Chapter 32

Word of pilgrims in the area spread rapidly through the moors and marshes around Kinlochleven. The arrival of strangers—especially those with silver in their pouches—brought every hidesman, whore and heathen out of their hovels before midday. By the time Muck and his group reached the banks of Loch Linnhe, a crowd had gathered and set up a makeshift market, complete with every kind of animal, fish and bird in Scotia.

Doing his best to keep pace with the measured stride of their portly guide, Kruzurk asked, somewhat out of breath, “Where did—all these—people—come from—Muck?”

His hefty size opening a path through the crowd ahead, Muck replied, “Never ceases to amaze me how folks seem to know what they know. I sent word to mah uncle, that he should join us at the loch. He’s sailed to the Hebrides many times and knows boats far better than I. I can only guess that word got out, somehow. I cannae say for sure.”

Mediah tugged harder on Olghar’s sleeve to hurry him along, impatient to find a boat and get away from the horde of non-believers blocking their way. “Step aside,” he snarled. “We’ve no coin to spend here. Now make way!”

Thor’s naturally fearsome presence helped to open the path as well, now that he was back to his old surly self. The dog almost literally dragged his master along by the leash, making it harder and harder for Olghar to stay in step with the others.

From somewhere in the crowd, a voice shouted over the hubbub, “Hold up, Muckie boy!”

“Och, ‘tis mah uncle,” Muck crowed. He stopped in the middle of the path and turned around to shout back, “Over here, you old mugger. Come give us a kiss now!”

Mediah and Kruze saw the great hooded bird moving through the sea of heads first, then the diminutive person upon whose staff the bird perched. Muck’s uncle had to be well on in years, yet stout as a Roman barricade to be able to heft such a load. With hair as white as a thunderstorm’s crest and twice as unruly, he and the bird made quite an entrance. The color of the huge sea eagle’s breast matched the old man’s hair perfectly, but the enormous bird bore a far more stately demeanor; one that could only be described as regal.

“Muckie boy! I heard you wuz lookin’ fer sailors, so I came at the run. Me and Talisman that is.”

Muck leaned down to give the old man a bearish hug, careful to keep his head well out of Talisman’s pecking range. “Either that crow of yours is growin’ bigger, uncle Eigh, or you’ve been turned into a troll. I cannae tell which.”

“Call my eagle a crow again and I’ll sic ‘im on you, Muckie. He don’t much like people no-ways, especially them what wears silly pots on their head.” Eigh stretched on his tiptoes to deliver a requisite slap against the side of Muck’s helmet.

“Aye, I remember poor Uncle Corr-rran the first time Talis-mahn laid eyes on his new armor. The bird came off that staff and nearly took Unc’s noggin for a prize.”

The two shared a hearty guffaw, unmindful of the people who could not tear their eyes away from the magnificent bird. Even with a hood on and his intense green eyes covered, a full grown sea eagle presented the most awesome of sights to villagers, who were unaccustomed to seeing any large birds of prey, let alone one with the wingspan of a man’s height.

A sudden loud screech from Talisman sent Thor into a barking rage, scattering the crowd around them like deer at the first howl of wolves. It took Olghar and Mediah both to hold the dog back in the face of Talisman’s enormous wings flapping and that awful, piercing scream.

“Shut that mutt’s mouth or by God I’ll let Talisman take ‘is eyes!” Eigh bellowed.

Kruzurk edged forward, holding the remains of a bread crust in his outstretched hand. Talisman’s protest stopped almost immediately, as did Thor’s. The bird’s razor sharp beak swooped down on the crust without being able to see it, so keen was his sense of smell.

“Bloody hell,” Eigh swore. “I’ve never known Talisman to eat anything but meat. Who are you pilgrim? And why did you offer him that crust of bread?”

“I’m Kruzurk Makshare, the magician. I guessed that your bird might like it.”

Eigh rudely slapped the rest of the crust from Kruzurk’s hand. “Are ya daft, mahn? He might have liked yer bloody hand instead, ya damned fool. Don’t try that again. This bird is no pet. He can snatch up a new born sheep and carry him half a league afore rippin’ ‘im to shreds for ‘is breakfast.”

Kruzurk backed away, gesturing agreement as he moved. “I’ll remember that. My apologies.”

“What are you doin’ with these strangers, anywho, Muckie? Why the bloody hell did ya bring ‘em here? And where’s this boat you wuz wanting me to spy for ya?”

