Chapter 28

Weighed down by the horn, knapsacks, supplies and rumpbags from their horses, Mediah struggled to tote Thor’s nearly lifeless body down the priory’s steep catacomb stairwell. With Olghar Fergum in tow and more than a little trepidation, Mediah tried to bolster the blind priest’s spirits and his own in the process. “Just a little further, old friend—you can make it. When we get to the Well, maybe we can give Thor some water.”

Kruzurk stopped on the slippery landing ahead of them. “We can’t touch the water, Mediah. The visions warned against that. I may have something that will ease Thor’s breathing, but be careful on these steps—they are slick with all manner of ghastly mess. There’s light ahead, too. Maybe we’ve reached the Well. Best keep our voices down from here on.”

“Is ‘e still alive, Greek?” came Olghar’s plaintive whisper.

Mediah shook his head yes, then realized the beggar couldn’t see that. “Breathing hard, but alive. Now we have to be quiet.”

No sooner did the words slip out of Mediah’s mouth than a gruff, demanding voice boomed out of the half-light, “Who goes there? Who comes to the Well of Fears? If ye be mortal—a fair warning—for this is the place from which the worst nightsweats come. If ye be a wandering soul come to find respite from the stinking realm of the dead, there is no room for your kind either.”

All three of the intrepid travelers froze. Only Thor’s labored breathing and a kind of swishing sound like that of a mill pond sluice broke the silence from somewhere in the gloom ahead. The noise grew louder, echoing from the muck covered stones all around them. Olghar took a faltering step backward, but his forearm stayed firmly locked under Mediah’s elbow.

“Prima—urbes—inter—divum domus—Dalriada,” Kruzurk recited, his words coming out decidedly on the shaky side.

“Bah! You are not of Cruithni blood,” the voice growled. “I can taste Cruithni sweat from the air. All I smell from you is Saxon vomit.”

“Aye, we are not from here, but we’ve brought you an offering, just as the runes say. That is, if you are the Watcher of the Well.” Kruzurk thrust the goblet of day old blood ahead of him, swirling it around to make sure the entity could smell the prize.

That swishing sound grew louder and definitely less human in origin, yet it seemed to move away from them, leaving a gentle gurgling sound behind. Thor must have sensed something very strange in the air. His head lifted up abruptly, both ears turned toward the sound.

“We’ve a journey to take,” Kruzurk declared, having yet to see from whence the voice came. “The runes said you would show us the way.”

“Runes says you? And how is it you can read the language of the Picts? No one’s been down here in three hundred years what could read the sacred stones. Not even those pesky monks from up in the light.”

Kruzurk’s head darted to the left where the voice seemed to emanate, but there was no one there. The voice crept much closer now. Close enough in fact that Kruze could smell the foul being. It reeked—worse even than the goblet of gore he held in his hand. “Are you the Watcher?” he asked again.

“I ask the questions here, mortal. What have you brought me, that I may decide not to eat your heart for my supper? And what is that strange smell among you? Are you part beast? For that is animal blood I taste on the air.”

Olghar rebelled at the gut-wrenching image of what might come next. “You can’t have him! He’s my dog and by God I’ll fight you for him!”

A boisterous, “Hahaahahaaa,” shook the flagstones beneath them. “I doubt you could fight your way out of a hay stack, you ancient sea bass, but I give you credit for courage. As for your god, he has no power here. I rule the Well!”

Stepping forward, the beggar jerked his arm free from Mediah’s grasp. He raised his cane in the voice’s direction and began to chant, his other hand making the sign of the cross as he spoke. “Otoydi nazad, demon ili litsom gnev Bozhiy!”

Kruzurk tried to stop the old man before he could utter another word. “Olghar, I beg you, say no more.”

“He plans to eat my dog,” Olghar responded. “He’ll have to kill me first.”

“Hahahahaaaaar,” the voice bellowed. “I am much amused. You can keep your beast, old crotch. I’ve no taste for him. Besides, I haven’t enjoyed this much mirth since the dying days of Dalriada. Now, where’s my gift, eh? What bring you for my supper?”

Mediah and Kruzurk did a double take. A huge barrel-chested being, half again Mediah’s height with a belly big enough to hold a full-grown calf, lurched into the light. The being’s tallowed skin was adorned with tattoos, runes and pictographs from an ample waistline all the way up to his blood-encrusted beard. Deep reddish scars protruded in places from the Watcher’s abundant and coarse black body hair. The magnificently gross body suited the smell that preceded it.

