Chapter 47

Wick’s mad dash through the corridors and courtyards of Kinloch Keep was so swift, it would have given a Greek marathon runner reason to pause. He reached the last wall just as Isa’s group hurried across the inner drawbridge. Astounded that she had allowed a group of armed strangers into the keep so casually, Wick drew his bow and took a position to fire.

First through the inner archway came a bizarre looking red-robed mage, his flowing white beard all matted and dirty from what must have been an arduous journey to reach Kinloch. Isa trailed behind him with a dark skinned man in a turban and two others of equally bizarre dress. Last in the group was the black knight Wick had seen at the gate, his horse in tow.

“Hold you lot!” Wick ordered. “If ye’ve treachery in mind, you’ll pay in blood, wager that.” To quicken the point, Wick let loose a shaft into the wooden beam above Kruzurk’s head.

That arrow almost unhinged the magician. Perhaps the long journey, or the stress of impending battle or just the idea of being fired at set him off. Kruzurk lashed back with a verbal assault uncommon to his manner.

“Hold your fire, you roguish ass! We’ve come to help you fight the Saxons. Now stay your weapons and hear me out!”

“Ass is it, eh?” Wick barked back. “Another step and you’ll have my bolt in your bloody ass, says I!”

“Grandfather—they’ve come to help,” Isa added.

“Girrrl, I told ya not to open that damn gate and here ya’ve let a host o’ heathens into the yarrrr-d with nary a worrrr-d to anyone. Have ye gone daft or what?”

From the long hallway behind Wick, a euphoric “Kruze!” rang out. Sabritha rushed to the old magician and threw her arms around him.

“I am so glad to see you!” Sabritha went on.

“And I, you,” Kruzurk replied, somewhat embarrassed.

“I take it you two know each other, then,” Isa intervened, shoving her way past the joyous reunion. “Can we get back to the problem at hand? There is an army out there, after all.”

As if to agree, Talisman began flapping his enormous wings. “Settle down, you pretentious scoundrel, you,” Eigh warned.

Wick stepped out of the shadows, eager to meet the visitors and to find out how many men they had brought. A round of hand clenches solved the first problem, but alas, his disappointment showed when he learned that the whole contingent stood before him—all five of them.

“Isa, you should go back and close up the gate’s defenses,” Wick ordered. “Kruzurk, if I could impose—it would be good if one of your men would stand the firrr-st watch on the north tower, just in case.”

Before Kruze could reply, Isa reached for Ebon’s arm and said, craftily, “This one will do. I’ll show him the way, grrr-andfather.”

The rest of the group made its way into the great hall. As any good host would do, Wick offered them what remained of the stew and some grog, then left them with Sabritha to return to the north gate.

“Kruzurk, you have no idea how happy I am you’ve come.”

“I had no choice Sabritha. We’ve been chasing you ever since Abbotsford Priory. Those Saxons intend to hang you and Daynin.”

“Yes, we know, but you should all eat and rest—we’ll talk later. I have to get back to my station at the gate. We will need every man, when and if the Anglish come.”

Eigh stepped up for a bowl and said, “We’ll be there, girrrl, and God help them bleedin’ Saxons.”

Meanwhile, just outside the south gate, Daynin continued waving and hollering at Miles Aubrecht, who seemed oblivious to the warnings. Fear of the Saxons behind him drove the squire further into the kill zone of the open ground.

“Grandfather, is he in range?” Daynin asked.

“Aye, boy. I can drrr-op ‘im like a six point buck, but if he’s a friend . . .”

“Shoot him, grandfather,” Daynin ordered. “In the leg, or foot, if you can manage it. It’s the only way to stop him before he falls into one of those traps.”

No sooner had the words left Daynin’s mouth than an arrow flew from the elder McKinnon’s bow. The distinctive wheeeeng of the bolt rent the still midday air, followed instantly by a plaintive, “Owww, my foot!” coming from the squire.

Daynin rushed out along the path, mindful of the trip wires. Reaching the squire, he scolded, “Damn you, Miles Aubrecht, did you not hear me? I begged you to stop. This whole field is strewn with death traps. A few more steps and you might have paid with your life.”

Miles looked up at Daynin, his hands rubbing the spot where Ean’s chert tipped bolt had struck him in the boot. “What does it matter, anyway? Plumat is here with an army. We are all doomed,” he sniffled.

