Chapter 50

Outside the second wall, Cressey’s troops, mindful of traps and any sudden attack from the tower, crept along at less than a walking speed. The main body split into two groups, again taking either side of the path to avoid trip lines. Behind them, archers had already taken station along the top of the outer wall. The bowmen were too far away to be very effective against targets on the inner wall, but the morale boost of having Saxon arrows pummeling the highland defenses made them invaluable nevertheless. Out on the plain, Hector continued serving up its menu of hundred-weight killers with an accuracy that grew with each attempt.

“Daynin,” Eigh shouted, “get down and open the gate! Ebon is comin’.”

Shoving the gate open just in time, Daynin tumbled out of the way to avoid Castor’s magnificent hooves. The charger galloped across the drawbridge, totally surprising the mass of troops on the other side. With the pathway wide open ahead, Ebon dashed toward the outer wall, setting off every one of Wick’s trip lines as he rode.

Saxons went down in droves to avoid the triggered crossbow bolts zinging left and right around them. Some were not as quick or lucky as others. Archers on the wall let loose a flurry of hurriedly aimed volleys at the knight, accidentally cutting down a few of Cressey’s levies in the process. Robert Flud, alone, foolishly stood up to face the sable stallion. King Ethelred’s second cousin died under a flurry of thundering hooves, his armor a poor match against two thousand pounds of knight and charger.

Seeing Ebon break through to the outer wall unscathed and pounding a bee line for Oswald and his unarmored mangonel crew, a loud “Huzzzahhh!” erupted from Kinloch’s defenders.

“What the . . .” was all Oswald had time to say before his crew fled their weapon, leaving him all alone to face the oncoming knight.

In another instance of foolish bravado, Oswald hefted his broad axe, planted his feet and waited for the black anguish to reach him. He, too, had only seconds to live. Castor slammed into the man with the force of a ten cubit battering ram, crushing him and scattering his armor like a basket of blacksmith’s trash. Onward Ebon rode, not yet satisfied that he had put the fear of God into the Saxons. He killed one man with his swooping blade, then ran another one smack into a tree. The rest disappeared into the forest.

Wheeling back to the mangonel, Ebon thought of Brude, still wrapped and hog-tied by the side of the drawbridge. He swept a torch from a campfire near the edge of the woods and dropped it on Hector as he rode by. The heavily greased machine exploded in flames, ending its short but glorious career.

Back at the first wall, Plumat stood there in the rubble, shaking his head in total disbelief at what had just happened. “What black deceit is this?” he railed. “We cannot be bested by a handful of backward bumpkins and one mounted knight. We cannot, by God, I don’t care how much sorcery they employ!”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Cressey and his men came streaming back through the crumbling archway, a beaten lot. Most were either wounded, dazed or bedeviled by all they had heard and witnessed. The fight had gone out of them. That was plain to see. And there was no tomorrow, Plumat realized, finally.

“Withdraw!” he ordered, the word leaving a bitter taste in his mouth and a wrenching twist in the pit of his stomach.

Cressey limped by, waving for his men to follow. “We cannot fight demons, m’lord—try as we might. They must have a powerful sorcerer protecting this place. So many good men . . .”

“Yes, yes,” Plumat barked back, “but not good enough!”

Out on the drawbridge, Ebon saw the mass of troops funneling through the ruined gate and thought perhaps his demise had come. He didn’t have time to free Brude, and there was nowhere to run, even if he had wanted to. Resigned to his fate, he pulled Isa’s veil from his wrist and stuffed it inside his breastplate. “Today is a good day to die!” he yelled, spurring Castor forward.

What was left of Saxon pride and courage seemed to melt before Ebon’s eyes. The whole army parted, allowing him to charge through their ranks without so much as a sword raised against him. He rode into and out of the first barbican and half way to the second before he realized that he might live to fight another day.

As Plumat’s column of beaten soldiers filed across the drawbridge, one man asked, “What about this big bugger?”

