Chapter 33

The Woebringer’s lookout answered Ranulf from atop the mast, “They’re draggin’ somethin’ astern, m’lord. It’s huge and low in the water.”

“Keep an eye on that sail,” Ranulf replied. “If it slacks, shout out.”

Standing next to Ranulf, Plumat observed dryly, “We’re gaining on them.”

Ranulf turned his head to spit with the wind. “Aye, gaining but not fast enough. If that scow reaches the open sea, we may not catch ‘em. This ship is faster, but in heavy seas, we can’t maneuver the way they can.”

“She’s turning!” the lookout barked.

The captain of the Woebringer rushed forward to a spot next to Plumat. He cupped his hands over his eyes and growled, “Damned highlanders—they’re turning into the shallows.”

“Go after them, Captain Coke—that’s an order,” came the reply from Plumat.

“Bloody hell. That shoal is barely deep enough for them and we’ve twice their draft.”

“Ranulf, need I remind you and your captain who is in charge?”

Ranulf turned to the captain, a sheepish look on face. “Plumat answers to the Duke. Do as he says.”

“You’re fools if you think we won’t tear the bottom out of this ship. But if that’s what you want, then so be it. Hard over, pilot! Bring us into their wake.”

* The Greenock Shoreline *

Two sails appeared one after the other, scudding along the headland to the right and bearing inland directly toward Brude’s vantage point on the beach. Waving Droongar high in the air to attract their attention, he quickly dropped from the huge boulder into the icy waters of the Clyde.

“Come on, boy,” he roared. “Make it quick, else there’ll be hell to pay when those Caledonian dogs get here.”

“Did you see that?” Ean cried out from his spot near the bow of the Shiva.

“See what, old man?” captain Hawkes replied.

“Something flashed near the south shore—way down there. Like sunlight glinting off polished armor. Then it disappeared.”

“More trouble, no doubt, with the way this trip is shaping up,” came Hawkes’ disgruntled retort.

“I saw it too, grandfather,” Daynin added. “It looked like armor to me. We’ll know in a bit, soon as we round the headland.”

Sabritha pushed her way through the crew to gain a better vantage point. “What if the Saxons have a trap set?”

“Then they best be able to walk on water,” Hawkes growled. “We’d see their sail if they had another ship waiting to cut us off.”

“Och!” The tone of Ean’s grunt could mean nothing less than trouble. He pointed to the cliffs facing the estuary. “Caledonians—lots of ‘em—pouring over the bluff.”

Hawkes turned to his pilot and screamed, “Hard over, Peckee! They’ve got us between the rocks and a sea serpent. Starboard now, or we’ve bought it for sure!”

Daynin’s keener eyes told a different story. “No! Wait! That’s Brude—there—neck deep in the water. They’re after him, not us!”

“I don’t give a render’s puke who they’re after,” Hawkes yelled back. “Make for the main channel, pilot and be damned quick about it. We’re well within the cast of their longbows.”

“We cannae risk it, Daynin,” Ean said, his voice laden with sympathy.

“We have to, grandfather. I gave my word.”

“You gave yer word to a spirit, boy—that ain’t the same as givin’ it to a real, live person.”

“Man or mud hen, grandfather—I gave it and I intend to keep it.” Daynin faced the captain and ordered, “Steer to port, captain, or I’ll be forced to gut you where you stand.”

The look of confusion on the captain’s face would have been amusing under any other circumstances. He drew a large blade from his belt and braced for Daynin’s attack. “You little snipe—I’ll slit you from head to heel if you try it.”

Ean faced Hawkes too, ready to draw his blade to back Daynin’s ploy, but he was already too late. Sabritha slipped up behind the captain, grabbed his wrist and shoved his blade within a cat’s whisker of his own throat. “I think you best be doing what Daynin says.”

“Bloody hell! Sea monsters, sirens and sedition—this just ain’t my day,” the captain moaned. With his free hand, he motioned for Peckee to shove the tiller hard a-port, bringing the Shiva back into the shallows, straight for Brude.

* Aboard The Woebringer *

Barely a bow shot behind the Shiva, the Saxon pursuers were enjoying the ungainly escapades of Daynin’s ship. Between chomps on another carrot, Ranulf alternately laughed and expressed his opinions. “I tell you—she’s out of control. No pilot in ‘is right mind would steer a course like that, especially in these shallows. We’ll ‘ave ‘er before she reaches the main channel, I wager.”

Plumat grimaced at the slovenly manners Ranulf so generously displayed. Stepping upwind to avoid the man’s odor and the occasional burst of carrot-laced spittle, he leaned against the railing to steady his gaze. “Would that you were right, for once, Ranulf. But look you! There—up on the bluff—our Caledonian minions have rejoined the chase. That is why the highlanders steer so wildly.”

