Chapter 30

The Caledonian guard at the wagons never noticed his killer, so swift and deadly came the Cruithni’s clandestine approach. He snapped the guard’s neck with so little effort that it hardly seemed a worthy victory to Brude, though it had been necessary. Finding Droongar was his main objective at the moment—that and rejoining his allies at the boat. He didn’t need or want a battle to fight, especially one in which he would be greatly outnumbered and, at the moment, unarmed.

Feverishly, he ripped through the baggage of the first wagon, without success. Moving on to the second didn’t change his luck a bit. Finally at the third cart, he found his sword wrapped in a length of lavishly decorated damask brocade. “Ah, an elegant trophy for the woman,” he bragged, completely unmindful how loud his voice sounded or how far it might carry in the still Scotian night.

A guard sleeping nearby came alive with a fury, screaming his head off. The cry, “To arms! To arms!” shattered the quiet of the wee hours. Within seconds, five of Plumat’s men and an equal number of Caledonians had drawn up facing the Cruithni, torches and weapons at the ready.

“We’ve got yer bloody arse again, Pict!” Sercey crowed. “They’s no place for ya ta run this time. Now yield or you’re dead meat.” Three of Sercey’s bowmen took aim, knowing that at close range, their crossbows would penetrate any armor known to man. “What say you, knave? Yield or die!”

In a single lightning move, Brude cast the brocaded cloth at two of the bowmen and drew down on the third with his giant blade. Quick as a cat he slashed, but not as fast as the crossbow bolts that slammed into his breastplate. Two struck the front, a third hitting him from behind with a loud ‘clink’, seemingly without effect. He looked down at the feathered shafts protruding from his chest, amazed that he yet remained standing. At that range, nothing could have stopped a barbed bolt from penetrating to the flesh—not even his vaunted scale armor.

The bowmen dropped their weapons and ran, having never seen a man sustain that kind of damage and live, let alone stand and face them. Sercey, too, made an instant judgment that this adversary would take more than he could offer. Clearly, the Pict lacked mortality, but existed as something else entirely. The Saxon waved his sword in a circular motion over his head to signal retreat. The rest of his men had already taken flight.

In seconds, Brude stood alone at the wagon, his mind a tangle of outrage, anger, and confusion. An inescapable realization overtook him at long last. I really am dead. You can’t kill a corpse with crossbows! In the deep recesses of his revived consciousness, he wanted someone to tell him the dream would end soon—that he would awaken to a steaming breakfast his matrons had cooked all night. Another wave of realization laced with horror swept through that hulking suit of armor. Dead men don’t eat. And they never get tired. Reality quickly became his worst nightmare. I’m dead. Nothing can change that. But how is it that I walk among the living?

If he had been able to, Brude might have cried for himself and his people, now that he knew the awful truth. Surely all his kin were gone as well. Alas, there were no tears for the Great Deceiver. He could only grab the brocade and disappear into the shadows, satisfied for the moment that there existed a greater purpose for his resurrection. And that purpose had to be Daynin—there could be no other answer.

* Aboard The Shiva *

“Stand to yer ropes lads!” the Shiva’s captain urged, his voice subdued from its normal volume. Given the placid nature of the firth at that early hour, the old salt didn’t want to alert any potential enemies. “Up anchor, you scum—we’ve a cargo headin’ our way and unless my eyes is failin’, they be bringing a handsome booty with ‘em.”

The longboat heading toward the Shiva appeared overloaded with people and prizes. Daynin, Ean and the squire did the best they could to row, having no training at all in the art of oarsmanship. Sabritha did what she could to help balance the cargo and steer the boat across a strong seaward bound current. All the while, Daynin kept a sharp eye toward the riverbank, expecting any moment to see the outline of that giant rusty being he had come to care about like a distant, but very human friend. Old Abaddon stood by the water’s edge, all alone, unable to make the long swim to the boat.

Whummmp. The prow of the longboat echoed as it thumped hard into the side of the Shiva.

“Damned landlubbers!” the captain bellowed. “Hole my ship and I’ll dump the lot of ye in the firth for the fishes to feed on.”

Sabritha’s quick tongue snapped back, “Then you’ll never get paid, you piss-brained pirate!”

