Chapter 44

“M’lord!” one of Plumat’s levies shouted from back down the trail. “Did you see that light—way yonder—somethin’ shining?”

Plumat raised his arm to stop the column of troops, snaking its way up the mountain at a snail’s pace. “What light? I see nothing.”

“I saw it too, m’lord,” Fulchere the Bowman said. “At the crest—just below the cloud line. Looked like polished armor to me.”

“Damn!” Plumat swore. “If there’s an army bent on flanking our levies at the beach, they could rout them, burn the boats and strand us here ‘til St. Bonafice day.”

Fulchere spoke up again. “I can beat it back down the trail and warn them. Set up a defensive barrier, or get the ships to weigh anchor.”

“Yes. Yes—do that, Fulchere! Have Oswald stand off the beach. Get all the bowmen and fortify that wharf. If you’re attacked by overwhelming numbers, withdraw to the ships and wait for us to return. If nothing happens by nightfall, bring your archers and join us. We may have need of your bows at first light.”

Plumat waved for the column to proceed. Determined to find the highlander’s lair as quickly as possible, he urged his men to move at a speed that was reckless, since they did not know the trail or how dangerous it could be.

The point man’s attention was locked onto the muddy tracks he followed. He turned to make sure the column was behind him and that instant spelled his doom. Over he went down an almost invisible Askival drop-off like so many hapless invaders before him. His screams were muffled by the brushy walls of the precipice. If not for the next man in the column being a bit more careful, the point man’s loss might have gone completely unnoticed.

“Gelwin?” his follower cried out. “Gelwin!? Where the bloody hell are ya, mate?” There was, of course, no answer.

Word spread down the column. Every man stopped in his tracks, afraid to move. Ever wary, Plumat realized that something had gone terribly wrong.

“Why are we stopped?” he yelled. “Get moving, you lot!”

“Gelwin’s gone,” someone finally offered, the sheepish reply rippling down the line to Plumat’s ears. Hearing that, the Saxon shoved his way past the men ahead of him until he reached the first man in line. “What’s wrong with you, Willem? Get moving!” he growled.

“They’s nowhere to go, m’lord,” the man answered. “It’s a drop-off. Gelwin must not have seen it.”

“Damn these highlanders!” Plumat swore. “Back—go back, you imbeciles. The trail is a dead end!” he screamed, waving his arms like a man beset by bees.

Reversing the column’s flow turned out to be more of a problem than Plumat realized. Laden with weapons, supplies and worry, most of the men were either too frightened, fatigued or faint-hearted to follow orders. Half the morning was lost retracing the army’s steps to a point in the trail that lead off in a different direction. Even then, Plumat had no way of knowing if it was the right direction. Tired almost to the point of exhaustion, he decided not to risk another wild goose chase and ordered a halt.

“Miles, I want you to take two men and scout the trail ahead,” Plumat ordered. “Take care to watch for pitfalls. Send a man back when you know the trail is good, then we’ll join you. Is that clear?”

“Aye, m’lord,” the squire answered, hesitantly.

“And Miles—take no chances. If you spot the enemy, do not engage them. Get back here with all haste. Try not to let the highlanders know you’re there.”

“Yes, m’lord. But—how far am I to go?”

“Somewhere ahead there has to be a keep, or a village or some kind of landmark. Do not approach it when you see it. Send word and I will bring the troops.” A hearty slap on Miles Aubrecht’s backside sent the boy on his way.

* Kinloch’s Great Hall *

After the confusion of Brude’s sudden violent departure, all Daynin could do was sit on one of the cots and contemplate what had gone wrong. He was devastated with the loss of his strongest ally, and worse, now they might have to face the giant’s wrath from the sharp end of his sword.

“You can’t dwell on this, Daynin,” Sabritha counseled. “We have other things to think about. I, for one, would like to know what that woman has to say about our being here. Is this your keep, or have we come a long way for nothing?”

Troon offered his advice as well. “The lassie’s right, boy. That beast was bound to be trouble. Your grandfather knew it and so did I. Nothing good can come of a conjured spirit. We’re better off without ‘im.”

Daynin took the bowl of stew Sabritha offered him, trying his best to maintain a strong, manly front for her. “Thank you, Sabritha. This stew smells good. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a hot meal together.”