A pair of enormous blacksmith’s arms reached out for the goblet, taking the prize from Kruzurk and thrusting it under his beard. Downing the chalice of thick blood, the Watcher let out the most enormous of belches, again rattling the cobwebs and crevices of the catacombs. “Bah, this blood is old!” he groaned.

“My apologies,” Kruzurk spoke up. “But we had no other Saxon blood from which to choose.”

“More’s the pity,” the Watcher replied. “If I could leave the Well and go up into the light, I could solve that problem.”

Mediah began mumbling an ancient prayer under his breath. Kruzurk could tell that the putrid smell of the Watcher, combined with the nauseating aroma of death that pervaded the Well was making Mediah ill. Kruze hoped he didn’t throw up right there on the spot, lest he might offend the Watcher. “We must reach Loch Linnhe as fast as possible. Is this something you can help us with?”

“Me? I am the Watcher of the Well you sniveling snot, not some pilgrim’s guide. I can show you the way, but first you must give me my reward. Or did you forget that, perhaps?”

Kruzurk looked around at the others, a surprised look on his face. “I—I have this book, and a Cruithni war chief’s horn.”

“Book? What need have I of books? I spit on your book. And that horn is of no use to me—only a Cruithni chieftain can use its powers. Now, what else did you bring me? Gold, silver, perhaps? Dragon’s teeth, or something sweet? Out with it, old man, or this will be the shortest journey of your miserable lives!”

Olghar reached inside his ragged tunic to fetch the St. Vladimir’s cross. “Vo imya On, kotoryy sdelal zoloto, ya predlagayu eto,” he prayed, slipping the cross and gold chain over his head. Offering his prize in the general direction of the Watcher, Olghar mournfully added, “Take this, if it will buy our passage.”

Despite his size, the Watcher fell backward in terror at the sight of the twin railed cross. “No!” he groaned, his huge belly shaking like a hog heaving out its innards. “Put that away, you fool!”

Kruzurk snatched the crucifix from Olghar’s outstretched hand and with a quick motion, stuffed it into the middle of the Monograph’s ample confines. “There—it’s out of sight, out of mind—you need have no fear.”

“I fear nothing, you chalk bearded crone. But the master of this place would make cinders of us all with just one hint of that seditious symbol in our midst. Now go, and good riddance to ye!”

“Which way, m’lord?” Kruzurk asked, his arm making a grand sweeping motion toward the downward sloping path. At least a dozen passages lay ahead of them, each one seemingly darker and more foreboding than the next.

“Follow the webs, you spindly Wiccan, for they will lead you to the boat. And mark you this—there are no return paths. Tread forward only, never back. Walk toward the water and stay on the track. The rest will become clear, once the beast is near.”

Without another sound, the Watcher seemed to crouch over and blend into the stone surface behind him, leaving only the empty mug in the spot where he had stood. Kruzurk and the others left quickly, the path ahead marked by a series of large spider webs leading off toward a bluish green light of undetermined origin.

* Near Glasgow *

Though it had to be well past midnight, Daynin urged Abaddon to keep up his steady, plodding progress toward the coast. A full moon provided ample light to stay on the track and as long as the lights of Glasgow twinkled to his right, Daynin knew he would strike the Clyde River where his grandfather had indicated.

Sabritha, the old man and the squire were all fast asleep in the back of the wagon, exhausted from the day’s events. Beyond tired himself, Daynin stayed awake from the excited rush of their narrow escape and the flicker of realization that a day or two at sea would soon bring them to Rhum and Kinloch Keep, where they would be safe forever.

His mind played out a vision of the cozy north tower with its great hearth in the middle. The one place he’d been forbidden entrance by his father—except on special occasions when the whole McKinnon clan gathered for feasting and storytelling—would soon yield to his commands as the new master of Rhum.

Grandfather Ean had explained it thus, “The master of the house and his mate come together to share their souls in that room, boy. They do so with nay a bit o’ clothing on their bodies and generally prefer not to be disturbed whilst sharing. Someday you’ll be the master of Kinloch and you will want that same privilege.”

