Chapter 43

Brief introductions having been made inside Kinloch Keep’s second barbican, Daynin’s group marched in single file behind Wick McKlennan. They had been warned of a host of traps and trip wires he had spent years rigging in Kinloch’s outer defenses, one of which they had already seen demonstrated.

“Mind yer heads,” Wick warned. Ducking under the half raised portcullis on the main keep’s gate, Wick waited while the others passed by, then began cranking the gate closed. From a single wheel counterbalanced by a giant lodestone, the drawbridge came up, the portcullis came down and the entrance to Kinloch was again sealed.

In passing, Daynin asked, “Are you expecting trouble?”

“Nae, laddie. Ah hope not, anyways. Ah have to set the trrr-aps and close up the entrance because we dinnae want any visitors, now do we?”

Ean stopped long enough to admire the elaborate set of ropes, lanyards and cables that all led to a central control box just inside the main gate. He had forgotten that Wick, in his day, had been one of the premier castle designers in all of the highlands. “I see you’ve not lost yer touch, riggin’ these pitfalls and snares, eh Fish?”

Wick turned to Ean, his face suddenly flushed red. “Ah told you when you was a pup not to ever call me that again, Ean McKinnon. You ain’t too big for me to turn over mah knee rrr-ight now, if’n that’s yer bloody game.”

“Mess with me, old mahn, and I’ll turn this here Pictish beast on ya,” Ean replied.

“Pict, is it?” Wick questioned. “Ah thought they was all worm meat afore my father’s time. How is it this one survived?”

Daynin stepped in front of Brude to forestall any argument. “It’s a long story, Wick. We are all very tired. Can we get a fire going and talk about this tonight?”

“Aye, they’s a fire blazin’ in the grrr-eat room, boy. Help yourselves to the pigeon stew. I s’pect you can find yer way there without me. I’ve more traps to check, then I’ll join you.”

Ean waved for Troon and the others to go ahead without him. “I’ll be goin’ with Wick. The rest of you get settled whilst we catch up on old times.”

Sunrise had already begun to burn off the morning haze in the courtyard. Daynin led his group out of the bright light into the dimly lit great hall. An enormous fire, large enough to roast a full grown calf, blazed in the main hearth. A simmering pot of stew hung above the coals of a brazier fire on the other side of the hall. Between the two, a pair of ragged cots and a pile of clothing attested to Wick’s prolonged and meager existence in the keep. Along the far wall, dozens of rusting arms and armaments stood at the ready, no doubt the remnants of Kinloch’s once formidable arsenal.

Sabritha rushed to the oversized cauldron, more than a little anxious to test its contents. Having dropped his huge load of treasure with a resounding craaaannng that echoed throughout the keep, Brude amused himself with an inspection of the weapons, helmets and shields while Daynin and Troon piled more wood on the fire.

“I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever make it here,” Troon said.

Daynin stoked the fire with an ancient iron prod that he remembered from his childhood at Kinloch. Feeling the familiar handle brought back memories of his mother drying clothes in front of that blaze and her anger when sparks would jump out to burn tiny holes in the tartans. “I knew we would make it, Simon. I never believed it would be this difficult or that so many people would die before . . .”

Rudely interrupting the moment, a sharp protest was levied from the other side of the great hall. “Who the hell are you people!?” came a high pitched screech.

Every head turned as one. Outlined by the morning light coming through the arched passageway behind her, the woman repeated her question, only louder. “I said, who the hell are you people, that you come into our keep unannounced and make yourselves at home?”

Daynin took several halting steps toward the long reddish hair, shapely figure, and sparkling eyes of a truly magnificent woman. “We are home,” he declared.

Sabritha drew a heavy ladle from the cauldron, ready to use it if need be. “I thought you McKinnons owned this bloody keep,” she growled.

“Quiet Sabritha, please!” Daynin snapped back.

“McKinnons?” the woman replied in disbelief. “Then you must be ghosts. They were all laid low by a gang of cutthroats. I know—we buried them in the sea. My grandfather Wick McKlennan holds this place now, in their stead.”

Risking a few more steps, Daynin lifted his cloak to reveal the tartan sash his grandfather had given him. “Aye, we are McKinnons. That is, I am. Mah grrr-andfather Ean is somewhere outside making the rounds with your grandfather.”

