Chapter 29

Far down in the Well of Fears, the Watcher’s parting words about a beast had Kruzurk genuinely worried for the first time since leaving Lanercost Priory. He could overcome, outmaneuver or outwit men and their machinations, but beasts were another thing entirely—especially with others to think of. In such a foreboding place like the Well of Fears, he had no doubt that any beast would be something out of the ordinary.

Downward they trod, the slope of the stone pathway growing ever more slippery and steep with each step. Kruzurk turned about to make sure the others followed him and, satisfied, marched onward. The cobwebs he had been ordered to follow grew larger and more menacing with each turn in the path, though he had yet to see a single spider. The webs bulged with white cocooned bundles as big as pumpkins, evidence that something besides lost souls wandered the catacombs. Rats, he rationalized. That’s why we’ve seen no rats!

A strange swishing and alternately gurgling sound emanated from somewhere below. The light around the intrepid band turned from a soft green to a more pronounced bluish tint, similar to the light reflected off a calm sea at dusk. Kruze could hear what sounded like waves lapping against the hull of a boat. He knew they were close to the end of the path. Suddenly, a vista opened ahead.

“This cannot be,” the magician whispered, for his learned eyes would not allow his mind to accept what he could clearly see. “This simply can’t be.”

Mediah, with Olghar in tow, came around the final bend in the path and stopped instantly as though struck dumb by the sight. Olghar fidgeted with his cane, anxious to move on, but Mediah wouldn’t allow it. “What is it, Greek? Have we reached the end? I can smell the water, and fish and rotting timber. Are we there?”

“Shhhhhh,” Kruzurk warned.

“Insha Allah,” Mediah prayed. “This cannot be.”

Even Thor came out of his stupor to see the incredible sight. His ears perked, his nose twitched and somewhere deep inside him, an ominous growl began to form.

* Near Glasgow *

The cart’s sudden lurching stop tossed everyone asunder. Daynin desperately jerked on the reins trying to calm Abaddon. The poor horse seemed terrified at the giant’s unexpected appearance in his path. All the more so because of the Pict’s size and the many sparkling plates that adorned his intricate armor.

“I had a feeling you were in this wagon, though I cannot say why for sure. Are you not glad to see me Draygnar? We are allies, after all.”

“You scared the boogers out of me and the horse, you big blowhard! How in the name of Scotia did you get here before us? Last I saw of you at the priory, there were ten men on top of you.”

Brude stepped around Abaddon, running his huge mailed hand along the animal’s back to steady him. “Plenty of time for war stories later, boy. You best be moving this chariot along afore the sunrise catches you on this road. There’s no way off it ‘til you reach the shoreline down below and I assume you have a ship waiting down there somewhere, yes?”

“Aye, we have a ship,” Ean interrupted, “not that it’s any business of yours. Who the bloody hell are you, anyway and why have you stopped us?”

Brude’s enormous helm turned toward the sudden verbal assault from the back of the wagon. “I’m the boy’s ally, you old fart. Now sit thee down and hush your grousing or I’ll toss you over the cliff edge.”

Ean almost came out of his shoes trying to scramble past Sabritha and the squire. His face turned a bright scarlet and his voice choked, so unaccustomed was he to being rebuked. Only the quick hands of the woman and Miles Aubrecht kept him from losing a very short, one-sided fight.

“You bastard!” Ean swore, trying with all his strength to get at the giant tormentor.

“Easy, grandfather,” Daynin pleaded. “This is Brude McAlpin—he helped us escape the Duke’s men. He’s a—a—he’s . . .”

“What the boy is trying to say is that I come from a time long past. Daynin here gave me life again—and I am bound to repay that debt.”

“Life again?” Ean scoffed.

“Aye, t’was a long time ago when I first walked these grounds and fought with your ancestors.”

The old man settled back a bit, still agitated with the delay. “Then you claim to be a ghost, is that it? I dinnae believe in such tripe. ‘Tis but tawdry tales told to test the talents of the tale tellers, says I. They’s no such thing as ghosts.”

Daynin turned around to face the old man, his eyes bright with the sparkle of absolute truth. “I saw my father at the priory, grandfather. Plain as day, he stood there for one blink of my eyes, then poof—slipped right through the wall of the nave—sword and all. Prior Bede said such spirits do exist and I believe Brude tells the truth. He too, has a long score to settle with the Caledonians.”

“And anyone else who dares transgress Cruithni ground,” Brude added.

The squire’s ears perked up at the mention of that word. “There are no Cruithni left—only myths. I read that the Romans destroyed them hundreds of years ago. They called them Picts, for their custom of marking their skin with tattoos.”

The Great Deceiver flew into a rage. Before anyone could stop him, one gigantic glove reached into the wagon and jerked the squire out by his throat. The hapless boy’s life literally hung in the balance. He looked for all the world like a lamb trussed from an oak tree. Brude pulled the boy’s face close to the view slit on his helmet. “No Cruithni left, eh? Does this feel like a myth from Roman history, or the real thing? Speak up, scholar. Beg for mercy the way your ancestors did, or I’ll snap your neck like a charred chicken bone.”

“Put him down you big rusty rivet pile!” Sabritha snarled. “Pick on someone your own size.”

