Chapter 31

Having removed the last of the Blackgloom bounty from the longboat, Daynin left the boat to trail at the end of its tether as the Shiva turned west, sailing with the Clyde’s seaward bound current. Sunrise crested the ridgeline to the east, outlining Dumbarton Castle’s ruined spires like some jagged set of teeth, smiling at the scene playing out below it.

In the cold dark waters of the firth, a real set of teeth scudded along behind the Shiva’s longboat, content to wait for deeper water to make its attack. And somewhere along the south shore of the Clyde, Brude McAlpin raced among the cairns and cockleshells, desperate to catch sight of the ship leaving him further behind with each new gust of wind.

I’ll never catch them this way, Brude kept thinking. If I cut across the peninsula—head south and then swim to meet them before they reach deep water—that should work. It never occurred to him that swimming in full armor, even for a conjured spirit, might not be a practical feat. Cresting the first rise south of the beach, he suddenly realized he had far more to worry about than catching up with the boat. Arrayed below him marched a cavalcade of Caledonian horsemen, strung out in a line along the coast road directly across his path of retreat.

“Blaggards and thieves,” he swore. Seeing no Saxons among them, he complained angrily, “Not a man in your midst is worthy of my time or valor. Yet, you stand in the way and that I cannot help.”

Unsheathing Droongar, Brude decided to attack when the enemy least expected it. With the sunrise at his back, he would rush them, hack his way through their lines, reach the coast and swim for it—or fall in the doing. After all, what could the heathens do to him that they had not already done?

The Caledonians must have been blinded by the sunrise or asleep on their horses not to have seen the giant hulk bearing down on them from the upslope. At a dead run, Brude slammed into the middle of the troop with the force of an armored tidal wave. Droongar flailed out of the half-light, first low, then high, bringing down two horses and their riders before anyone could sound the alarm. Pandemonium flashed through the file of horsemen.

Unable to maneuver their horses en masse in the narrow and deeply rutted road-cut, the Caledonians attempted to take on the Pict one at a time. Horses and men fell with the precision of a reaper’s crew. Brude’s blade swung left, bringing down animals as fast as they could charge. Swinging right, he would drop another dismounted rider with a vicious and fatal blow.

Time and again, crossbow bolts clanged into his armor with no effect. Blood, gore and serried piles of corpses quickly filled the road cut, creating a scene of destruction even Brude found disgusting. He fought on, knowing the enemy would tire of the battle before he did, or run out of bodies to cast into the cauldron.

More horsemen appeared to his left, far down the road-cut. They hurriedly dismounted and formed up to charge on foot. Remembering the effect of those Caledonian tethers from the first battle, Brude chose to break for the coast rather than be overwhelmed by numbers. He ran, leaving a score of dead and dying men in his wake.

Hot on his heels, the bloodthirsty Caledonians hadn’t seen enough carnage for the day. Some remounted, some followed on foot, but all were intent upon having that Pictish armor they knew would make them richer than even their wildest dreams.

* The Well of Fears *

The barge’s sudden change in speed jolted Kruzurk from the rhythmic slumber he had allowed himself to enjoy. A sharp beam of light played brilliantly across the ripples ahead, heaving in the sea beast’s wake. This time, it looked like real sunlight, just as the runes had said. “Wake up, you two—I think we’re nearing the end of our journey.”

Mediah leaped to his feet, startled by the ray of light and the heavy rocking motion of the boat. He pulled Olghar to his feet and turned to view the sight ahead of them. “Another wellkeep?”

“Aye. That must be the Kinlochleven landing, which the runes foretold me to expect. We must climb to the top and find our way down to Loch Linnhe. From there, we are but half a day from Rhum by sea.”

“But how can you be sure this is the right place?” Mediah asked.

“I know nothing for a fact. We shall have to go and see.”

Thor must have sensed a change in the situation. For the first time since leaving the priory, he rolled over onto all fours and stretched himself. “Haarrroooof!” he woofed, sending gruff echoes bouncing in all directions.