Just at that moment, Brude flew into a rage. “Bahh!” roared the voice from inside his helmet. He slammed one of the long shields onto the flagstone floor and began stomping it like a madman. “Kellans!” he bellowed, continuing to crush the shield with his enormous armored horseboots. “This shield bears the Kellan crest—those bastard red shanks who murdered my kin!”

Daynin turned in horror, taken completely aback by the unexpected violence of Brude’s tantrum. “What’s wrong with you?” he cried out.

“Wrong?” Brude growled. His head turned toward the boy in a menacing fashion and with three strides he was in Daynin’s face. One gauntlet seized the highlander like a dead cat and shook him violently. “You lied to me! If you and your clan are with these dogs, we are no longer allies!”

Gasping for breath, Daynin could barely speak. “I don’t know—what—you’re talking—about.”

The woman disappeared through the archway. Sabritha and Troon both rushed to attack Brude’s back. Brude shoved them aside with a wave of his hand. “Kellans—the dogs—they are the ones who set the tables at Scone. They are the ones who lured our chiefs to parlay, then threw the prisoners off that bridge of yours. And you are one of them! I would snap your neck now, if not for my vow.”

Daynin struggled for breath, barely able to gasp out, “Put me down, damn you!”

Brude shoved him backwards against the wall. He reached for his sword, but stopped. “You gave me this life, Draygnar, and for that alone I will spare you. But from this moment on, we are enemies. From this day forward, if I meet you or any of your kin in battle, I will take your heads—you and your Kellan allies!”

* South Landing, Rhum *

Finding the battered Shiva tied to a stone wharf started Plumat’s morning off in the best manner possible. Already, scouts from the Witch had surveyed the steep trail up the side of Askival and reported back that they had found tracks in the mud. There could be no doubt—the boy and the treasure had both come ashore at that spot. Now it was just a matter of trailing them to their lair so the Duke’s mission could be brought to a speedy end.

“Get everything unloaded quickly, Oswald. I’ll take twenty men and pursue our felons while you bring up the siege equipment. Have the Witch’s crew set up a camp here. From the looks of this place, there may not be another suitable spot.”

“Aye, Plumat—as you wish. I’ll send a runner to find you when we’re ready to move and that may take a while. These salt bred scum don’t take to mountain treks too well.”

Plumat stepped onto the wharf. He turned back to Oswald. “Just get it done. We have these felons in our grip. They’ve no way off this rock and they’re outnumbered at least ten to one. This venture should be over by first light, tomorrow.”

* The Slopes of Askival *

“There—just under that grayish outcrop—see it?” Muck insisted.

Kruzurk strained his eyes, but still could not make out the cave entrance. “Your eyes are much younger than mine, Muck. Why don’t you lead the way up there and we’ll get Olghar set up in a comfortable spot for the day.”

Thor, now almost fully recovered from his crossbow wound, barked playfully from far ahead of the group. “My dog sounds well, doesn’t he, master?” Olghar said, a major worry having been lifted from his heart.

Eigh couldn’t resist voicing his disdain for all things canine. “Bloody hound. I wish he’d stop that barking. He’s making Talisman edgy and that ain’t a good thing.”

“Uncle Eigh, that crrr-ow of yours is always edgy,” Muck teased.

Eigh turned about to deliver a playful slap to Muck’s helmet, but stopped dead in his tracks. “Bloody hell—Vikings!” he shrieked.

All heads turned as one. The view from the high slopes of Askival was awesome. The group could see all the way down the mountain to an azure bay where a fleet swayed at anchor. Three large ships and a smaller one seemed to be unloading cargo. Scores of men and what appeared to be a gantry of some kind cluttered the beach.

Mediah spoke first. “Two of those ships are dracos. Not Vikings. I’ve sailed on ‘em. They can hold up to fifty men and crew.”

“Scotians?” Kruzurk asked.

“Saxons, I’d guess. They favor big ships,” Mediah answered.

Kruzurk turned toward Mediah, his usual pink skin tone having turned almost ashen. “They’ve come for the boy, then. God help him, we may be too late.”

Mediah cupped his hands over his eyes to ward off the sun. He took a long look down at the beach, a mischievous smile spreading across his dark cheeks. “Perhaps not, Kruze. That’s a siege weapon they’re unloading. It looks like they are preparing for war.”

Kruzurk turned to the others and said, “We must hurry. Muck, can you take Olghar to the cave, then rejoin us? The rest of us can work our way down to Kinloch faster that way. If we don’t warn Daynin, that Saxon horde will be on him by nightfall.”