Brude dropped the boy in a heap on the ground, having turned his attention to the woman. “Spicy bit of salt you are, eh? Mayhaps you’d like to tumble with me next?”

Sabritha’s lightning quick movement to slap at the giant’s helmet stopped when met by Daynin’s equally fast response. He stayed her wrist, then barked, “Enough of this! We have to get to the boat before first light. Brude, if you travel with us, you must act like an ally—not some half crazed Cruithni conundrum bent on destruction. The Anglish—they are your enemy—not these people.”

The brutish hulk stepped back from the wagon, content that he’d made his point. “Go on. I’ll meet you at the boat. This cart and that miserable beast can barely handle the load now. I’m off to find the Anglish dogs who stole my blade at Abbotsford. When I do, then will I have reason to draw blood this night.”

* The Well of Fears *

“Where does the light come from?” Mediah asked, probably without actually expecting an answer.

Kruzurk ventured a couple of halting steps toward the water, his fear momentarily overcome by the same curiosity Mediah had expressed. He knelt next to the water’s edge, sniffing the pungent aroma that wafted off the surface. “This is fresh water, but it smells of fish—or slime—or . . .”

“That’s the monster you smell, you old fool . . .” came a frail, but very authoritative reply from the shadows. “If you venture any closer to the water, you’ll likely find out for yourself.”

Kruze, Mediah and Olghar all turned as one, taken aback by the nearly invisible intruder. Barely as tall as Mediah’s belt, a troll-sized being seemed to glide across the slimy stone surface with the ease of a shadow. His dark robe displayed all the trappings of a monk, but none of the piety.

“What did you bring me?” he barked. “I don’t do this for fun, you know.”

“Are you the guidesman?” Kruzurk replied.

“I’m Gandahar, keeper of the boats,” the diminutive being snapped back. “Now, what did you bring me?” A tiny hand reached out to push back the wimple covering his head and shoulders.

Upon seeing the hideous blue-green skin on the being’s oddly shaped head, Mediah gasped aloud. Olghar tugged at his frock sleeve and begged, “What is it, master—what’s wrong?”

“I’m waiting. . .” came another sharp demand.

“We, uh—we gave our offering to the Watcher,” Kruzurk answered, apologetically.

“That’s what they all say. He probably ate it, too, didn’t he? That’s all he thinks about—food and blood, blood and food. I was hoping for something a bit more—shall we say—substantial?”

Gandahar glided closer to Mediah and the dog, his beady gaze playing rapidly among the threesome, as though expecting some action on their part. “Is that a horse you’ve brought me, mayhaps? I’ve always wanted to see one of those, in the flesh.”

Kruzurk stepped between the being and Thor’s nearly lifeless body. “No—a horse is much bigger. This is a dog, and a badly injured one at that—he’s hardly worth . . .”

Gandahar darted back into the shadows before Kruzurk could even finish explaining. “Take him away—take him away—take him away!” the little being wailed, his voice louder and more shrill with each successive scream.

“Thor won’t hurt you,” Olghar said, reaching out to stroke the dog’s fur. “See, he’s very friendly.”

“Get in the boat! Be gone with you!” Gandahar screeched. His hand protruded from the shadows, pointing the way to a small scow moored some fifty paces down the stone jetty. “Take one of the staffs you’ll find in the boat and touch the water with it. When you reach your destination, touch the water again. Now get thee gone, before I summon the beast myself.”

Kruzurk waved to Mediah to follow. Together, they made their way to the ancient wooden vessel. Climbing aboard, the magician found a cache of wooden staffs stored near the bow. He selected one, then made sure his companions were safely settled amidships. Satisfied that they were ready, he touched the staff to the water’s surface and held his breath. Nothing happened.

Several minutes passed while they waited, wondering what to expect next. The long arched tunnelway was unlike any they had ever seen. Intricate and finely carved stones fit together so perfectly forming the channel’s vaulted roof, if indeed it was a channel, that no mortar showed between the stones. And the light—coming from nowhere and everywhere—reflected eerily from every surface, making the tunnel seem to move on its own in perfect rhythm with the water’s ebb and flow.

Behind the boat, some distance down the tunnel, Kruzurk caught a glimpse of a dark humpbacked shape as it emerged from the water, then disappeared again, then reappeared. The creature repeated that motion over and over, like a giant water snake undulating along the surface. And it was fast—faster than any sea creature Kruzurk knew to exist. As the thing drew nearer, he realized it was huge. So large, in fact, that its last dive into the depths splashed water on them from three boat length’s distance.

“My God,” Kruzurk whispered. “Hang on—that thing may swamp this scow and us with it.”

Holding their breath, all three men waited several long seconds until the boat finally erupted into motion. In a sudden acceleration, the craft leapt forward as if caught by a giant wind—yet with no sail and no wind to push it. Instead, the boat rapidly gained speed as it almost literally flew down the tunnel. Traveling faster than any of the adventurers had ever expected to as mortal men, they left behind all thought or concern for their own safety and simply marveled at the heady rush forward.

The beast had taken the boat in its wake and moved at an unbelievable pace, first on the surface, then below, then again above water once more. Time and again the motion continued until Kruzurk lost track of how long or far they might have traveled.