Olghar reached down to pet his companion. “He’s well, master! Thor’s wound is healed! It’s a miracle.”

Kruzurk shrugged, unsure how or why the gash in the dog’s ribs had healed so rapidly. “Perhaps when the water splashed on us—it may have healing qualities. Or—mayhaps those monks know more about healing than I gave them credit for.” Remembering the boat keeper’s directions, Kruzurk leaned over the side and dipped his staff into the water to signal the beast to stop.

The barge slowed to the point that Mediah could toss a line over the side, snagging an ancient carved monolith standing at the end of an equally ancient wharf. “Dry ground again,” he sighed and happily jumped across the gap to pull the boat tightly against the dock by its mooring rope.

Kruzurk helped Olghar ashore ahead of him, unsure what to expect next, but satisfied they were making the right choices. A glance back over his shoulder told him that the sea beast had gone its merry way without so much as a look back. He had a sense that it was not the last they would see of that creature.

The trio’s long climb up the wellkeep’s winding stair ended at an exit through a pair of small doors into a clear highland morning. From their vantage point among the ruins above a steep precipice, they enjoyed a spectacular view. “There, see it?” Kruzurk crowed. “That village down there should be Kinlochleven. And there—to the north—surely that is Loch Linnhe, just as the images foretold. Now, if we can barter for horses, we can cut across the coast, find another boat and reach Rhum well ahead of the boy.”

“Hold! Who goes there?” came a shout from the edge of the ruins. With sunlight glinting off his tarnished helmet, a plumpish leviathan of a man appeared before them, blocking the path down the escarpment with little more than his sheer girth. “You pilgrims are trespassing on Clan McKlennan holdings. Stand and state yer business, else I’ll be obliged to toss you off this crag.”

Mediah edged forward, placing himself between the beefy sentinel and the others. “We mean no harm. We seek passage to Rhum—and we must make haste.”

“Haste is it?” the clansman replied. His robust chest and stomach rolled with a brief, mocking laugh. “No need for ye to hurry to R-r-r-r-hum. Ain’t been a soul on that bloody r-r-rock for many a year. Not since them black hearted Caledonians brought Clan McKinnon to ruin, that is.”

“Aye, that’s why we’re here. We mean to help set that foul deed aright, if we can,” Kruzurk answered sharply. “And time is of the essence.”

“Set it right, says you? An old fool, a beggar and a—uh—uh—are you some kind of djinni or what, dark one? Come to make yer heathen magic on the Caledonians, is it? Or are ye gonna swat ‘em with yer magic bottle?” Another, more raucous round of laughter followed, though more on the congenial side this time.

The man’s laugh and his backhanded insult caused Mediah’s hand to reach for his dirk. “I’m no djinni—I’m Greek. My name is Mediah and this is Kruzurk the Magician. Olghar the Russ travels with us to Rhum.”

“I am Maclaren McKlennan, son of Tavish McKlennan—heir to this keep and all the land ar-r-round it. And you three are trespassing, by God.”

Seeing Mediah clench the hilt of his blade again, Kruzurk sidestepped the Greek to prevent any wasted bloodshed. “The Anglish and their Caledonian levies are on the way to Rhum to capture a boy who, like you, is heir to his clan holdings there. We mean to stop them.”

“Och! That bloody hound of yours will ‘ave a better chance of stoppin’ Caledonians than you lads. These highlands are crawlin’ with cutthroat scoundrels, all lookin’ for fat pilgrims with easy plunder. Surely you knew that afore ya came here. Now what’s yer real business? And how the bloody hell did you get up ‘ere? Tell me the truth, or I’ll be forced to smack ya down, old mahn.”

Kruzurk turned to point toward the doors they had just passed through. Much to his surprise, they had disappeared into the cliff face. He realized he still carried the barge staff in his hand, but not wanting to look too much the fool, he answered, “We—uh—came here by boat.”

“Aye, and a flyin’ boat I s’pose it t’was what brought you up ‘ere onto the Clach Leathad, eh?” Maclaren scoffed. “Ain’t but one way up here and you didn’t take it, since me or one of me mates was on guard all night. The ruins of the keep on this mountain are sacred to the McKlennans. We don’t take kindly to no pilgrims traipsin’ about.”