In disgust, Plumat ripped his own helmet off and threw it into the moat. He answered, flatly, “I’ve seen all I want of him and this cursed island—leave ‘im in the muck—let the crabs have him.”

“Open the gate!” Eigh cried out. “Ebon’s back!”

Daynin slid the heavy oak beam out of the way and shoved the gate open. Sure enough, Ebon and Castor were standing in the middle of the drawbridge, covered in mud and blood. Daynin rushed out, thinking the knight had been injured. He grabbed Castor’s reins to lead him through the portal, then quickly closed up the Scurry gate.

Isa and Sabritha had returned with their batch of arrows just in time to greet Ebon. “You made it!” Isa shouted. She dropped her load and dashed to the knight’s side. Seeing all the blood, she too, assumed he was badly hurt. “Let’s get you down and tend to those wounds.”

“Wounds?” Ebon replied, completely unaware that a crossbow bolt had lodged in his hip and another in his saddle, penetrating all the way to Castor’s flesh. He turned, took one look at the bolt in his backside and swooned, almost falling from his horse.

From up in the tower, a series of ‘whoops’ and ‘huzzahs’ rang out amongst the defenders. They were beginning to realize that the Saxons had withdrawn, dragging some of their dead and wounded with them. On the field between the two barbicans, a dozen men lay dead or dying, many of whom had been felled by their own archers.

Further out, the plain between the south gate and the forest had its share of fallen invaders as well, some that Oswald had claimed earlier with Hector’s indiscriminate hundred-weights. Away in the distance, black smoke curled up from the mangonel’s funeral pyre, to which the Saxons added, in passing, the bodies of unnamed and uncounted levies.

Out in the bay, Ranulf had already heard reports from the first of the returning deserters. He immediately sent boats ashore to pick up as many men as possible, all the while making ready to put to sea. With Oswald dead, the carrot-chewing reeve had just ascended a full rank in Duke Harold’s hierarchy. He planned to waste no time sailing home to enjoy that new rank and remain out of harm’s way as best he could.

Geile Plumat led what remained of his ragtag army down to the sea, their pride, prejudices and battle pennants dragging behind them in the dust. Of the three score and thirty men he took ashore, the Saxon would only need room for half that many on the voyage home, a black mark on his honor he would not soon forget.

“Put the dead aboard that tub, set her afire and cut her loose,” Plumat growled, as he and his rear guard marched past the Shiva, still at her mooring on the old stone wharf. “At least those highland buggers won’t be able to get off this bloody island anytime soon.”

Far up on Askival, poor Olghar struggled to gain his bearings in the pitch black rubble of the cave. Having lost his guide stick, he was forced to feel every rock. Unfortunately, the cave had changed so much there was little chance he would find his way out without help. Added to that, most of the cave mouth had been destroyed when the dazzle went off, making it almost impossible for anyone else to find Olghar, even if they knew where to look.

Back at Kinloch, the women tended to Ebon’s wounds while Daynin and the others searched among the slain Saxons for anything that might be useful in the attack they assumed would come with the next day. They began stockpiling arrows, swords, knives and all manner of armor. They had just made their way out of the main gate when all of a sudden, an enormous geyser of mud and muck erupted from the moat.

Brude had arisen! Still tangled in chains and ropes, the Great Deceiver lived again, though he had been underwater for a long time. Thrashing his helm from side to side to throw off the kelp and reeds, he finally blurted out, “Where the bloody hell have you been?”

Briefly taken aback, Daynin replied, “My God, Brude—I didn’t know where you were. We thought the Saxons had you!”

“Saxons, bah,” the beast bellowed. “They let one knight best their whole army. Ebon rode through them like a vestal virgin—twice—not one man daring to stop him. Now get me out of this mess, so I can go and finish the task he started.”

Ean and the others stepped up to start cutting ropes and untwisting Brude’s binding chains. The elder McKinnon told Brude, “It’s far more important for you to help us rebuild the walls tonight, than to seek more blood. Those blaggards will hit us again at first light.”