“Yes it has,” she answered, adding, “and a warm bed to sleep in.”

A vivid image of her asleep in the Seed’s cell popped into Daynin’s head. He felt a familiar flush racing through his face and hands, then straight down to his groin. “Ahem—uh, yes,” he stuttered. “And yes, this is our keep, despite what mistress McKlennan or whatever her name is, says about it.”

“Isa,” Wick spoke up, having just followed Ean through the archway in time to hear Daynin’s comment. “Her name is Isa.”

“How appropriate,” Sabritha said sarcastically. “Isa is the Celtic rune for ice.”

“Sabritha, please—you’re a guest here,” Daynin responded.

Sabritha slammed the ladle back into the cauldron, splashing a full measure of stew onto the hot brazier. A loud hissing sound echoed around the room, not all of which was coming from the fire. Steam billowed up as well, enveloping half the chamber.

Marching into the great hall like a lord of the land, Wick growled, “Damn it, girr-rrl! Stay yourself and quit wastin’ mah stew!”

For the first time since he had met her, Ean came to Sabritha’s defense. “That girl is Daynin’s intended, old mahn, so I suggest you offer some rrr-espect.”

“I don’t need you to defend me, Ean McKinnon,” Sabritha fought back. Her sharp tongue had already proven more than a match for most of the men she had encountered, and this would be no exception. “As for me being a guest, plowboy, you can find your own damn cot to sleep on tonight!”

“Och!” Wick groused, “you McKinnons have nae changed in all these yearr-rrs. Full of spit and vinegar as usual and ready to fight at the drrr-op of a hannn-kee.”

In an attempt to change the tone of the conversation, Troon turned to Ean and said, “We had a problem with the big bugger. I thought he was gonna squash Daynin, he got so mad.”

“Yes, we saw him flying out of here like some demon unleashed,” Ean replied. “What happened?”

Daynin took the lead at this point. “He claims we are in league with the Kellans, whoever they are. Apparently, they are blood enemies of his people and at some point, threw a host of ‘em off Standguard Bridge alive.”

“Kellans!? Bloody hell, boy,” Wick argued, “they was on this island after the Fricians abandoned it and that was way before our clans claimed this bloody rrr-ock. In fact, our kin likely fought the Kellans to take this place. Did ye not know that, boy?”

“Had I known it, I would have argued with Brude. As it was, he gave me little chance. Now, he’s our enemy and God knows, we’ve enemies enough on the way already.”

“Oh? And who else might I expect to be battering our gates?” Wick asked sarcastically.

Ean strode over to the pot of stew, taking his place very close to Sabritha. The look in her eyes had changed. Fear, laced with a hint of gratitude and warmth seemed to twinkle back at him. “Saxons, that’s who. How’s the stew, woman? Edible I hope, ‘cause if Wick brewed it, it’s likely laced with beer.”

“Saxons?” came the caustic response from McKlennan. “Oh, this tale just gets tastier by the tellin’! Giants, Saxons, Kellans and no tellin’ what else. I shoulda shot all o’ you at the gate.”

* North Slope of Askival *

“Who the bloody hell is that beast?” Eigh asked, having awakened and come to his senses from all the hubbub around him.

Standing between Mediah and Ebon, Kruzurk looked down the long, sloping trail at the strange entity closing on them. “That, my friends, is likely the being I’ve been seeing in my visions. Somehow, he is connected to the events back at Abbotsford and this grimoire I’ve brought from there.”

“Whatever—or whoever he is, he’s huge!” Ebon offered, his voice laden with anticipation.

Mediah glanced back at the grimoire, spread open on the ground behind them. He thought about the carnyx laced tightly against the back of his knapsack and wondered if it was also related. “Kruze—I have a bad feeling about this. That heathen book and the horn we brought from the priory—is it possible—?”

Kruzurk knew where the question was headed. “Yes, I think all of this is somehow connected. I’ve seen this creature’s thoughts, or visions, or whatever they are. I am guessing he’s a man, but unlike any we have ever seen before. And I believe the Scythian Stone is a part of what is about to happen next.”

“Should we fight this creature, then?” Ebon wanted to know.

Kruzurk bent down to retrieve the grimoire, closing it up with Olghar’s twin railed cross inside it, just as before. “I don’t know what to expect, but it can’t hurt to be at the ready.”