“I swear to you—we’ve come to help Daynin McKinnon, if that name means anything to you,” Kruzurk offered. “We need a guide, and a boat as well. We can pay, if you’ve the stomach for a quest, that is.”

Maclaren burst into an almost uncontrolled laughter, his pinkish skin turning a bright red as he began removing his helm. “Stomach says ‘e! Haharrrr! Can there be a bigger stomach than this ‘ere one in all of Scotia? I think not, says I!”

“Then you’ll join us?”

“Aye, old man, if ye’ve got the plum to back up yer boast of payment, I’ll take ye to Rrrr-rhum. This Daynin McKinnon sounds like a mahn I should meet—if he’s the r-r-real thing. For all I know, we could even be cousins. But to my knowledge, nary a one of the McKinnon clan escaped the death pits on R-r-rhum.”

“Five talens for you and another five for the boat. Do we have a bargain master McKlennan?”

Proffering his huge hand to seal the bargain, Maclaren replied, “Aye, a bargain sealed with mah grr-rip old mahn. Provided you call me Muck, that is. Everyone from these parts knows me by that name. Not only am I the foremost mud wrestler in all of north Scotia, I hail from an island of the same name—not far from R-r-rhum in fact.”

“Muck it is, then,” Kruzurk agreed, extending his hand for the clench. “Welcome to the quest. I hope it turns out well for us all. Now, can we be off to Rhum?”

* Aboard The Shiva *

Riding the firth’s ocean current and a stronger than usual land breeze, the Shiva seemed almost to be flying across the water. From his station near the stern of the ship, Daynin’s gaze scanned from one shoreline to the other in hopes of catching a glimpse of Brude. Rocks and more rocks were all he saw.

“You’re wasting your time. That clanking colossus is long gone and good riddance to him,” Sabritha said.

Daynin’s head snapped around, his eyes aglow with something more than the usual desire for the woman. “He’s not gone. He’s out there somewhere and we’re leaving him behind. I gave him my word and now I’m breaking it with every league we travel.”

“There you go with that ‘word’ thing again. When will you learn? You can’t make a promise every time you plan to do something.”

“Sabritha, if honor is not a part of a mahn’s values, then he’s nae a mahn in my opinion. And that goes for a woman as well. I would die for you, or my grandfather, or even Brude if it was required of me—yet I’ve never given any of you mah word on that. It’s what an honorable mahn does. It is what my people do. McKinnons value honor above all else and if you’re to be happy staying with us, you have to accept that we are that way. There is little reason for you to stay otherwise.”

Sabritha darted a glance toward the four large chests and assorted smaller ones stacked on the stern deck, hinting at her motive. Her gaze quickly settled on Daynin’s face to proclaim the answer he wanted. “You can be as hard as hickory one minute, plowboy and as gentle as a foal the next. That’s one reason I’m here. But you offered me the most perfect sunrise in Scotia if I came along on this trip. Remember? I intend to make you deliver on that promise.”

Even the ‘plowboy’ thing couldn’t deter Daynin from believing every word Sabritha had just said. He searched her face and found more of what he longed for. The smooth, fine lines around her eyes and that inviting smile demanded that he take her in his arms and kiss away all her worries, past and present. Somehow, though, he could not—at least not yet. At that instant, Daynin realized the look in Sabritha’s eyes had changed. Gone was the warmth, replaced by something bordering on a terror he had never seen before.

“What the hell is that?” she blurted out.

A heartbeat later, the lookout at the tip of the mast bellowed, “Avast! Sea beast in our wake—and it’s a big-un!”

Every head on the ship turned instantly, a collective gasp rising from the stern and spreading louder as it swept all the way forward to the fo’cs’le. “Mast on the horizon, dead astern, maybe two and a half leagues!” the lookout shouted again. “Bloody hell—she’s huge and from the cut of her sail, likely a Saxon!”