Ebon patted his charger’s nose to steady him on the steep trail. “Perhaps Castor and I should go down there and greet those brigands. They appear to be unarmored. My sword and Castor’s size would make quick work of them.”

Wary of the young knight’s apparent lack of familiarity with real battle, Kruzurk replied, “We shall have need of your sword soon enough, Ebon. No need to waste it on that rabble.”

Moving on and climbing higher with each step, the group finally reached a crest overlooking the north coast of Rhum. To their left, way in the distance and sharply outlined against the sea, stood the distinctive red walls of Kinloch castle. Two tiny wisps of smoke could be seen curling out of the main keep, drifting toward the sea.

Kruzurk dropped his bag and waved for the others to stop. “I think we should rest here, eat something, then push on to the keep. The trail down seems quite steep. No need to risk an accident in haste.”

The others seemed more than happy to heed his suggestion. The climb up had been much more difficult and dangerous than any of them had expected. Within minutes, Eigh and Mediah lay sprawled against their knapsacks and weapons, sound asleep. Ebon hobbled his horse, then removed the massive jousting saddle and sat down on the crest to ponder a world he never knew existed.

Noticing the ancient grimoire that had slipped out of Kruzurk’s bag. Ebon asked, “Is that a book of magic?”

Kruzurk reached over to pull the manuscript from his bag. He propped it up on his lap and said, “Yes, I believe it is. But this grimoire also contains knowledge I can only guess at, for now.”

“You can read it, then?” Ebon continued.

“In a way, I suppose. It is written in ancient languages and seems to contain knowledge from well back into the dark times before the Vikings, the Celts and the Romans.” As if suddenly summoned, Kruzurk’s thoughts left the mountain top. His gaze penetrated into a veil of shadowy walls, occasional flashes of light and rapid, almost frenzied movement. He was seeing someone else’s visions again.

Far down the mountain, deep inside the walls of Kinloch keep, Brude McAlpin felt the magician’s presence. His mind was suddenly awash with visions of a keep from some high vantage point. “Venochlan doch perlen dreis, yedor scoon?” he groaned. “Where are you, wise one?” he shouted as he ran through Kinloch’s darkened corridors, picking up speed with each giant stride. “I see your vision, yet it means nothing. Tell me where you are and I will quit this place and come to you.”

“South by west—look to the crest,” Kruzurk moaned, though to Ebon, the words made no sense. A long, silent pause ensued until Kruzurk repeated the phrase several more times.

Finally, Ebon cried out, “Kruzurk? Kruzurk—what the devil is wrong with you? Kruzurk?”

Mediah leapt to his feet in an instant, half asleep but sword drawn even so. “What is it?”

Ebon pointed to the magician. “He’s gone into a trance or—or something.”

One look told Mediah what had happened. “It’s that book again. This has happened before.” Without thinking of his own peril, he knelt down and with his short sword edged the grimoire from under Kruze’s hands, allowing it to drop to the dirt track. The effect on the magician was immediate.

Kruzurk blinked his eyes against the bright light and shook his head. “What the deuce? Did I fall asleep?”

Mediah answered, “Methinks you were seeing visions again. I told you that book is evil. I should cast it down the mountain right now, before it causes more trouble, but I fear touching that foul thing.”

Jumping to his feet, Ebon now drew his sword and took a stance straddling the pathway. “It may be too late for that. Look down there! Unless my eyes deceive me, evil is on its way up to us!”

* Kinloch Keep *

Finished with their rounds at the top of the south ramparts, Wick and Ean both saw what appeared to be a whirlwind racing north through the first barbican, then the second and from there, out onto the rocky north shoreline. The vision seemed to have flown over the outer walls, since both gates were closed.

“Did ya see that, Ean? Mah eyes must be givin’ out on me.”

Ean propped both elbows onto the top of the wall, that he might steady his vision. “Aye, that was real. I think it was that bloody Pictish beast we brought with us. If he left us, good riddance, says I. He’s been nothin’ but trouble.”

Wick had already turned toward the main keep. He waved for Ean to follow and said, “Something’s bad wrrrr-ong. Ah can feel it. We best get back to the others.”

A last look told Ean that Brude had disappeared into the gorse and granite upslope of Askival. Unfortunately, he didn’t wait long enough to see the reflections of sunlight off polished armor way at the crest of Askival. Those same reflections, however, did not go unnoticed from the south coast of Rhum.