By now, Muck had taken a healthy step backward as well, keenly aware of Talisman’s reach. “We best talk elsewhere, uncle—they’s too many ears here that dinnae need to know our business.”

“Och, business is it? Then you’re right on, Muckie boy—let’s be off. No sense giving these blaggards an ear full, that’s for sure.”

Unfortunately, it was too late to worry about that. Well back in the crowd, a small, wiry man uncrumpled the Anglian writ he had carried with him all the way from Galashiels. He flashed it to his surly cohort, eliciting a wide, evil grin from the man as they both realized the bounty of a lifetime stood a mere stone’s throw from them.

“Get the boys,” the blaggard said, his toothy smile full of a mischief that no good can come from.

* The Greenock Peninsula *

The lowland bountiers couldn’t match the pace Brude kept up while crossing the rugged high ground that splits the Greenock peninsula. He heard the Caledonians cursing below and behind him, but dared not take the time to see how close they were on his heels. They had dogs with them now—the one thing he had feared in life and now feared because he had no time for fighting. If they caught him, he could fend off the animals, but that might mean missing Daynin’s ship, somewhere out in the Firth of Clyde.

Reaching the crest of the ridge, Brude turned for a look at his pursuers before heading down the other side. His attention was drawn to two ships scudding along out in the Clyde, widely separated but with a strange wake between them, low in the water like nothing he had ever seen. “So, you Saxon drengs have a ship too, eh? Good. This fight may yet be worthy of my time. Many among you will be glad of your shields when first we meet—that much I can promise.”

Brude’s reverie filled with glorious images of mounted combat against a horde of Saxon knights, all bent upon his destruction. The moment would have given him great satisfaction if not for a well-aimed quarrel that chinked hard against the back of his breastplate. He looked back at his attacker and let out a boisterous laugh that echoed across the slopes. “You blaggards can kiss my royal Cruithni crotch!” A hearty shove sent an avalanche of rocks cascading down on the archers, scattering them among the boulders below.

Satisfied that he’d done all he could to delay the enemy, Brude rushed down the bluff, intent upon finding a good spot from which to hail Daynin’s boat. Then the real work would begin, for Brude McAlpin—the Great Deceiver, warrior among warriors and heir to the Seven Houses of Scone—had never learned to swim.

* Aboard The Shiva *

Ean’s crusty voice seemed to finally be getting through to Troon. “Wake up you old war horse. We may have need of your longbow soon.”

“What is it now?” Troon replied, both hands rubbing the sleep and salt brine from his eyes. “You ain’t puttin’ me over the side again, are ya?”

“Of course not—your leg looks fine. We got boarders and a damn sea beast in our wake, though,” Ean answered.

“Boarders! Bloody hell—I hope they ain’t from Tiree. Those blue water dogs are a surly lot and they’ve got some of the best ships on the ocean sea.”

“They’re Saxons,” Daynin said, flatly. “Come to offer me a long drop on a short rope.”

Troon sat up abruptly, surprised to hear Daynin’s voice. He gasped, unable to hide the searing pain in his thigh. “A rope is it, eh? And what did you do, Master McKinnon that you should deserve a neck stretchin’ by the King’s Eyre?”

Daynin knelt down next to Troon and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Troon, I did what any mahn would have done in my spot. I sent a blaggard to hell for mistreating a woman.”

“Did ya now?” Troon guffawed. “And this blaggard was a bloke who didn’t wipe his own arse, eh? Blue blood, was he?”

Sabritha’s sharp tongue provided the answer. “Not just any blue blood, but a Marquis—Duke Harold’s own cousin, in fact.”

Troon’s head whipped to the right at the sound of a woman’s voice. Both hands went to pulling at his scraggly gray hair, all in a muss from dirt and seawater. “And who might you be, missy with the raven black hair?”

“I’m Sabritha, the woman Daynin stepped in to help. Now we’re all felons for that deed.”

“Aye, felons in Anglia, mayhaps,” Daynin rebutted. “But this is Scotia, and Saxon law means nothing here.”

“Sabritha is it?” Troon questioned, with more than a mild curiosity lacing his words. “Are ya by any chance Irish, little girl?”

“I’m a Kilcullen, of the Tandragee Glen Kilcullens . . .”