From behind them came the sound of rocks cascading down the trail. “What’s the parlay about?” Muck shouted, his voice again winded from the rapid descent. “I could hear you lot grousing from way up the mountain.”

“We’ve company, it seems,” Eigh replied. “We might have need of that big frog sticker of yours, Mucky boy.”

“Och, a warrr-rrr, is it, eh? Lemme at ‘em!”

A hundred paces below them, the strange entity stopped on the trail and shouted, “I seek the mage or seer among you. You there, with the red robe and beard like a snow peak, get thee down here.”

Kruzurk stepped forward. He almost did a double take when he realized the sheer size of the armored giant below them. “I am the mage you seek. Are you the one with whom I’ve shared visions?”

“Visions, aye. Have you the book and carnyx?”

“We do,” Kruzurk answered, flatly.

“Good. I may not kill you, after all. Are there Kellans among you?”

Eigh’s bird suddenly flew into a rage, screeching and flapping its wings like a demon possessed. Unable to escape the tethers of his perch pole, Talisman put on quite a show until Eigh settled him back down.

Kruzurk held the book aloft, that the giant might see it better. “Here is the grimoire. There are no Kellans among us, whoever they are. As for the carnyx, we have it as well.”

“Gut eating dogs, that’s who the Kellans are,” Brude answered, turning and pointing back toward Kinloch keep. “There’s a boy down there who’s in league with ‘em. The Kellans are my sworn enemies, as are all who war alongside them.”

Kruzurk walked down the slope so that he might size up this new threat from close range. Though the giant appeared and acted human enough, there seemed to be an other-worldly aspect to him. Kruzurk, more keen to that realm than most, decided almost immediately that he was not dealing with a mortal being.

Lines from the walls of the crypt at Abbotsford Priory began flowing through the back of the magician’s mind. “Are you the Great Deceiver? The Pict who has risen from his crypt?”

Almost before Kruzurk could get the words out of his mouth, Brude was upon him, staring down from those ghostly black eyeslits in his helmet. “Cruithni, mage—not Pict! That’s a Roman name. If I hear it from you again, I’ll gut you where you stand.”

Trying not to show the terror in his heart, Kruzurk apologized. “Forgive me, m’lord. That name was all I had to go by, from the runes in your crypt. You are—or were, chief of the McAlpins, yes?”

“I am Brude McAlpin, chieftain of the Seven Houses of Scone—come back to this life to avenge my people. Why are you here, mage? And who are these peasants you’ve brought with you?”

“We’re here to right a great wrong, m’lord,” Kruzurk replied, knowing that any disrespect shown toward the giant might end in bloodshed. “That boy you spoke of is in great peril. A Saxon army lands on the other side of the island as we speak. They are bent on his capture and that is my fault, for I enlisted his aid in destroying an evil sorcerer.”

Brude’s huge gauntlet reached out and thumped Kruzurk square in the chest, all but knocking the magician down. “Then you are here to help my enemy and that I will not allow!”

Muck stiffened but held back, as did Ebon. Any hostile move might spell Kruzurk’s doom. Mediah had fetched the carnyx from his knapsack. He held it aloft and shouted, “Is this what you seek?”

The flash of gold instantly caught the giant’s attention. He shoved Kruzurk aside, covering the hundred paces to Mediah in the blink of an eye. “Haaahaaarrr!” he gloated, having grabbed the horn from the Greek’s hands. “Now I can make war as a proper chief!”

An ear shattering haaaaruuuuuuuhhh split the air as Brude blew the carnyx with all his might. Every man in the group threw his hands to his ears to ward off the horrendous blast. Rocks shook themselves to pieces on the cliff face. Echoes resounded off Askival’s slopes, bouncing hither and yon like an army of elephants trumpeting a charge.

On the south side of the island, the cacophony of trumpet sounds reverberated through the canyons and crevices, reaching Plumat’s ears and those on the ships. “Holy Benedict!” Plumat moaned, “that sounded like an entire army at the charge.”

Oswald, his ships now anchored off shore as ordered, also heard the trumpet blast. “Bloody hell, mates—sounds like the highlanders have amassed an army in the hills. Plumat is in big trouble!”