Chapter 26

Ean McKinnon’s bowsight peeked ominously through the tiny opening in the brush, poised dead center on the hated Saxon heraldry. Some impulse stayed his motion, causing the bow to unflex ever so slightly. He could see the young man clearly and recognized the Duke’s eagle even from ninety paces away. The shot was an easy one—yet he hesitated still. Where are the rest of ‘em? kept pulsing through Ean’s mind.

“Daynin?” Ean’s own voice argued a truth clearly displayed below him on the open track. He’s with the Saxons? This cannae be! Yet there walked his grandson next to a cart, conversing with a Saxon dog like they were long lost kin. Ean’s heart sank. He eased the bow down, completely confused by what he should do next. He spied the woman and the fog between his ears began to lift a bit. Bewitched—they’ve beguiled the boy—turned him into a dimwitted stooge through the wiles of an Anglish wench.

Ean’s mind swept back to that fateful day in Hafdeway when Daynin brought home the Scythian Stone in that same cart, leaving with a witch-faced hawker. He easily recognized the wagon, with its ancient solid wheels painted the color of the sky.

“Drat the luck—I should’nae let him leave with that magician! This is all my fault.” Almost without thinking, his bowsight fell on the target again, this time shifting from the Duke’s man to the woman’s throat. He took a deep breath to steady his hands, now quivering from the prolonged pull on the bow. He whispered, “Move on boy—just a bit, aye—one more step and I’ll pin that wench to yer wagon like a fly stuck to pig droppings.”

Down below, the squire stepped aside to allow Daynin and the woman to pass. Both their strides were considerably stronger than his at the moment, the long walk on a rocky track having taken its toll on Miles’s legs. “How far—to the—coast—do you—think?” he begged.

Daynin’s head turned just in time to see the arrow’s deadly flight. He charged into Sabritha, knocking her backward straight into the squire. A split second later, the hickory shaft struck the wagon’s side right where Sabritha’s head should have been.

“Down—everyone stay down!” Daynin roared. His eyes raked the hillside, expecting another shaft to rip them to shreds. He saw nothing—no movement at all. Even the late afternoon shadows seemed to have taken a nap. He glanced up at the arrow, still quivering from the impact with the wagon.

“Troon?” blurted from his lips in disbelief.

Sabritha pushed the squire off of her, having confused his gallant effort to cover her body with that of a drunken groper. “Get off me, villain—and keep your bloody hands to yourself.”

“Shhhh,” Daynin shushed. “There’s something strange going on here.”

“Yeah, and this boy with the wandering hands is about to find that out the hard way,” Sabritha growled. She pushed herself to her feet, turned and delivered a swift kick to the squire’s shoulder in payment for his attempt at heroism.

Daynin leapt to his feet as well, still staring in disbelief at the distinctive bands on the arrow’s shaft. “Those are Troon’s markings. This arrow came from my grandfather’s friend!”

“Then tell the old fart to stop shooting at us,” Sabritha said. “Is he blind as well as daft? Highlanders—I swear, you lot are all crazy!”

Daynin stepped away from the wagon, cupped both hands to his cheeks and yelled, “Vincit, veritas!” The echo bounced and rebounded a dozen times off the rocky slopes above them.

Sabritha’s head whipped around at Daynin’s strange words. “What does that mean?”

“Truth prevails,” Daynin replied. “If Troon is up there, he will respond in Gaelic.”

A cascade of small stones flowed down from the steep, brushy hillside, followed by a grumpy voice shouting, “S’lange a vas!”

“See? That means ‘good health’—it’s a friend all right—no doubt about it.” Daynin’s spirits were suddenly boosted beyond all measure.

The old man slipped and slid his way down the slope, landing a few paces from Abaddon and causing the horse to shy away. Sabritha steadied the animal. “Just what we needed—an old coot more ancient than this horse.”

Ean righted himself and sprang at the woman’s face. “Watch yer tongue, lassie—er you’ll be eat’n it for supper.”

Daynin stepped between them and grabbed Ean, lifted him off his feet and hugged him with all his strength. “Grandfather, I can’t believe you’re here! How did you find us?”

“You got some explainin’ to do first, boy,” Ean growled. “I come all this way to fetch you and by the luck of the lochs, I find you consortin’ with this Anglish trash. What’s got into ya boy, eh? Has this wench beguiled you or what?”

Surprised by his grandfather’s malicious tone, Daynin stepped back to start the conversation anew. “Grandfather Ean McKinnon, may I introduce you to Sabritha—uh—Sabritha?”