‘Master of the House of McKinnon’ had a nice ring to it, even though little remained of the clan and Kinloch Keep. Daynin intended to change all that, just as soon as possible. For now, he had to keep his attention focused on old Abaddon’s backside, lest they tumble off the track and end up splattered on the jagged rocks below. His thoughts had barely leaped back to reality before Abaddon let out a great snort and reared up in his trace.

“Bloody hell!” Daynin cried out, his mind reeling in disbelief at the intruder who seemed to have risen up right out of the road. “Where did—how did you catch us so fast?”

* The Glasgow Inn *

Plumat spat into the roaring fire, realizing that the time his army had lost trying to recapture the Pict had also cost him the greater prize—the boy and the Blackgloom bounty. He could undo neither blunder now. His ragtag army had scattered like birds in a hailstorm with darkness upon them and no idea if the cart had reached the Clyde. Most of his men were legs up, having spent what was left of their new fortunes in seedy taverns, content to drown their miseries in local brew.

To Plumat’s dismay, the Pict’s escape had seemed all too easy. The giant disappeared without a trace, if the Caledonians were to be believed. Plumat simply had to clear his mind and deal with the fact that he’d been out maneuvered by a boy and a brutish thug. “Neither of them have sufficient wits to fill a bat’s earlid,” he scoffed, the Glasgow Inn’s fire pit his only audience. “I’ll have them by midday, by God, or know the reason why.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a portly figure came barging through the inn’s back door. Ranulf of Westmoorland looked like he had tangled with a shepherd’s dog and come away the loser. His tunic was ripped, his chainmail spotted with mud and dung and he smelled of animal sweat mixed with salt brine and puke. “Ale, barmaid—and make it hot!” he roared. Three steps inside the door, he realized he had no one to shout at except Plumat. “Bloody hell. Where is everyone?”

Plumat shook his head at the miserable sight. Ranulf’s feathers would be ruffled with Plumat’s failure to report earlier in the evening. “Gone to bed, I should imagine, m’lord,” he said with deference to Ranulf’s rank, hoping to settle those feathers.

“Where are your men, Plumat? Surely you’re not staying here alone in this heathen brothel.”

“The ones I trust are still out searching, m’lord. A few are next door in the tavern. Others have taken beds in Glasgow that they might talk to the locals and get word of our felons.”

“And what word have you? My ship is anchored in the river and my men are searching around Dumbarton and the northern roads. But I take it you lost your prey somewhere on the track, eh?”

Plumat stood up. He towered over the plump and slovenly Ranulf, giving him a much more imposing posture from which to reply. The time had arrived to establish his authority, now that the pleasantries were over. “They escaped, no thanks to these drunken levies we hired. But they can’t have gone far. That wagon is heavy with booty, and they’ve only the one horse. What of ships in the Clyde? Have you done your job and closed off the river traffic?”

“That’s not exactly a millstream out there, Plumat. Had you come to find me before dark, you would have realized that. We have but one ship and there are hundreds of inlets. A goddamn Norse fleet could be anchored in that estuary and we’d be hard pressed to know it.”

The sharpness of Ranulf’s reply set Plumat aback. Then he remembered that Ranulf’s only duty to the Duke was as overseer for gathering grain and slopping hogs to pay the royal taxes. “My orders were to march here, find you and have you transport my army back to Carlisle. Your duty is to provide me with support. Was that not made clear to you?”

Ranulf had turned to scouring the inn’s tables for whatever scraps he could find to eat. Upon that rebuke, his head snapped around to face the much younger Plumat, one hand reaching for his dirk. “How dare you talk to me in that tone! Why—you’re nothing but a . . .”

Plumat shoved a bench out of his way and stepped forward, straight into Ranulf’s face, hesitating only long enough to wrinkle his nose at the man’s smell. “I’m under the direct orders of Duke Harold of Anglia. You take orders from me. What part of that is not clear to you?” A measured bump of Ranulf’s ample front side shoved the man back, completely disarming him and putting him in his place.

Falling backward into a bar chair, Ranulf of Westmoorland could do little more than issue a sheepish reply. “Your pardon, m’lord. I was told you would be in charge, but it is not my custom to take orders from the Duke’s men-at-arms.”

“Then get used to it, Westmoorland. We’ve a dangerous task ahead of us here and nothing but enemy all around. Follow my orders and you may yet return to feeding your swineherds. Fail to do so and you’ll likely end up as a main course, feeding some Scotian twit’s hogs with your own guts instead.”