“Shhh,” Daynin warned. Echoes of their dispute could be heard bouncing from one cliff face to the next, like a series of sentries giving the alarm all the way along the coast. A league and a half down the firth, several heads turned at the muffled sound. One was Brude’s, another that of the nightwatch on the Woebringer and the third, a sleek dark shape, bobbing just at the surface of the water—waiting for breakfast to make itself known. All three heads moved at the same time, each with a different agenda but all in some way involving the Shiva.

The Woebringer came alive with activity. Crewmen jumped to their stations, warned that the ship should be ready for action on a moment’s notice. Brude dashed along the south shore of the firth, rushing headlong toward the sound he recognized instantly as the hawking howl of Daynin’s woman. Meanwhile, the gigantic dark shape turned slowly in the cold waters of the Clyde, its breakfast having finally made the fatal first move.

* Glasgow *

Roused from the best sleep he’d experienced since starting the expedition, Plumat had trouble shaking off the trappings of slumber. “What do you mean he was here?” he barked, incredulous at Sercey’s report on the Pict. “You blaggards allowed him to escape—again?”

“Not exactly m’lord. We uhh, well—we had to withdraw, as you might say.”

“Ten of you withdrew from one man?” By now, Plumat had on his horse boots and armor, but still could not completely comprehend Sercey’s message. “You knew he’d come back for that sword! I thought you had the trap set. Must I do everything in this army?”

Sercey bowed, his honor and courage both sullied. “That Pict took three crossbow bolts through his armor at ten paces and never even staggered, m’lord. In my opinion, we are not dealing with mortal enemies.”

Plumat swept his helm from the table and growled back, “They bleed just like anyone else, Sercey. These Scotian dogs are wiry, but as mortal as you and me. Now fetch my horse and wake up the troops. Then get after that giant. I’ll wager the Duke’s pennon that big bugger will lead us straight to the boy and the treasure.”

No sooner were the orders out of Plumat’s mouth than one of the Caledonians burst through the back doors of the inn. “Your ship is making sail, Saxon! She’s upped anchor—they’re leaving!”

* The Well of Fears *

Scudding along at a speed Kruzurk could only estimate to be thrice that of a Viking snekke, the rickety old barge seemed to be holding together well, despite the constant buffeting from the sea beast’s rhythmic motion. Olghar and Mediah had been reduced to little more than desolate human frames cast on the deck, seasick and certain of their impending doom.

“How much longer?” Olghar cried out from his pitiful position curled in a ball. Thor, having taken a significant turn for the better, lay cuddled in his arms. Still, a whimper was all the dog could muster to echo his master’s complaint.

“I have no way to tell,” Kruzurk answered. “By my reckoning, we’ve come at least sixty leagues. There seems to be no end to this channel, or catacomb or whatever it is. That beast just keeps dragging us in its wake like some big sucker fish. Surely Loch Linnhe cannot be far now. I may be wrong, but I hope we reach the surface and daylight soon.”

* Aboard The Shiva *

“Master ‘awkes—beggin’ yer pardon, but do those pilgrims mean ta bring that bleedin’ woman aboard with them?” the Shiva’s lookout squawked. Within seconds, most of the crew gawked over the ship’s side at the sight of a female, aghast that she might actually come aboard.

“If ya mean ta bring that bloody wench with you . . .” Hawkes called out to the longboat, “. . .I’ll not ‘ave it—not for all the gold in the Hebrides, by God!”

Ean stood up in the boat, shaking his fist at the captain. “You made a bargain, you blaggard. Break your word and mayhaps I’ll enlighten your crew of the deee-tails of our passage, eh?”

Captain Hawkes ripped his weathered headpiece off and trounced it on the deck, stomping it and swearing in three languages. “You lied to me, old man! There was nothin’ said ‘bout no wench on this here voyage—nary a word, mind you—t’was to be you, the boy and Troon!”

Already, Daynin had climbed the cargo net and with both feet planted firmly on deck, added, “We’ll gladly pay extra for the woman’s passage, the squire’s and possibly one more who’s to join us yet. Is that fair enough?”