“Kilcullen you dolt,” Sabritha snapped back. “And if it matters, old man, I’m not Anglish. I’m Irish and damned proud of it.”

Ean gave the woman a disdainful once over with his eyes, his head shaking in complete derision. He cast his hawk-eyed glare back on Daynin. “Cavorting with the Anglish and the Irish, eh? Your father would cuff you from his grave, boy.”

“I’m taking her to Rhum, grandfather—to marry her if she’ll have me. I ask your respect and eventually your blessing. But either way, Sabritha is going with us.”

The old man’s voice ripped aloud, “Marry her, says he?!”

Sabritha appeared as shocked as Ean by that sudden revelation. Her pale skin turned the brightest shade of red. “Well, it’s true,” he said. “If you’ll have me, that is?”

Silence hung heavily in the air for a few seconds. That gave way abruptly to the squire’s horrified shriek as he dashed past the others screaming, “Noooo! Plumat! Oh my god, noooo—my master’s found us!”

* Plumat’s Army *

“How many and how far, you dolt?” Plumat roared, his patience wearing thin with the scout’s less than detailed report.

“Half a league, your lordship—no more than that. I cannae say how many. They’re at the far end of the valley, stopped in a narrow gap. Like they’re waitin’ for us, you might say.”

“Stopped eh? In plain sight? Sounds like the makings of a trap to me. Fulchere, take two of your men and some of the Caledonians—scout the road ahead—then send someone back to report. I’ll wait here for the rest of the column to catch up. Do not give chase to those felons, whatever you do. There could be a hundred of their henchmen lining that gap.”

Fulchere waved to the men behind him to form up. He turned in his saddle and shouted, “We’re not to give chase—aye m’lord. We’ll check the road and make sure ‘tis no trap. If they make a fight of it, what are my orders?”

“My guess is they have no intention of standing their ground,” Plumat replied warily. “Glasgow and a boat are their objectives—but they are in for a mighty surprise if that’s their game. Any sign of treachery, you get back here as fast as you can ride. Now get moving before we lose the light.”

* The Miller’s Cart *

At the far end of the valley, Daynin and the others had broken into a state of panic. Miles Aubrecht had raced ahead, blindly screaming his lament for all to hear, his energy having been increased tenfold by the sudden appearance of the Duke’s scouts behind them. Sabritha did her best to steady Abaddon, fearful that he might bolt and run off as well.

“Take the woman and go,” Ean ordered, the rapid cadence of his highland brogue flowing almost too fast for Daynin to follow. “I’ll make a stand here. That should stall ‘em long enough for you to reach Glasgow. Take the left fork around the village and you’ll find a boat waiting for you about two leagues north. The boat will only be there ‘til midday tomorrow—so don’t wait for me.”

Daynin stared wide-eyed at his grandfather. For the first time in his life, he felt the need to directly disobey the old man. “I’m not leaving you here. Give me your spare bow and I’ll stand with you, or we can get on the wagon, but either way, we fight or run together.”

“Och, boy—those are the Duke’s men, come to take yer bloody head. You’ve no chance to outrun them in this wee cart—can ye not see that? Now get on with ya!”

Seeing a neck stretching in her immediate future, Sabritha’s patience had all but run out. “Can we go now?” she snarled. Receiving no reply, she climbed onto the wagon seat, leaped over into the bed of the wagon with something less than ladylike skill and ripped open the first large chest she came to. She quickly began rummaging through the treasure it contained, giving one trinket after another a cursory examination before tossing it aside.

A broad smile erupted across Daynin’s face, having instantly realized what Sabritha had in mind. “Grandfather—we don’t have to fight! We can buy our way out of this. Come on—help me.” The two climbed onto the back of the wagon and began tossing silver goblets, coins and whatever else Sabritha handed them onto the road. “More!” Daynin shouted.

Ean watched in amazement as a king’s ransom got tossed onto the ground without so much as a second thought. “Bloody hell, boy! Where did you get all this?”

“Never mind that now,” the woman retorted. “Can you drive this wagon? I think it’s time for us to beat it out of here.”

“Aye, but Daynin should drive. My longbow will keep those blaggards off our tail better than that treasure, wager that.”

Sabritha stood up, looked behind them and realized she couldn’t argue the point. “They’re on us, Daynin.”

One look back and Daynin scrambled over the wagon seat. He lashed old Abaddon hard, feeling a fear tightening in his throat he had never felt before. “Get on with ya, you old war horse!”

Ean and Sabritha both fell into the wagon bed as it lurched forward. Ean righted himself and made ready to fire. Two hundred paces behind them, Fulchere the Bowman and his contingent closed at full gallop, the hooves of their war horses clattering on the stone trail like a thousand blacksmiths beating the same anvil.