“Saints of Armagh! I knew your family, girl—I fought a campaign with your pap. Bloody ferocious sot ‘e was, too. Tall as a haystack, with hair and beard ta match. He could drink a whole troop under the table and still hit half a hundred dead-centers the next day.”

Hearing a tidbit of information about her father brought a tear to Sabritha’s eyes. Since she had only a few fleeting memories of him from childhood, her mind raced and her heart quickened at finding someone besides herself who had actually known him in life. And now to learn he had been an archer—exactly as she remembered him in her dreams. That meant her dreams were not dreams at all, but actual memories!

“I don’t suppose you know what came of him after he left for Anglia—or of my mother?”

“Last I knew of yer pap, they listed ‘im among the dead at the first battle of Wrexham. But the Saxons took plenty of prisoners that day and none have been heard from since. As for your mother, I only know your pap swore she was a saint.”

“They’re gaining on us!” the lookout shouted from above.

Captain Hawkes swung down from the ratlines, his face twisted in anguish. “Hard to port, pilot—take us into the shallows. That deep draft Saxon scow will tear her bottom out if she follows us in there.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “God help us if we run aground.”

Again the lookout shouted, this time waving like a bear in a bout with bees. “It’s turning! The beast is turning! The bleedin’ thing’s following us into the shallows.”

* Aboard The Pandora *

Standing knee deep in the shallows of Loch Linnhe, Eigh patted a hand against the hull of the boat bobbing next to him. “She ain’t very big, Muckie, but this tub is sea worthy and should get you to Rrr-rhum, though I cannae see why you want to go there.”

“It’s those pilgrims who are goin’, Uncle Eigh. I’m just the guide. They claim Saxons are on the way to take away Daynin McKinnon, heir to the McKinnon clan holdings.”

Eigh waded back to the beach to retrieve Talisman’s perching pole and said, “Aye, there was a Daynin in that clan. Only a lad as I recall. Bashed the same night as the rest o’ them. I smell a r-r-rrat, Muckie boy.”

Muck waved for the group to come on down from the hill above. “As do I, uncle. But I dinnae think this lot is lying. And besides, there’s five talens in it for me.”

“Five talens says you! Reckon they could use another hand in this venture?”

“We can use all the help we can get,” Kruzurk answered, having come up behind them. “There’s five talens in it for you, too, if you’ve a mind to come along, Eigh.”

The old man showed both a willingness to go and a remarkable agility for his age. Talisman in hand, he clambered aboard the swaying Pandora with no help from the boat’s crew. “For five bloody talens, I’d sail from here to the moon. Now, let’s get goin’!”

No sooner were the words spoken than a hullabaloo erupted in the village on the bluff above them. “That’s them! Down there!” someone shouted. Another yelled out, “Get ‘em!” and a mad rush of people came pouring over the crest of the beach road. Armed with pitchforks, clubs and torches, a crowd of locals headed for the Pandora, each trying to outrace the other for a prize their grog and collective imagination had increased tenfold.

Mediah and Kruzurk jerked Olghar out of the water while Muck dragged Thor aboard. Eigh busied himself helping with the anchor so they could shove off the beach far enough to avoid the mob.

Eigh quickly realized that with no wind to speak of, they would never get out of the shallows in time. “Drunken sots,” he swore, turning to Talisman. Ripping off the bird’s hood, the old man produced a pemmican lure from his pouch, pulled the leather jesseps loose from Talisman’s legs and tossed the lure as far as he could, straight toward the crowd.

The effect was a sight to behold. In the twinkling of its huge eyes, Talisman’s wings unfolded and carried him into flight. Down he swooped, then back up again—aiming dead as an arrow at the lure on the beach. The mob took one look at the giant winged predator bearing down on them and broke for parts unknown, their torches, tools, and tantrum left littering the sand behind them.

“Hahaharrr! Take that, you grubbers!” Eigh crowed. He put his fingers between his teeth and let out a shrill whistle. Talisman turned back toward the boat in one swooping flap.

“We got our five talens worth, Kruze,” Mediah said.

“Aye,” Kruzurk agreed. “I can’t help wondering who they were after. We’ve not been here long enough to make enemies.”

Muck swept the helmet from his head and wiped his brow. “If it’s all the same to you, magician, we best not be stayin’ ar-r-rround to find out. That lot will be back when they’ve had more grog, wager that.”