. Thin shards of pinkish daylight were just beginning to wriggle through the tops of the stunted and gnarled trees to their right. Wave after wave of putrid, dead-smelling vapors mingled with a dank fog rising off the moor, causing the tendrils of light to dance with a ghostly, ethereal motion. Not a sound could be heard except the huffing of the horses and Thor’s occasional growl at some supposed threat well out ahead of them.

Mediah shifted in his saddle to check the path behind. He saw nothing. He could barely see his own horse’s tail, let alone any sign of the tracks they’d just left in the soggy dike. “I’ve heard of the blind leading the blind, but never have I experienced it,” he sighed. “This fog reminds me of Thalos where my ship was rammed and sunk—Allah be praised that I yet live to tell that tale.”

“Aye,” Kruzurk agreed, his voice almost a whisper. “I’ve no clue how Olghar guides us. I can barely see the track with two good eyes. Perhaps this is one time being blind is an advantage.”

Three horse lengths ahead, the beggar’s mount stopped, allowing him to slide down from the saddle. From that spot, he tip-tapped his way on foot, leading his horse by its reins. That pattern had gone on for hours, half a furlong on the horse, another on foot and so on. Suddenly, Thor’s growl echoed back a warning, stopping Olghar in his tracks.

“We’ve company ahead,” he whispered.

Not daring to step even a forearm off the narrow path they followed, Kruzurk slid silently from his horse. He tied his reins to the lead horse’s tail and made his way up to Olghar’s spot. The blind man sniffed a light breeze from the north like some fawn in the midst of a wolf pack.

“Strange, m’lord. Very strange,” the beggar opined. “There’s smoke in the air—lots of it—and a camp. I smell mutton and beer.”

By now, Mediah had joined them. He took a cue from the beggar and captured a whiff of wood smoke with his rather prominent nose. “Campfire—must be a big one. That gang of bountiers, most likely.”

Kruzurk sniffed the air. “I can’t smell anything except this tenebrous brew of a bog. How far is the priory from here, Olghar?”

“Three furlong, m’lord—maybe less. Close enough that they will know we’re coming if this breeze changes. We should go whilst the wind favors us. I believe there are some old ruins southwest of the priory where you can spy what’s going on around the cathedral before you make your next move.”

“Good plan,” Kruzurk agreed. “Should we proceed on foot from here?”

Olghar nodded his agreement, adding, “Step only where I step and keep your animals quiet. If we’re caught on this track, we’re finished. There’s nowhere to run until we reach high ground. One false move in this bog and you’ll disappear faster than a hog’s hiccup.”

Mediah stifled a laugh and quickly turned back to tend to his horse. Having tied a leather thong around his horse’s snout to keep him quiet, he donned the short sword and targ shield he’d bartered for back at the inn. He motioned for Kruzurk to take a position behind him, then moved up to cover Olghar from any surprise attack that might come from their flanks. Somewhere ahead, Thor barked out a warning, only to go strangely silent after a single yelp.

* Aboard The Shiva *

Morning overtook the Shiva much faster than Ean had expected. The lack of sleep he had endured since leaving Hafdeway was beginning to tell on him. Sadly, Troon fared little better. His leg wound had turned feverish overnight and Ean could do little except ask for advice from the seadogs aboard ship.

“Tie ‘im to a bleedin’ ratline and ‘eave ‘im o’er the side—let the salt water clean the wound,” one of the ship’s crew had suggested. Another offered to remove Troon’s leg, for a fee of course. Ean had seen enough battle wounds to know it was far too early for such a drastic course of action. But salt water did have healing properties, so he’d heard, and now that they were in the shallow waters of the Clyde, they might just try that.

“You’re gonna what?” Troon barked, having waked up to find himself tied in a net like a giant sea turtle.

“That sling will hold, you old coot. We’ll drop you over the side so’s the motion of the salt water will clean up that butcher job the healer did on your leg.”

“Bloody hell you will,” Troon argued. “I ain’t one for taking baths and I damn sure ain’t keen on bein’ dragged along for every fish to nibble on. Ye’ve gone plumb daft, Ean McKinnon.”

Ean motioned for two of the crewmen to step forward and take him. “Is nae a better plan than this, Simon. I cannae sit back and see you lose your leg on my account.”

Troon struggled mightily for a small man, but could do little to avoid the restraints. “Feed me to the fishes, then, you old sot. If this net breaks, I’ll haunt you till hell has its first snowstorm—count on it!”

The withered little arrowsmith remained awash in the sling until the sun peeked around the tip of the headlands along the coast. The crew was preparing to bring Troon aboard just as the ship’s lookout let loose a bloodcurdling scream from atop the mast. “Sea beast—in our wake!” A dozen heads turned to see what the lookout had seen, and sure enough, there was a fin the size of a Viking sail jutting out of the water less than two ship’s lengths behind them.

“All hands, turn to!” came the captain’s order. “Run out that jib! Put all the sail on she’ll hold boys, elsewise we’re goners if that beast catches us!”

Ean raced below for his longbow, hoping he would not have to use it. From time immemorial, stories of huge monsters in the Scottish lochs and along the shores had passed from one generation to the next among his people. Most clansmen believed few of the wild tales of sea creatures that could crush whole ships or swallow entire herds of sheep. This time, though, the evidence couldn’t be ignored.

Bow in hand, Ean clambered back on deck to find a good shooting spot near the stern, then suddenly remembered his hapless friend dangling like a giant minnow off the side of the boat. “Troon!” he hollered. “We’ve got to reel ‘im in fast!”

The captain’s head whipped around toward the stern. “Aye, that old coot’s blood scent is likely what brung the monster. Cut ‘im loose, boys! Give the beast what it wants.”

Ean’s blood turned as cold as a highland gale. Instant reflex brought an arrow to bear on the captain’s pointed hat. Before the order could be carried out, an arrow sped on its way.

Thwack! It ripped the tricorn right off the captain’s head from behind, pinning it to the mast in front of him. “Anyone cuts Troon loose, ye’ll bloody well pay for it,” Ean roared. “Now haul ‘im in afore I lose my temper!” A halfhearted wave from the captain affirmed the order.

Troon came aboard dazed and blue, unaware of his narrow escape from the mouth of a mythical monster. The huge black finned beast wavered, apparently giving up its chase a quarter league from the shallow inlet that marks the entrance to the Firth of Clyde.