“Get up, Miles. I’ll help you inside. We have an army of our own. With you added to it, we can’t lose.”

The two hobbled inside the main gate and up into the tower, where Miles told the whole story of the fire ship and Plumat’s rescue. He also relayed how many Saxons were coming, planting a seed of doom in everyone’s mind. That done, he sneaked away into the main keep.

“We cannae hold against a hundred men with siege ladders, Ean,” Wick confessed, “especially if they have archers.”

“Yes, I know. We can make them pay dearly, what with your traps and all. But they will eventually overwhelm this gate at some point; and then the next. Mayhaps we should take the women and abandon the keep. There are caves up on Askival where no one would find us.”

“Leave?” Daynin gasped, incredulous at his grandfather’s words. “After all we’ve gone through to get here? I’m not leaving. This is my home and I will do whatever it takes to hold it. No one will ever take Kinloch from us again!”

“‘Tis good to have a brrr-ave hearrr-t, laddie,” Wick replied. “But a brave mahn dies the same as a coward does, when he’s gettin’ ‘is neck strrr-etched.”

“Look ‘ee there!” Troon cried out.

All heads turned toward the north gate. “Brude! He’s come back!” Daynin exclaimed. “But what is that he’s carrying?”

Wick leaned on the wall and said, “Looks like a bloody great grinding stone to me.”

Daynin climbed higher to get a better look. “No way! It’s not possible—we destroyed that thing. But it looks—I swear, it looks just like the Scythian Stone!”

“In all the excitement,” Wick said, “I forgot to tell you about the new arrivals. That must be the big bugger your magician friend talked about. Seems they sent him back to fetch something they had left on the beach.”

“Kruzurk is here!?” Daynin replied, his head swimming with that revelation.

“Aye, boy—t’was them what came along with that big black knight whilst you was out savin’ the squire. Brought a big fat mahn and an old mahn with a bird, too—and a Greek, so I’m told.”

Daynin jumped from the wall and flew down the ladder to the courtyard. “Thank God!” he sang out, dashing toward the main keep. “If Kruze and Mediah are here, we can hold Kinloch against a thousand men.”

* Kinloch Keep, The Sea Gate *

During their casual stroll to the sea gate, Isa felt satisfied that the black knight fit the profile of a man she might want to be with some day—though of course, she did not share that notion with Ebon. Instead, she probed him for information about the others he had come with to Rhum. Just as they closed the sea gate, Brude arrived outside with his treasure.

“Open the bloody gates!” he roared. “Brude McAlpin has returned to complete the bargain.”

“What’s that all about?” Isa asked.

Ebon stood to the drawbridge levers and began opening the gate. “A bargain the magician made—with a soulless being I cannot begin to explain. But whatever he is, the beast is huge and will fight well alongside us when the time comes.”

“You mean—he’s not—a mortal being?”

By then the gate had opened and Brude clanked his way across the drawbridge, toting the Scythian Stone over one shoulder the way a butcher might heft a side of beef. The woman immediately caught his attention. “Where’s the mage?” he demanded with a gruff disdain for all things female.

Isa pointed toward the main keep, but chose not to reply. She helped Ebon close up the gate again, then trailed behind the giant as he made his way into the inner sanctums of Kinloch. Outside the double doors of the great hall, Brude slid the stone to the floor, leaning it against the wall since it would not fit through the archway.

Striding into the great hall like some conquering hero, Brude ignored all of those present except Kruzurk. “I have done as you asked, mage. The stone is here, so my end of the bargain is kept. Exactly what is it you intend to do with it?”

Kruzurk seemed puzzled by the question. “Truthfully, I cannot say, for I know not the specific purpose of the stone. The Drimnin monks asked us to retrieve it and bring it here. What comes of it now is anyone’s guess.”

“Drimnin?” Brude growled. “My people destroyed that pestilent den of bookworms a thousand years ago. Mage, do you know the significance of that stone? Have you any idea of its importance?”

“I know the legends, yes. But those are just legends, Brude. There is nothing written about the Scythian Stone that can be verified. Why? Was it important to your people?”

“You ignorant fools—that is the Stone of Destiny. Every king of Dalriada, Scotia and Caledonia has knelt on it since the beginning of time. That altar is bathed in the blood of a hundred generations. No man can become the legitimate regent of this land unless and until he has sworn his oath upon the stone and recited the runes etched upon it from memory. That is why it’s important to my people. It’s no wonder the Vikings, the Fricians and the Anglish have had their way here for so long—Scotia has had no rightful king since the stone was lost.”

