Chapter 27

Ean drew another of his precious chert-tipped arrows from the quiver and took dead aim at the second rider bearing down on the cart. Neither the chert arrowhead, nor any of the others he carried, would penetrate chainmail at much over a hundred paces, but the chert would shatter on impact, driving jagged fragments of stone up into the exposed chin of the target. Many times Ean had sparked a panic in the enemy ranks with such a shot. He could only hope it worked as well this time.

‘Thwangg’ the longbow barked. “Gotcha!” is all Ean had time to say before the arrow struck the man just above his heart. The effect was that of a battering ram—the arrow shaft and tip both shattered, throwing deadly fragments in all directions. The target catapulted backward over the rump of his steed, his horse turning almost sideways from the painful hail of splinters tattooed into its neck.

Pandemonium broke out among the rest of the troop. They scattered in three directions, some of them still bearing down on the slow moving cart. The fallen man went head over heels with a muffled scream like a clutch of cats crammed in a beer keg. His cohorts dodged left and right to avoid trampling him and to make themselves less of a target for the next arrow. Ean didn’t wait, having already drawn a bead on another target. That man went down equally hard.

The band’s Saxon leader took the next arrow in his hand just as he reached the sparkling spoils Daynin and Sabritha had left behind. The man bellowed in pain, but his voice quickly changed from fright to delight with the realization that an incredible bounty lay scattered before him in the road. Off his horse he came, having jerked the arrow shaft through his hand as though it were a mere wood splinter. The others must have seen the booty, too, for they quickly changed course at full gallop to close on the riches.

By now, old Abaddon had met his best stride, covering a quarter of a league of their escape without yet breaking a lather. Daynin lashed him harder, eager to catch up with the squire who beat a dead run toward the timber bridge ahead of them.

“Jump on if you can!” Daynin yelled from several paces behind the boy. “But get out of the way—I’ve got to make that bridge.”

The squire dodged sideways to avoid Abaddon, tripping in the process. He tumbled in the ruts of the road, coming back to his feet in one graceful vault. Facing the enemy, he realized they had all stopped on the track behind him.

“What the devil?” he questioned, just as a glint of light from the treasure gave him his answer. For an instant, Miles Aubrecht’s feet almost took him toward the treasure trove, but reason regained command and he leaped onto the back of the passing cart.

“Blaggards,” Ean scoffed. “Not a disciplined troop among that lot, else we’d be goners for sure.”

Sabritha shrugged her shoulders in a mock display of surprise. “Those who chase two foxes,” she said, “end up eating roots for supper.”

* Abbotsford Priory *

Kruzurk’s mind felt awash in images he could not begin to understand, yet his eyes continued to devour the strange words and pictographs, both on the horn and the wall behind it. “From the land of Oengus, in his great house—” his voice suddenly blurted out.

“Say what m’lord?” The flowing, guttural cadence of Kruzurk’s words were beginning to frighten Mediah. It seemed that someone else controlled the magician’s mouth, for the words rang out unlike any the Greek had heard before.

Kruzurk didn’t respond to him. He read on, unable to break the flow of the epic Cruithni poem his mind translated from the wall. “—the Well of Fears doth form in the south—and flows unseen from Gretna Green, all the way north to Hemloch House. Follow the markers, if you dare—or a creature will guide those who share. Find the Well’s doors that lead to the light, your journey will be shortened by at least a fortnight. But mark ye this, those who have read—touch ye not the waters of dread. And fail to bring booty to the Watchman of the Well, get thy soul ready for its trip to hell.”

“Kruzurk?” Mediah begged.

The outburst seemed to break the magician’s reverie. He shook his head in confusion, turning toward Mediah with a blank look spreading across his face. “What the deuce? Was I asleep?”

Mediah stepped forward and lifted Kruzurk’s hand from the Monograph. “A trance of some kind would be my guess, m’lord. You were spouting words that sounded like a song, but such words I’ve never heard in all my travels.”

Kruzurk stared at his hands for a few seconds, disbelief in his learned eyes. “Unknowingly, I’ve opened a veil of some kind, Mediah. But to where or what, I cannot say. It was as though the Oracle of Delphi or someone with great powers read the words into my mind—showing me a secret path. There’s a river under our feet—down below the catacombs. It flows all the way to Loch Linnhe in the north. If we find it, we can reach Kinloch Keep before Daynin does and warn him about the Duke’s men.”

“Something tells me they already know, m’lord. I just hope we’re not too late.”

* The Caledonian Camp *

“Take the horn and the offering you fool. You must have both with you, or perish in the Well,” Brude whispered to the sage’s image playing across his mind’s eye. The bearded one seemed to understand, but not completely. “Don’t forget the offering! It must be in blood—or the Watcher of the Well will take your own heart in payment!”

Each time the bearded one removed his hand from the book, his image began to dwindle. Yet Brude knew he had to urge him on, else the whole effort would be lost. “Take it damn ye! Take the bloody book and be gone. Hurry—ye’ve no time to dawdle.”

Several paces away, one of the Caledonians overheard the strange Pictish ranting coming from their prisoner. “Our giant is awake, lads! Shall we do ‘im now?”

A crowd quickly gathered, encircling the huge carcass like a wounded bull in a marsh mire. No one wanted to tangle with the beast, but all were eyeing that elaborate and expensive armor. Every man knew such a treasure would fetch a handsome trade in the markets of Glasgow. They were all determined to get a piece of that action.

“Get back, you lot!” came a resounding rebuke from one of the Saxon knights. “This man is a prisoner of Duke Harold’s and will be duly tried and executed by the King’s Eyre in Carlisle. Now back away, or I’ll string one of you up as a warning!”