Hawkes moved closer to the boy’s face, a gnarled finger pointing ominously at his nose. “You ain’t got the plum for me to take a bleedin’ wench aboard the Shiva, boy—no siree. You ain’t got that kind of plum.”

Just then, Ean dropped over the ship’s railing, blade in hand. “Now look ‘ere, you blaggard—we’ve the means ta pay ya and pay we will. A bargain made is a fair made trade, says I.”

“Troon is here?” Daynin asked, shaking his head in confusion.

Ean responded, “Long story—leave it be for now, boy.”

Sabritha appeared over the rail next, her spirited voice preceding her. “Cowards! You’re all a bunch of seadog slugs, that you fear a woman’s presence among you.” By the time her feet met the deck, she was berating the crew with a cat-o-nine-tails verbal lashing the likes of which few of the seamen had ever imagined possible from a sprightly wench.

“How much booty you got in that boat, old man?” the captain jabbed. “And how far we got ta take this ‘ere beast to collect it?”

Once again, Daynin stepped between Sabritha and a potential target. He stayed her gestures and tried to smooth her ruffled feathers with a broad, mischievous smile. A rush of passion swept over him as his hand touched the hot flesh of her wrist, forcing him to let go when her gaze darted to his hand then back to his face. “We can’t swim to Rhum, Sabritha. And I won’t leave you behind—not for all the treasure in Scotia—so please don’t make things worse.”

“Fine—then you best make that old fish fart shut his mouth and get this tub underway. I don’t want to be aboard with this scum any longer than they want me aboard.”

Daynin cringed at Sabritha’s colorful language, even as he felt the urge to break into a hearty laugh at her cunning ways. In a single verbal assault, she had cowed an entire shipload of cutthroat crewmen. Most had probably never seen a woman like her, let alone heard one open her mouth with enough pointed rebukes to bring them all to their knees.

Behind them, the squire shoved the first of the treasure chests ahead of himself, barely managing the heavy load up the cargo net. “If the argument is settled, I could use some help down here.”

Daynin nodded and replied, “Aye, lad—it’s settled, all right.” In his mind, he was answering an entirely different question. She’s the one, he told himself. I have nae doubt now. Never have I dreamt of finding a woman with my father’s strength, my mother’s beauty and my grandfather’s courage. Now, if she will have me—if I can prove myself to her—our life together will be what I’ve always seen in my visions. Clan McKinnon will rise from the ashes, once again to be what it was, and I will make my father proud.

* Glasgow *

Plumat shook his head at the mayhem around him. The long shadows of a new morning showed quickly that the Woebringer’s crew were far more adept at making sail than the Saxons were at getting boats off the beach to join her. Most of the Caledonians had left. Out chasing the giant, bent on retribution, they had abandoned the mission, which was just as well. They wouldn’t have to be paid.

Plumat knew he had no way to catch the Pict, anyway, but that seemed of little consequence at the moment compared to the news that another ship had been heard in the firth. It had to be the boy’s escape vessel.

“How’s your shoulder?” Plumat asked deLongait as he conducted the man’s litter down to the boats.

DeLongait delivered a gruff reply. “It burns like the fires of hell, Plumat.” The man’s fighting edge seemed to have returned after two nights of rest and more than an ample supply of grog. “Get my carcass in the boat and I’ll do my share.”

A smile crept along Plumat’s lips under his visor, despite deLongait paying less than proper respect to his rank. He felt elated to have at least one man in his midst that he could trust for solid answers and a full measure of courage—even a seriously wounded man. “Not to worry, old friend—we’ll have you at Carlisle in no time. Then you can take your pick of the wine and wenches.”

Aboard the Woebringer, Ranulf paced the deck and swore to himself over the hubbub. “Can’t they get off that beach any faster? For bloody’s sake, the sun’s almost up and that ship out there is probably half way to the North Channel by now.”

The ship’s boatswain cast a weathered eye toward the longboats. “They’s landlubbers, m’lord. Can’t expect ‘em to load all that gear and get aboard as fast as a salt-bred crew.”

Back on the beach, Plumat gave his final instructions to the Saxon contingent returning to Carlisle overland. Then, stepping into the longboat, he roared at the oarsmen, “Row you blaggards! There’s booty to be had. Put your backs into it now!”