Chapter 45

Trudging along toward Standguard Bridge, Miles Aubrecht and his two minions heard the horn’s roar coming up behind them. All three stopped in their tracks, thinking a highland army was about to pounce on them from the deep woods. A full league to the north, even the heavy stone confines of Kinloch keep could not hold back the raucous renderings of Brude’s great horn. The sound sent shivers up the backs of Daynin’s assembled group as they sat around the stone dining table, pigeon stew at the ready.

The only word out of Daynin’s mouth was, “Saxons!” as he jumped to his feet.

Wick threw himself away from the table and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Isa! Get you down here, girrrrl! We’ve a warrrrr at hand!”

Troon quickly gulped down two more spoons of stew and turned to Ean McKinnon. “I’ll ready the bows. Should we stand at the first wall or the second?”

Ean looked to Wick, whose mottled complexion had suddenly turned bright red. “Are the barbicans still in good enough shape to delay an attack?”

“Och! Delay ‘em, yes. Stop ‘em—no. We can hurt ‘em, though it would take a hundrrr-ed of us to man the outer barbican proper like. The inner wall is shorter and easier to hold, but the four of us cannae do it alone.”

“Five of us!” Sabritha stated, bringing an approving look from both Ean and Daynin.

A resounding, “Six, by God!” rang out from Isa, coming down the stairwell.

All heads turned at the sight of the crimson-haired beauty, adorned in a form fitted armored tunic that was both beautiful and awesome. Her black leather helm tucked under one arm, Isa appeared for all the world like a goddess intent on war. “What?” she snapped.

“Nice gear,” Sabritha offered, a hint of sarcasm in her words.

Wick tossed his stew bowl back onto the table and growled, “Girrrrl—ah’ve told ya before, it’s nae a lassie’s job to stand the walls with the men. Ah did’nae make that tunic with the notion you’d ever wearrrr it in battle. Now go and take it off, rrr-ight now!”

A bit embarrassed at how Wick’s words sent a vivid image scorching through his brain and into the pit of his stomach, Daynin spoke up, “The Saxons only had about a score of men, last we saw of ‘em. One extra bowman—er, uh—one extra fighter could make all the difference on the walls.”

“The boy’s right,” Troon agreed. “If only to fetch arrows and load the crossbows.”

Ean strode across the room, arm outstretched to clench hands. “Ah’m Ean McKinnon—your grrr-eat grrand cousin, I rrr-eckon. At least, you can call me that, if ya want to girrr-lll. And that cherrr-ub over there is Daynin, mah grrr-andson.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Daynin could tell that Sabritha’s demeanor had changed markedly with Isa’s reappearance. He swept around behind her, encircling her waist with his hands. “Would you like for me to find you a tunic to wear? Somewhere in the upper keep, if they were not lost or stolen, my father kept a trunk of my mother’s clothes. They might be a bit large for you, but . . .”

Sabritha turned, coming face to face with Daynin. “I’m sure I won’t look as good as she does, but any armor is better than none when some heathen is trying to kill you.”

Again, the sarcasm came through loud and clear. Daynin didn’t have time to deal with that problem, for the moment. “Perhaps you two should get better acquainted,” he said in passing.

Isa’s presence had obviously impressed everyone in the chamber except Sabritha. “I take it you’re not from the highlands, then?” she asked.

Sabritha made a halfhearted effort to engage the hand clench Isa had offered, then snapped back, “Hardly. I’m Irish—you know—where the sun actually shines and people aren’t out to kill you every day.”

“Yes, I’ve been there,” came the response. “Lots of sheep on that island, as I recall. Sheep and more bloody sheep.”

The verbal swordplay quickly bested the men. They hurried off to the upper chambers to gather weapons and prepare for battle, leaving the two women to finish their catty exchange.

* Standguard Bridge *

Miles and the two Saxons stayed huddled in the deep brush just a few hundred paces from Standguard Bridge. They awaited their imminent doom in the midst of an imagined attack—an attack that never came. Finally, Miles ordered one of the men to return to Plumat. “Tell him we’ve gone ahead to scout the bridge and that he should come with all haste.”

Satisfied with that decision, Miles led his companion onto the trail and marched straight for the bridge. They stopped at the precipice where the squire hesitated, wondering the same thing Sabritha had thought just a few hours earlier—will it hold?