Plumat heard the commotion from far across the camp. He raced to stem the hubbub. “What’s your game, Sercey?” he bellowed at his Saxon companion.

“No game, my lord. These men were about to commit a foul deed on the prisoner. I merely reminded them that . . .”

Plumat shoved his way on through the grumbling crowd to confront Sercey helm to helm. “I don’t give a damn what you were reminding them of, just remember who gives the orders in this troop. Now get you down to the valley and see what’s holding up Fulchere and the others. I don’t intend to spend the night on this bloody cairn when there’s a perfectly good keep less than five leagues from here—and we’re losing the light.”

Sercey pushed the Caledonians out of his way, waved for his squire to bring his horse and rode off in haste. The dust had barely settled from his departure when he galloped back into camp, heading straight for Plumat. “My lord! My lord, come quickly—the felons have escaped!”

* The Abbotsford Catacombs *

Realizing their time in the catacombs was growing short, Kruzurk asked Mediah to go back up to the sanctuary and fetch Olghar and his dog—provided Thor was still alive. Before sending him on his way, Kruze added, “I doubt the priors did him much good with their patch and burn healing, but if he’s alive, we’ll take him along. Olghar won’t leave without him in any case and we can’t leave Olghar here.”

“Aye, m’lord. But where will you be?”

“I should read as many of these runes as possible. They must give some hint for the way down to the Well of Fears. Otherwise, we will be here ‘til the next moon trying to find it. Take these phoslin pellets with you—just crush one in your palm when you need it and you will have sufficient light.”

“Phoslin?” Mediah questioned.

“That is what my old mentor Merlin called them. The green light comes from a substance called phosphorus. When you heat it, it glows in the dark. Now hurry my friend—we haven’t much time!”

Mediah crushed one of the gleaming round pellets between his palms. The bright glow made the Greek smile like a child who had just discovered sunshine. “A wondrous thing, Kruze.”

“Mediah—say nothing about any of this to the priors. They must never learn how we got out of these catacombs. Best to leave them assuming we perished. When you return, bring a chalice of some kind—we must collect a goblet of blood from the floor of the wellkeep.”

His hand back on the Monograph, strange images and words again flooded Kruzurk Makshare’s mind. This time, they were intermixed with whimsies of men and horses and a great deal of shouting. Kruze became terribly confused and frightened at first, then realized he must be sharing the mind—and visions—of another. “Who are you?” he asked, but heard no reply. Just the refrain, “Seize the horn and the book and be gone,” that kept repeating itself over and over again in his mind.

* Plumat’s Army *

Chaos reigned in the Caledonian ranks. Sercey’s unexpected return had thrown the whole camp into total disarray. The Saxon knights shouted orders, impatient to have their horses saddled so they could be first to join the chase. Squires scurried hither and yon gathering their masters’ goods to break camp. Caledonians swore at each other and at their taskmasters, angry that the evening grog would again be missed. Everyone except Brude seemed entirely oblivious to those around them.

Lowland fools, Brude thought. I could make my escape if I could but wrench these chains free. His attention fell back upon the bearded sage reaching out to him across time and distance. “Go on, old man, read the bloody runes—and be quick about it—lest I perish while you’re about it!”

The last three wagons at the rear of the column rumbled off the cairn, drowning out Brude’s bellowing and leaving him in a huge dust cloud. Suddenly, the Great Deceiver was all alone and could bring his full attention to his escape. Given the late hour and maddened pace of the column’s exit, it should have been no great surprise when, just after dark, someone in the column finally realized their Pictish prize had been left behind on the mountain.

“Damn you blaggards!” Plumat could be heard swearing all the way back up the valley. “Take a wagon and go fetch that beast!”

All the while, Fulchere and his men had been busily scooping up every coin and bit of treasure their horses’ rumpbags would hold, giving no mind whatever to the magician’s cart rapidly disappearing in the distance. Nor were they paying much attention to Plumat’s pennon, approaching from the opposite direction. That is, until he rode up almost on top of them, screaming every foul oath he could muster.

“What manner of treachery is this?” he yelled. “Why have you allowed the felons to escape? Are you bewitched, stoned or stupid?”

Fulchere managed to find his tongue, but could hardly make a valid defense for his cowardly actions. “Treasure m’lord—lots of it—a King’s ransom to be sure . . .”

Plumat jerked Cauldron to a stop, dropped out of his saddle and slapped a heavy silver plate from Fulchere’s hand in mid stride. “Did it never cross your feeble mind that if you caught the bloody wagon, all of the treasure would have been ours? Idiots, ingrates and imbeciles. I’m sent to Scotia with an army of half-wits! If not for my pledge to the Duke, I swear I would turn about and leave this place before the sun rises again!”

Having at last wrenched himself free of the chains Brude watched the distant confrontation with a mixture of mirth and concern. From his vantage point high on an adjacent slope, he could not know what Plumat and the others were talking about, or if they planned to return. One thing he knew for sure—left behind and able to escape, he wouldn’t give the Saxons a second chance to seize him. With movement he found surprisingly easy—weightless in fact—the Great Deceiver scampered over the crest of the hill and disappeared in a sea of giant boulders.

It would be long after sunset and several leagues to the north before Brude came upon a deserted shepherd’s hovel overlooking the Firth of Clyde. He stopped not to rest, for he required none, but to see if the bearded green sage whose images clogged his mind needed any more guidance. Happily, the visions that played out were exactly what Brude expected. The old man—whoever he was—had found the Well of Fears!