Chapter 38

Half a league down the track from the blacksmith’s hovel, the crumbling spires of Sconehaven donjon towered majestically over the huge oak trees lining the road. “Looks deserted to me,” Kruze said in a middling whisper.

“Mayhaps we should bypass it, m’lord.”

“No, we cannot, Mediah. Zeus told me I would have to deal with this mysterious black knight, whoever he is. I’m sure he will be out and about somewhere on these grounds. We’ll just keep walking for now. Likely as not, he will find us.”

“M’lord,” Mediah asked, “why is it that in your country so many evil persons prefer the color of black for their attire?”

Kruzurk laughed aloud, amused by his Greek cohort’s innocence in such matters. “Black cloth is cheap, Mediah, as is black armor. Brighter dyes and shiny metals cost more. Those who hoard their gold rarely spend it on tawdry attire. Also, blood seldom shows on black, which can be an advantage for those bent on evil.”

“Ah, I see. But you Anglish put such great stock in your heraldry and trappings. It seems amiss that some should choose black to adorn themselves, does it not?”

“White for good, black for evil, and everything in between is either less good or less evil—that is the way of it, Mediah.”

“Begin’ your pardon, m’lord, but where does your red robe and hat fall in that scale?”

“Dead center, Mediah. Magicians wear red to ward off evil, since black curses and black oaths are absorbed by the color red. White when mixed with red becomes a shade of red, no longer white. Ergo, red also protects one from potential danger at the hands of those who claim to be pure good. Plus, it helps if your attire does not show food stains. Bad for the image, you know!”

Mediah cackled aloud at that joke, instantly muffling his mirth with a beefy paw slapped over his jaw. “Forgive me,” he begged.

Fifty paces down the track, the trail split in three directions. Clearly, one track led to Sconehaven. Another was the main road, while a third led down a gently sloping grass field to Kruzurk’s right. The magician stopped and cocked his ear to the wind. “Get off the road,” he yelled, just as Mediah came dashing past him and not an instant too soon.

An enormous black stallion, as tall at his withers as a man’s head, charged into the road junction. A god of a warrior reined in the beast, showering the two men with rock and dirt. When the dust cleared, Kruzurk knew instantly they had been intercepted by the one they had been sent to find.

“Prepare to die, pilgrims!” the warrior boasted.

“Hold, sir knight. We mean you no harm,” Kruzurk replied.

“You are trespassing on my grounds. That alone brings a sentence of death!”

Kruzurk’s eyes scanned the knight’s elaborate armor. His shield bore the semblance of a unicorn –all in white. An expensive black hauberk showing no heraldry covered him from neck to knees, with heavy leather gauntlets protecting his arms all the way to the elbows. The knight’s helm looked to be of Celtic design, its open cross slits allowing both mouth and eyes to be exposed. The man was handsome, regal, and frightening, all at the same time.

“Perazelzeus, the cleric of Drimnin Keep, told us we would find you here,” Kruze continued. “We have need of your help.”

The knight said nothing. His dark eyes leered through the helm’s view slit and one hand tightly gripped his sword hilt. Only the charger’s heavy breathing broke the silence. “Drimnin is no more,” the black armored one finally professed. “You lie, pilgrim. There are no clerics there—the Norse saw to that in my father’s time. It has been so ever since.”

“No, it’s true,” Kruze replied. He raised his staff to show off the orb affixed to its end, causing the charger to snort nervously. “See this? I received it from Perazelzeus. We were told you could show us the way to the bog where the great white monoliths stand.”

The knight steadied his horse and leaned out of the saddle to better view the orb. “So, you’ve come to visit Felgenthorn, eh? Hardly a place for pilgrims like you. It’s not been used since my grandfather’s time, when human sacrifices were carried out there.”

Kruzurk took a step closer to the enormous horse, mindful of the giant hooves pawing at the ground. “Aye, Felgenthorn it must be. A stone of great value is buried in that bog, and we must fetch it to stop a terrible injustice.”

“Injustice, you say? Of what nature? Is there, mayhaps, a fair maiden involved or great booty to be had?”

Seeing he had gained the knight’s interest, Kruzurk bade him to dismount, that they might parlay further. The knight agreed, seeming almost hungry for conversation. Kruze soon learned there was ample reason for that hunger. The warrior had spent most of his life at Sconehaven, guarding the keep, scaring away pilgrims as well as the curious and maintaining his father’s assigned vigil over the bog.

After a long discussion, Kruzurk finally asked, “Will you take us to Felgenthorn, then, sir knight, that we may continue this quest? Our ship awaits us at Kinsley spit, five leagues or so from here.”