With the Woebringer not yet clear of the headland, those aboard could not tell that the Shiva had slowed almost to a stop while taking on a passenger. Their attention thus absorbed, none of the Saxons—not even the lookout—noticed the huge greenish black creature lurking low in the water dead ahead of them. The beast slowly turned in place, headed straight for the ship’s prow.

“Hard over!” Ranulf screamed, his horrified realization coming a blink too late.

The Woebringer gave out a mighty groan and pitched forward like a stallion stumbling in a snake pit. A bubbling rumble sounded from below the ship’s bow as it lurched high into the air, threatening to capsize. Every man aboard tumbled forward, only to be shoved violently backward when the bow came out of the water. The ship’s mast twitched one way, then the other, its metal braces and fittings wrenching under the strain.

Ranulf, Plumat and a dozen others ducked to avoid the host of ropes, chains and blocks flying hither and yon. Two men went down with ghastly wounds from wood shards and iron rivets fired like catapult bolts from the rigging. The mast swayed backward one more time, finally giving way to the mighty stress. A loud ‘crack’ announced that the mast had splintered, sending the Woebringer’s crew tumbling wildly once more.

* Aboard The Shiva *

“Did you hear that?” Daynin cried out, his attention suddenly shifting from Brude’s giant dripping frame to the awful sound echoing against the cliff face.

“Aye, boy. If the Caledonians have a catapult, we’re in big trouble,” Troon’s worried voice replied. All eyes and ears turned to see if they were about to be struck by a huge stone or a blazing ball of pitch from an unseen ballista on the peninsula.

Captain Hawkes’ attention to the sound had been far keener than the others. “You landlubbers never heard a mast shatter afore, have ye? Look yonder—the Saxons have run aground!”

A score of heads came around toward the pursuing Saxon vessel. Sure enough, she lay dead in the water, a shambles of broken mast, rigging and armored hunters who were about to become the hunted. A shout of “Hurrah!” rang out along the Shiva’s deck. Everyone aboard cheered the ghastly sight except Daynin. “How terrible—to die in the belly of a beast,” he whispered to himself.

Just then, a dozen arrows rained high and low along the length of the Shiva. “Starboard,” Hawkes bellowed. “Get down, you foo . . .” He never finished. A high arching arrow struck him square in the forehead, felling the man like a hundred-weight sack of meal.

The ship’s pilot pushed the tiller hard over, putting as much distance between them and the shoreline as possible. The beach was crawling with Caledonians. A dozen torch men ran along a line of archers, lighting arrow tips. If the bowmen were in range, the Shiva was finished—she’d be a blazing hulk before the last arrow struck.

Daynin grabbed the arm of his colossal companion and shouted, “I dinnae care if you’re a spirit or a saint, but if you’ve any magic in that black armor, now would be the time to use it.”

Still dripping seawater, Brude shook himself off and strode deliberately toward the Shiva’s stern. “Brace yourself highlander. Then will you know the true power of the Great Deceiver.” His monstrous arms flapping like a giant grounded crow, Brude’s visor flew open with a blast of wind that could have rivaled a Scotian spring storm. Instantly, the Shiva’s sail billowed out. The boat lurched forward with the force of fifty oarsmen all rowing in stride. Brude huffed again and the vessel scudded across the channel.

Well behind and unable to do anything but cling to the railing of the foundering ship, Plumat fumed as he watched the Shiva disappear in the distance. “I’ll get you, boy! If it takes the rest of my life, I’ll have your head!”

* Aboard The Pandora *

The Pandora raced along Loch Linnhe’s western shoreline, hugging the coast the way her grandson of a Viking captain had been taught to sail by all of his ancestors. Loch Linnhe’s surface, smooth as a priory’s pond, glistened from the rays of a rapidly setting sun.

“Wake up, boy,” Uncle Eigh urged, nudging his foot against the sleeping Muck’s ribs. “We should see the opening to Lismore Slip any time now,”

“Huh?” Muck responded. “Where are we?” he added sleepily, stretching his beefy arms out wide.

Eigh stroked Talisman’s wing feathers to settle the bird and replied, “Not far from the channel that takes us west toward the Hebrides and Rrrr-rhum. You and those mighty lords of yours have been napping most of the afternoon. Good thing you brung me along to keep an eye on this cutthroat crew, else they mighta robbed you and tossed you into the loch.”

Muck rolled to his knees and stood up, straightening the metal pot on his head. He stepped back from Talisman’s reach and shook himself like a giant walrus. “They ain’t lords, Unc—leastwise as far as I can tell. One’s a magician, one’s a priest and t’other one claims to be a Greek, though I’d wager on ‘im bein’ a djinni, what with his turban and such.”