A hush fell over the great hall. Those assembled had never heard so eloquent a speech. Though they knew the Great Deceiver to be a spirit and not of human flesh, he could not be disbelieved, so true did his words ring.

“Then the legends I’ve heard are true, up to a point,” Kruzurk replied. “Perhaps that is the real reason we have all been brought here—to set a new course for—”

The cry “To arms! To arms!” broke the quiet of the great hall just then. Daynin rushed halfway down the spiral stairwell, screaming for all he was worth. “Saxons at the south gate—hurry!”

* Plumat’s Army *

Due to the lack of skirmishers and archers, Plumat had waited to advance far longer than he planned. Now that Fulchere and Saewold had come up to support him, the assault could go forward. With half a hundred men-at-arms to employ, along with assault ladders and archers, the distant walls of Kinloch seemed much less formidable than they had when he first observed them from the forest’s edge. Satisfied that all the elements were in place, Plumat waved his sword aloft to signal the advance. A single trumpet blew, sending the entire force out of the woods at a fast walk.

Half a dozen skirmishers led the attack, fanning out twenty paces ahead of two wings of heavily armored Saxon footmen stationed on either side of the path leading up to Kinloch. The unarmored levies struggled along behind them, lugging the assault ladders over their heads in a manner designed to protect them from arrows. Fulchere’s archers brought up the rear, with Saewold and a dozen men-at-arms behind them in reserve.

For a hundred paces, the attack seemed to go flawlessly. Plumat could see no one defending the first wall, and for an instant he thought the keep had been left entirely undefended. That thought vanished with an agonized scream from one of the skirmishers, cut down by a crossbow bolt at close range.

The Saxon line forged ahead, unwavering until a second casualty. A huge wooden plank fitted with iron spikes flung itself out of the ground as if by magic, impaling its target. Those who witnessed that grisly act froze in terror, not knowing what lay ahead or if they might be next. Very quickly, the coordinated assault began to break up. Some men turned to run while others lowered their shoulders, marching blindly forward.

“God, what I wouldn’t give for a bloody horse!” Plumat railed, knowing that without leadership and orders, his ragtag army might easily crumble into mass confusion. “Fulchere—get forward and urge them onward. We must attack en masse, or this will turn into a bloody rout!”

“Aye, m’lord,” Fulchere replied cheerfully. He dashed down the open pathway and made it almost even with the front of the columns before he hit the first trip line. Down he went, tumbling with such force that he rolled smack into a second trip. That, in turn, caused a gaping hole to open in the grassy pathway square in front of him. Fulchere dropped onto the row of sharp spikes lining the deep pit, meeting his doom without so much as a whimper.

Plumat saw the man go down, but could not tell what had happened. He got his answer when a sickening groan arose from the front ranks of the assault, almost immediately stopping the advance. A dozen of the levies dropped their ladders and bolted for the rear. Saewold and several of his men-at-arms tried to regain control by threatening with their swords, but to no avail. Seeing the levies run, the archers quickly lost their nerve as well, and in a matter of minutes the whole attack fell to shambles without a single enemy in sight.

Try as they might, Plumat and Saewold could do little but watch their grand assault melt back into the woods. Three more men went down in the retreat, and there was simply no way of knowing if any would stay to fight again, even if they could be rallied before nightfall.

“We should withdraw to the ships, Plumat,” Saewold counseled, breathless from his dash to the rear. “Give these cowards some grog so they’ll forget and then make another try on the morrow.”

“Damn you, I will not withdraw—not now. That will give the highlanders time to make their defenses even stronger. We must rally as many men as we can and hit that wall again before we lose the light. I’ll not be beaten by a boy with nothing but tricks and traps.”

“That boy just killed a lot of good men and he never had to raise a hand to do it. I think you’ve lost your edge, Plumat. Tomorrow’s another day. Let it go for now. Fall back, regroup and give the men some time to . . .”

Plumat’s blade flashed so quickly, Saewold never had a chance to defend himself. The tip of the knife sliced cleanly through the unprotected armpit of the Saxon’s hauberk, piercing his heart and dropping the man where he stood. A dozen warriors witnessed the assassination, stunned at an act of treachery on that scale. Instantly, another uproar broke out, followed by a second mass exodus from the battlefield, leaving Plumat all alone to consider the awful murder he had just committed.