The knight removed his helmet, presenting a handsome face, dark hair and beard. He shook his long hair to loosen it from the helm’s tight confinement and answered, “A ship, you say? I’ve never been on a ship. In fact, I’ve never been much further than the blacksmith’s hovel up the road. I agree to permit you to fulfill your quest, but with one condition. You must allow me to help right the injustice you spoke of. You must take me with you to this island of Rhum!”

“You would quit your vigil here to come with us?” Mediah asked.

“Aye, and gladly so. If we retrieve this stone you spoke of, then I believe my destiny is to accompany it wherever it goes.” The knight removed his right gauntlet, thrusting his arm forward for a hand clench. “I am called Ebon. My father was Ebon of Scone, descended from the Ebonite clans of Dundee.”

Kruzurk shook the knight’s hand. “Welcome to our quest, Ebon of Scone. I am Kruzurk Makshare and this is Mediah the Greek.”

* Aboard The Shiva *

A strong breeze swept around the northern tip of Coll, Tiree’s island sister, pushing the battered Shiva out into deep water once again. Ean and Troon had worked feverishly below decks since the battle, attempting to patch the gaping wound in the ship’s hull. Despite their best efforts, water still sloshed about almost knee deep in the fo’c’sle.

“I dinnae think that patch will hold much longer, Troon. We best start bailin’ or this tub is a goner for sure.”

Troon wiped the sweat from his balding head and scanned the fo’c’sle for something to carry water. “Ean, maybe we should be thinkin’ about the longboat. There’s room in it for all of us. I believe we’re no more than ten or twenty leagues from Rhum.”

The elder McKinnon bent over to ring some of the water from his tartan. “We’d have to leave that thing behind. He’s too bloody heavy for the longboat. Daynin wouldnae stand for that, having given his oath to the beast.”

“Aye, that creature did save our skins, but if we stay aboard this tub much longer, we’ll be swimmin’ for Rhum.”

“You stay down here and bail as best you can. I’ll see to the others. Maybe that giant can lend a hand with the bailing.”

“More that way,” Daynin shouted, his head bobbing to the left to indicate which way Sabritha should pull the mainsail stay. With her help and both hands on the tiller, he had managed to keep the ship’s prow pointed in a more or less northerly direction toward home.

“I—think—they call that—larboard—Daynin!” She almost had to yell to be heard over the wearying wind.

Daynin’s gaze wandered from the Scotian coastline far to his right, briefly settling on Sabritha’s perfectly outlined backside. Salt spray had so drenched her clothes that there was little left to his imagination. Saints of Argyle, she is the most perfect woman I have ever seen, he mused. Look at the way she stands the deck—proud, resolute, unafraid. Men were dying all around her and she never wavered . . . Oh no—Oh my God!

Sensing that something was amiss, Sabritha lunged toward him. The ship’s deck pitched her left, then right with each new swell, but even from a distance she could see the terror in Daynin’s eyes. “What’s wrong with you? You’re as pale as that sail cloth!”

“I killed a man!” he blurted out.

“Another man,” she corrected. “That seadog wasn’t your first.”

Daynin flashed back to the tavern and the black hauberk. He could see the brief scuffle, the blade flashing and what seemed like an ocean of blood on the barroom floor. “But the marquis was an accident! This time I meant to kill.”

“Daynin, you did what you had to do. We all did. If we hadn’t, those cutthroats would have chopped us to pieces. I’m proud of what you did.”

Her words seemed to drift in the howling wind. The boy’s mind kept retelling the images his memory created. The axe, the man’s face—he could even see the sweat on the Tireean’s cheeks and smell the beer on his body. I killed him. I killed a man. But there could be no undoing that deed, nor any way to forget it.

“What the bloody hell’s the matter with you, boy?” Ean growled.

The old man’s gruff manner snapped Daynin back to reality. “Uhh, I was—there was a . . .”

“He was scolding me for not handling the sail right, that’s all,” Sabritha hissed. “Leave ‘im alone, you old scab!”

“Since when am I takin’ orders from the likes of you, wench?”

Her hand nearly made it to Ean’s whiskered face this time, before he stayed her wrist in mid-strike. “Cross me one more time, woman and you’ll be learnin’ just how good a swimmer you are.”

“Let me go, damn you!” She jerked loose from the old man. Perhaps the stinging in her wrist had made her a wiser woman.

“You two stop it,” Daynin ordered. “We’ve a long way to go to reach Rhum, and I won’t have us fighting amongst ourselves.”