* Abbotsford Priory *

Kruzurk retrieved the grimoire from the stack of books, handling it as though it were the cherished bones of a long lost saint. He motioned for Mediah to step closer with the light, that he might be able to see better. He propped the manuscript open atop the catafalque, the spine of the book resting against the carved boar’s head that adorned the lower end of the carnyx.

The Monograph had fallen open to a leather marker placed about two thirds of the way toward the end of the book. The pages at that point contained a series of lists in three columns, none of which Kruzurk could begin to decipher. “Perhaps we should take this and go, Mediah. The candles are nearly half spent.”

“Aye, m’lord. My thoughts exactly. You can read it better in the sanctuary above us, I should think.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Kruzurk said, sighing. “This script is unlike any I’ve ever seen.” Having closed the book, his eyes were inexplicably drawn to the calligraphy etched into the carnyx’s fluted shaft. Without thinking, the Latin words began to spill from the magician’s mouth. “Prima urbes inter—divum domus Dalriada,” he recited.

Mediah had turned toward what remained of the crypt’s doorway. Hearing the words, he turned about. “What does that mean?”

“Probably a Roman translation of a Pictish phrase. In Latin, it means ‘First among cities, home of the gods, Dalriada,’ though I cannot imagine why such a phrase would be inscribed on the horn unless it’s a warning of some kind.” Kruzurk’s eyes scanned ahead to read the rest of the horn’s inscription.

“M’lord, what is a ‘dalriada’?”

“Not a what, my Greek friend—Dalriada is a place—the ancestral kingdom of the Picts. The very ground we stand on used to be Pictish land. This priory and everything north to Loch Ness were controlled by the Picts and fought over for countless generations. The Picts held off the Vikings, the Celts, the Irish and even the Romans for a time, until they ultimately fell to treason in their own ranks.”

“M’lord—the candles . . .” Mediah started to say, but a second too late. The light wavered and abruptly went out, victim to a gust of cold musty air moving rapidly across the chamber.

“Damn,” Kruzurk swore. “Stand still Mediah. Don’t try to move—it’s too dangerous here.” With one hand on the book to maintain his balance in the pitch blackness, Kruzurk retrieved a small pellet from his robe with the other. He dropped the pellet onto the catafalque’s damp surface and crushed it with his palm. Instantly, the tomb came alive with a soft green glow like that of a firefly reflected off a pond.

“You never cease to amaze me, Kruze.”

“It’s merely a compound, Mediah—simple alchemy. True magic is the knowledge of the natural world we live in and nothing more. Sorcery, on the other hand, perverts the natural laws, but I am bound by oath never to knowingly avail myself of such pyrrhonist profundities.”

* The Caledonian Camp *

Being rudely dumped at the side of the track by his captors, Brude’s attention swept over the grounds, sizing up his options. He grew tired of the delays and angry at being dragged about like a side of butcher’s beef. He focused on an all-out fight to the death, determined to take as many of his blood enemies with him as possible. The fight would be short, to be sure, since he was outnumbered at least fifty to one. Ah, but it would be a glorious finish, he mused.

He tried wriggling his massive gauntlets against the binding chains, the Caledonians having left him all alone in the fading light. They busied themselves kindling their cook fires and tapping beer kegs, paying him little mind, especially now that they were outnumbered by Saxons and unable to complete his execution at their own whim.

One of Brude’s gauntlets finally lurched free of the chains behind him. His arms were still completely enveloped in ropes and chains, but with time, he knew he could slip free of those. Suddenly, without warning, his attention left the Caledonian camp, focusing instead on some ethereal image far away. He could see through someone else’s eyes, seemingly peering straight into what remained of Brude’s soul.

Vendernochla doch fennakuth mahn cruithni? Brude cried out in his head, but he got no answer. Why is this man reading Cruithni prayers, if he cannot answer me?

A dark chamber and weathered hands appeared in Brude’s vision, with a longish white beard that seemed to be moving. Brude could tell there were words flowing from the bearded one’s mouth, but he could not understand them at first. Finally, the image cleared and he could see a wizened old sage’s reflection in the polished metal of a carnyx! The sage was attempting to form the words of Brude’s ancestral tongue, but like all others of lesser blood, he could make no sense of the language.

Curiously, the old man began to glow—all green and eerie like. If Brude had still possessed his human face, a broad smile would have erupted from ear to ear. Sadly, he had yet to realize his body of flesh long ago turned to dust and that now he existed as a lonely spirit clothed in rust-laden armor.