“Haaaaahaaaar,” Brude laughed, “methinks not, highlander. They will be long gone by sunrise. I heard their leader say as much. They won’t be back—not tomorrow, anyway. They’re beaten, but I still have time to take some heads, if you’ll hurry and get these blasted chains off me.”

“Daynin,” Troon offered, “perhaps we should leave things well enough alone, if you get my drift. Enough blood’s been spilled here today.”

“You blaggard!” Brude cried out. “Unbind me!”

“Perhaps you’re right, Troon,” Kruzurk agreed. “There comes a time when honor has done all it should do. Killing for the sake of killing then becomes a crime, and I think we’ve reached that point. The Saxons are beaten, for now. Besides, we have the Scythian Stone and the treasure to consider. We shall have need of Brude’s wisdom for the disposition of both.”

“Trrrr-easure, is it?” Eigh and Muck exclaimed, almost at the same instant.

Daynin tossed Kruzurk a disapproving look, then faced the two kinsmen he barely knew. “Uh—yes. We, uh, brought a bit of booty with us from Blackgloom keep—to help rebuild Kinloch.”

“Och,” Eigh clucked. “This day just keeps gettin’ better and better, eh Mucky boy?”

Muck’s overstuffed frock pockets attested to the plunder of the dead he and his uncle had already begun. “Aye, Unc—mayhaps we’ll be sharin’ in a bit o’ that booty as well, once we get done pickin’ these stiffs. I mean, seein’ as how we helped defend this place and all.”

Mediah shook his head at their callous greed and replied, “No doubt there are ample spoils among the corpses. I for one, will have no part of robbing them. You may have my share and welcome to it.”

By now, the giant had lost all patience. He struggled against the binding chains and roared in anger for his release, to no avail. It took Daynin and all seven of his companions to drag Brude back to the great hall where reason might prevail.

Once there, Muck and Eigh quickly excused themselves to return to their battlefield enrichment efforts while Kruzurk, Mediah and the two women worked on Ebon’s wound. The knight had been laid out face down on one of the cots in the great hall, that the crossbow bolt might be removed from his hip.

The others looked to Kruzurk for his medicinal knowledge, but he stepped aside, saying to Mediah, “You are probably better at this part than I—perhaps you should undertake the removal and I will prepare the poultice.”

Mediah took to the task instantly. “Isa, please boil as much water as you can, quickly. Sabritha, I will have need of clean cloth—several cubits of it and some twine or rope. We’ll also need a hot iron to cauterize the wound.”

Hearing that, Ebon tried to come up off the cot but was too weak from the blood loss. He passed out again. “Hurry, m’ladies—whilst he’s out, we can remove that bolt,” Mediah added.

From the corner of the great hall, Brude growled, “Release me, you fools and I will show you how to remove the bolt. That boy saved all your lives—he deserves proper treatment.”

Wick and the others ignored the giant, preferring not to give him any more reason for anger. Kruzurk set about preparing a poultice with the things he had on hand when he suddenly remembered Olghar. “Ean, we have a friend up on the mountain somewhere—he’s a blind priest. He’ll need someone to bring him down here who knows the trails.”

“Och, ‘tis nae a prrrr-oblem. Where did you leave ‘im?”

“Muck took him to a cave—under a huge gray outcrop of rock that overlooks the north shore. He can tell you better than I.”

Ean began gathering his things to start the search. “On the north slope? Say, a half furrr-long from the summit? And the outcrop reminded you of a cow’s upper lip?”

“Yes—exactly! You know the place?” Kruzurk said.

“Aye. Spent many a day there as a lad, making arrow points from the chert. That cave is full o’ bats, you know. Not to mention the midlin’ cats who sometimes make it their den.”

Daynin’s head snapped around. “What cats? What are you talking about, grandfather? And who is this priest, Kruzurk?”

Halfway out the door, Ean yelled back, “Too many questions, boy. When I get back with the monk, you’ll have yer answers.”

Kruzurk put a hand on Daynin’s shoulder. “Your grandfather is right, Daynin. Enough questions—let’s finish here and get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”