“You go first, Miller,” Miles ordered.

“Why me?” the levy replied.

Feeling a bit heady from his new found authority, Miles ripped into the man. “Because I said so, that’s why! I am the squire you know, not you.”

Miller spit into the dirt close to the squire’s boots, mumbled something vile and proceeded across. He edged his way along the first part of the bridge, trying not to look down into the pounding waters below that kept the bridge constantly in motion and ever so slippery.

At the halfway point, Miller turned to yell back at Miles, “Come along, squire—it’s safe enough—if you’ve the grit for it.”

Miles bent down and picked up his knapsack, preparing himself to dare the crossing. He strode out, looked down the length of the bridge and shook his head in disbelief. Miller had disappeared!

“No, No, No!” he screamed, his voice all but lost in the salty sea breeze. “Miller! Where the hell are you?”

At the halfway point of the bridge, a gaping trap door screeched on its hinges under the walkway. Miles dropped to his knees to peer through the hole, but could see only wildly crashing waves pounding against the rocks far below.

“That’s it—no more!” he swore aloud. Looking around, Miles ripped off the Duke’s tunic and tossed it into the hole. With that and a single courageous leap, he freed himself from the Duke—at least for the time being.

* Olghar’s Cave *

Olghar Fergum recited aloud the poetic formula given to him by the monks at Drimnin. “Three parts charcoal ground into paste, mix in sulfur, no more than a taste. Six parts bat dung, boiled to a trace, catch the niter in a cloth well placed. Pound it good, ‘til it’s black as night, then dry it well to test its might.”

The fire Muck had started for him in the mouth of the cave felt good to the priest’s weary bones. Thor must have thought so too, for he had cuddled up next to the fire pit to sleep while his master labored to perfect the mysterious Drimnin ‘dazzle’. “Won’t be long now, eh, boy? That bat dung smells frightful, I know, but it’s the only way to free up the niter I need. Then shall we see just how smart those Drimnin loremasters really are.”

Further down the mountain’s north face, Kruzurk and his band were still recovering from Brude’s rude blast on the carnyx. The horn had boosted the giant’s morale, thereby relieving some of his anger.

“So, magician—you’ve all come to save Draygnar from the Saxons, eh? How do you plan on defeating an army with this pitiful lot?”

Kruzurk looked puzzled by the question. “You mean Daynin?”

“Yes, Daynin—but I call him Draygnar. He and his wench and a couple of old men are all that hold that keep and they are poorly disposed to stand off a siege. How is it you think you can help them, with this rabble of yours and not a warrior among you?”

Ebon must have thought briefly about challenging that statement, but let it go unanswered. The giant was, after all, bigger than Ebon and his horse combined. “We will stand with them, whatever the odds,” Ebon replied.

“Haaaaharrr,” Brude laughed. “Have you training in battle, boy?”

Kruzurk raised his hands to quell the conversation. “Whatever we can do, we must do and we must do it now. That Saxon army has had time to form up and march on Kinloch. We must do the same. If you are with us, Brude, we welcome you. If you are not, then I wish you well on your quest—whatever that is.”

“Quest, aye. My quest is to find the Kellans, or their kin and do them justice for my clan.”

Mediah suddenly had a thought. “M’lord, might we ask a boon from the chief of the McAlpins—for—uh—bringing him the horn?”

Brude’s helmet snapped around, his eyeslits focusing on the Greek. “Boon? You would ask me a boon, when you’ve nothing to offer?”

To give Kruzurk the chance to reply, Mediah made a circular motion in the air with his hand, the other hand jutting back over his shoulder in the direction of the Scythian Stone.

“Yes. The stone! Of course!” Kruzurk said, excitedly. “We brought something with us to Rhum. It is of great value and can only be handled by someone of enormous strength who is afraid of nothing. Might I impose upon you to retrieve it for us, m’lord?”

“You can, but for a price. You must swear upon your lives that you will help me find the Kellans when I return. Agreed?”

Caught between a stone and their combined mortalities, Kruzurk put out his arm for a hand clench. “If you bring the stone to Kinloch keep, I—we—will help you in your quest—but only after we deal with Daynin’s plight. Agreed?”