“Long as they got the plum to pay us what they agreed to, boy, don’t matter what they are or where they came from. We’ll take ‘em to Rr-rrhum, then have this skiff drop us at Coll on the way back. With ten silver talens to spend, we can live like clan chiefs in that pirate’s hole ‘til the next moon.”

“Aye, that’s a plan, Unc. We’ll be paid well for our work, and deservin’ of the spoils. The magician strikes me as an honest mahn, too. Who knows, he might even pay us a bonus if we stay on and help them bash a few Saxon heads.”

“We’ll have to see ‘bout that, come first light, Muckie boy. We should be in sight of Rrrr-rhum by then and know better what we’re up against. For now, we best make for Drrr-imnin and wait for daylight. Sailing any further in these rocky environs at night is a fool’s game, to be sure.”

“Drimnin? But Unc, that bleedin’ fortress is haunted, or so they say.”

“We ain’t meanin’ ta go ashore, Muck. We’ll just heave-to in the harbor for the night. No harm to that and a damn sight safer than nagivatin’ the Slip when it’s black as a bat’s soul out here. Now go wake them pilgrims and tell ‘em the scheme, else they be pitchin’ a fit that we’re stoppin’.”

* Aboard The Shiva *

Looming out of the golden red glow of a gradually dying day, the north Irish coastline appeared more like an angry cloud bank in the distance than the solid rock cliff face Ean knew it to be. Off to his right, the flat spit of land called the Mull of Kintyre offered the last vestige of Scotian soil they would see for a while. And there was no guarantee they would ever see his ancestral land again, what with a dead captain aboard, a crew of surly misfits bent on who knew what and more than sixty leagues of open water to traverse before they reached the safety of Rhum.

“Grandfather, what’s bothering you?” Daynin asked.

“Och! You already know, lad. We’ve a treacherous crossing to make. Thirty leagues to the west is open water and some of the biggest waves on the ocean sea, which this boat cannae handle. If we hug the coast, we’re bound to run smack into them thieves at Tiree, as they control the only safe passage to Rhum east of the Hebrides. Without a qualified captain to steer this ship, we dare not sail at night. That means landing somewhere ‘til first light. I’m no sailor, Daynin, but I’ve taken this sea route to Rhum several times and I cannae recall a single safe harbor along the way, especially with all this booty aboard.”

“Why can’t we sail at night?” Sabritha asked, her frustration at the thought of another day and night on the Shiva more than evident to everyone within earshot.

Ean cast an evil glance at the woman and snapped back, “Rr-rrr-ocks, woman, that’s why. See that coastline there, to the east? It’s a bloody harvest of giant rocks, layin’ in wait for us. The only way to avoid them is by sailing west into the ocean sea, where even good sailors don’t go in a tub like this. Far as I know, we ain’t got a good sailor among us, what with the captain croaked. Besides that, there’s no way to tell direction at night without the sun to guide us.”

Sabritha flipped her shawl over her shoulders to ward off the growing cold. “I can tell you which direction is west, even at night. See that first star—there—to the north—barely showing on the horizon? If you keep that star off your right shoulder, you will move west. My father taught me that when I was still too small to milk the goats. I should think you would know that, old man.”

Daynin’s hand went to his grandfather’s shoulder, staying the stout highlander’s angry motion toward Sabritha. “She means no disrespect, Grandfather.”

“Aye, she does lad. She has nothing but disrespect for us. That’s as plain as day old porridge. She knows nothing of the dense fogs these waters are known for; and what of her guiding star then?”

On his makeshift cane, Troon hobbled between Ean and the woman. “She’s right about the star, Ean. Sail west and it will stay on your right. The problem is, we’ve no bloody way to tell how far west we’ve gone. We could sail right off the edge of the world if we’re not careful. It’s said there are demons out there the likes of which no mahn has ever seen.”

“That’s an old wive’s-tale, Simon,” Daynin declared. “A belief passed down for ages because no one has had the courage to find out the extent of the ocean sea, at least as far as we know. The answer for us is simple. We sail west until first light, then turn north. That should be safe enough on both counts. If there’s fog, we drop the sail and wait ‘til morning.”

“Aye, straight into the Temptress of Tiree,” Ean scoffed. “But that’s better than ripping this tub open or falling off the edge of the world. With luck and a northerly breeze, we might outrun those bloody Tireean snekkes afore their crews wake up for morning grog.”

“Now if we can just get the crew to agree,” Daynin added.

“I can handle that,” came the quick response from Sabritha.