Ean stepped closer to the boy, keeping a watch on Sabritha’s every move. “She’s gonna be trouble, Daynin. And so is this bloody tub. We’re sinking, and no way to stop it.”

* The Islets of Ismay *

Oswald of Leeds strode onto Ismay’s rocky beach like an angry troll, waving his war axe with every gesture. “Ranulf, are you mad? Why did you not heave to in the channel? Could you not see our signals? Why have you come ashore here?”

Ranulf stepped away from Plumat, gesturing toward him as though to make introduction. “M’lord Oswald, may I present Duke Harold’s commander for this expedition—Geile Plumat of Saxony.”

In deference to Oswald’s rank, Plumat shed his glove for a hand-clench. “An honor, m’lord,” he said, his voiced laced with just enough humility to avoid an immediate confrontation.

“Have you completed your task, Plumat?” Oswald growled.

“We have not. Our ship sustained major damage from a sea serpent, allowing the felons to escape. But I . . .”

“Sea serpent? Is that the best excuse you can come up with? Ranulf, what the bloody hell are you about? Is this some kind of joke? I’ve fifty men and a hundred talens invested in your return, and all I get is this saltwater charade about a sea serpent?”

Plumat struck while the iron was hot. “Do you not see the damage our ship has sustained? Do you not see that repairs are underway as we speak? I am under direct orders of the Duke to bring back those felons. That makes you part of this mission, now that you’ve chosen to join us.”

Oswald threw his chest out, slamming the flat of his axe against his leather breastplate. “This is my authority, boy! I don’t take orders from wet nurse squires or Duke Harold’s minions. I’ve come to fetch my ship and its contents back to Carlisle and that’s all.”

Plumat knew Oswald was right. He had no real authority over him, given the circumstances. He chose another tack. “Let’s suppose you could treble your hundred talens by joining us—would that put a different agenda on the table?”

“And I suppose you have that kind of plum in your pouch?”

“Not yet, Oswald,” Plumat replied. “But when we catch that gang of killers, there will be silver enough for us all.”

Ranulf leaned forward hesitantly, offering a handful of the treasure taken from Plumat’s men as his bona fides. “See this, brother? Join us now and we’ll split a king’s ransom of such treasure.”

“Bloody hell, Ranulf! Why didn’t you say so? I’d make my own sister a widow for that much swag. Where’s this band of brigands?”

Satisfied not only that his army had just grown by several score, but that its quality and fighting ability had improved measurably, Plumat turned to captain Coke and bellowed, “Lively, captain! We’ve a gang of felons to fetch and a fleet to get afloat. Every minute counts!”

* Felgenthorn *

Approaching the front gate of the great white wall surrounding Felgenthorn bog, Mediah stopped to assess the gargoyles looming overhead. He allowed Kruzurk, the knight and his charger to pass him by.

“Are you not coming with us, Mediah?” Kruze asked.

“M’lord, this is an evil place. The faithful are taught that such places should be avoided at all costs—especially those adorned with heathen likenesses.”

Ebon whispered to his charger, dropped its reins and strode purposefully up to the gate. He tossed the iron chain aside and cast the doors open. “They used to make human sacrifices here, in times long past. Children were thrown bound and gagged into the bog, that a good harvest might be bargained from the gods. You’ve nothing to fear now. It’s just a bog. I will protect you, if need be.”

“All the same, m’lords, I choose to remain outside. To risk my entrance to paradise is not a choice I make lightly.”

“As you wish, Mediah. We won’t be long. With Ebon’s help and the charger, I’m sure we can retrieve the stone and be gone before dusk.”

Together, Kruzurk and the knight led the horse through the gate and around the near side of the bog—the only side lined with trees. “Ebon, you carry a ring on a tether. I was told . . .”

“How do you know of my father’s ring?” he snapped.

“The clerics at Drimnin told me. They also told me I would have need of that ring to determine the stone’s location.”

Ebon drew back, his defenses once again on alert. “I won’t give up my father’s ring. He gave it to me as it was given to his father and his father before him.”

Kruzurk studied the immense vastness of the bog stretching out before them. “Ebon, it will take days to find the stone without your ring. Our quest will be lost and the stone’s purpose defeated unless we act quickly. I will return your ring as soon as we find the stone. I promise.”

The knight’s desire to see the world seemed to outweigh his connection to the ring. He reached inside his hauberk to pull the ring from around his neck. After a moment of reconsideration, he held it out to Kruzurk and said, “You keep it, for now.”

“Thank you, Ebon of Scone. Now, let’s find that stone and be on our way. A great adventure awaits you!”