“The enemy of my enemy wars as my ally,” Brude recited. “Now, where is this bloody stone you want?”

* Plumat’s Army *

Plumat’s patience was once again wearing thin with the long wait for word from Miles Aubrecht. “On your feet!” he ordered. “We’re moving. Keep your eyes open and your mouths shut. Watch every tree and rock for signs of treachery. These brigands are here somewhere. I want no surprises.”

The column had barely begun to move when the messenger sent back by the squire suddenly appeared on the trail. Nearly breathless from the long run, the man gasped out, “M’lord—they’s a bridge—your squire said to come—all haste. The trail is clear, far as I know, though we heard war horns earlier.”

“Yes, yes,” Plumat barked at the levy. “We heard them too. These highlanders are a sneaky lot, but have not shown themselves yet. Now, lead the way. We’ll find Miles and see what he knows.”

* Kinloch Keep *

“These six big ones trrr-ip the pitfalls outside the first drrr-awbridge,” Wick explained to Sabritha. “If you see me wave one arrow, you pull a peg in this first rrr-ow and stand back—the rope will let go with a mighty furry, so dinnae get in its way. If I wave two arrows, pull a peg from this second row and so on. If you see me wave this rrr-ed pennant, that means to pull this big lever and all of the pegs, fast as you can. Do you understand me, girrr-l? There cannae be a mistake, ‘cause we only get one chance with this.”

Sabritha nodded and said, “What should I do once all the pegs are pulled here?”

“You beat it inside the third gate and be ready to work the pegs there when we fall back. If we’re overrun at the second wall, you close that bloody portcullis and find yerself a place ta hide, eh?”

Chilled by the thought that the Saxons might actually take the keep, Sabritha drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Wick, tell me the truth. Can we hold this place, or is all of this foolhardy effort?”

Leaving her, Wick answered, “This keep has only fallen to invaders once in all its days and that was to trrrr-eachery from inside the walls. You just do as I tell ya, lassie, and we’ll be fine, eh?”

Sabritha laced up the rest of her tunic, just getting used to the acrid smell of moldy leather. She reached for the short sword Daynin had given her and decided to move it from her waistline to a less cumbersome spot behind her back. She struggled with the broad belt and scabbard until a pair of helping hands jerked it into place behind her.

“There—better eh?” Isa hissed. “You can rrr-un faster with that sword behind you, I should imagine.”

“I don’t plan on running anywhere, Isa.”

“Good,” she snapped. “Grrr-andfather has worked many a year on these traps. Don’t botch your job. And don’t let that fire wane, either. We may have need of hot irons to close up some wounds.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Sabritha retorted, performing a dubious curtsy for effect. As Isa passed through the gate on her way out to the battlements, Sabritha shouted, “Keep your bloody head down, wench. That red hair of yours makes a target a blind archer couldn’t miss!”

Out at the first barbican, Ean, Troon and Daynin had already taken up positions in the south tower overlooking the main drawbridge. The decision to leave the walls unmanned did not set well with Wick, but the logic of defending the south gate alone won out in the end, since there were only four of them to cover more than three furlongs of ramparts. The south tower also gave them a full panorama of the north gate approaches from the beach, should the enemy come from that direction.

“Wick, the water in the moat is low enough to wade across. Can you make it deeper?” Ean asked.

“Aye, but the time to deepen it’s when the devil is knee deep, don’t ya think?”

“What does that mean?” Daynin asked.

“You’ll see, mah boy, when the time is rrrr-ight!” Wick replied, his response flowing like a melody. “But just in case, if somethin’ happens to me afore we flood the moat, Daynin, you take this here pennant and wave it at yer woman back there. She’ll do the rrrr-est.”

Turning to look back toward the second barbican, Daynin saw Isa approaching. He couldn’t help but admire the statuesque image she presented, especially in that black leather helm topped by a bevy of raven feathers. “I thought you told Isa to stay on the second wall,” he muttered to Wick.

“Try tellin’ that girrrl any damn thing, boy and she’ll do just the opposite to get yerrrr goat. We’ll have to protect her, best we can, I rrrr-eckon.”

Daynin’s eye also caught the tiny figure of Sabritha, standing astride the second drawbridge in the distance, waving a scarf at him. He waved back, hoping it would not be the last time he ever saw her.