Chapter 34

“Heave lads, Heave! That’s it!” Ranulf barked. The Woebringer’s crew gave out a loud ‘hurrah’ as the remains of the shattered mast finally slipped sideways over the railing—ropes, rigging and all. Plumat’s fears of imminent death were momentarily distracted by the loud splash. Wreckage cleared, he and his men turned to the more uncertain task of dealing with the sea beast and saving what remained of the ship.

The Saxons had fired a score of crossbow bolts into the beast already. Even at close range the darts had shown little effect. For hours, that giant black body had slammed into the Woebringer’s hull and disappeared into the murky waters only to unexpectedly reappear from a new direction. “We need to hit that bugger with something heavier than arrows,” Plumat told his men. “Fashion a pike, or a heavy lance from one of the broken spars—that may be our only chance.” Sercey and the others set to work immediately, cutting and honing a sharp point on a piece of wrecked crossbar.

“Give me a hack at that beast!” Earl deLongait cried out, having dragged himself and Draco from the fo’c’sle to the ship’s railing. “My blade will put that monster down, by God, or I shall die in the trying!”

Plumat admired the man for his courage. But with only one good arm, and barely able to stand, deLongait hardly represented a formidable attacker. His giant ax, however, might prove a weapon of considerable value, if they could entice the beast to surface close by. With no apparent help from the Caledonians ashore, just keeping the vessel afloat had been an arduous enough task for the Saxons. Killing an animal as large as the ship itself might be too much to expect from anyone in the end.

“Ranulf,” Plumat ordered, “have your men string up one of the dead men in a cargo net. Heave it over the side, but keep it out of the water and close by the hull of the ship. When the beast surfaces to steal his prize, we’ll give him a whack with Draco. If that doesn’t drive him off, maybe it will buy us some time to finish repairing the boat.”

“I’m not leaving this vessel, Plumat—orders or no orders. My family will be paying for the loss ten generations from now if I give up this ship. We have to make a fight of it, then repair the boat and try to make it back to Glasgow.”

Plumat ducked as a cargo net full of beasty bait swung precariously past him. “We’re not going back to Glasgow—not now, not ever,” he snapped. “We’re going after that boy. I don’t give a damn if we have to row this tub to do it.”

The Woebringer’s captain spoke up just then. “M’lord, we’ve a main spar below deck. I think we can rig it as a temporary mast afore that beast holes the side. I need at least two hours and all hands to get the job done.”

Plumat strode over to deLongait, knelt down and looked his old friend in the eyes. “Draco has a job to do and I don’t think you’ve the strength. Loan me your blade and I promise to bring it back when the deed is done.”

“Take it, then, m’lord and welcome to the task. Kill that slimy bastard so we can be on our way, eh?”

* Aboard The Shiva *

The Shiva’s long hours of sailing into the endless expanse of water that leads west to the ocean sea had been broken only by the momentary sighting of very distant lights far to the north. Clear as a monk’s conscience, the night sky showed little hint of trouble. Sabritha’s star stayed right where it was supposed to be—off the Shiva’s starboard quarter, keeping Daynin and his friends on course.

“You’ve done well, Draygnar,” Brude boasted. He was somewhat more subdued than usual, his attention obviously drawn to the undulating surface of the sea.

His using that name pricked the hackles on Daynin’s neck, but not wanting to confront the giant at close quarters, he bit his tongue and replied, “We’re still alive, Brude. For that, I am very thankful.”

“Penach ben venya grou,” the brooding hulk whispered.

“What does that mean?”

Brude’s helmet turned toward the boy. The darkened eye slits almost came alive as he spoke. “Some of us are alive, Daynin. Some of us are not so fortunate.”

Daynin had spoken without thinking. “I’m sorry. I—I—didn’t mean to . . .”

“Apologies are for milk maids and miztresses, highlander. A warrior should never have need of them. Do what you say you’ll do, keep your word, maintain your honor and save the apologies for the gods.”

Something in the giant’s words struck deep into Daynin’s soul. The beast suddenly became much more than a rusting frame of ancient armor. He had become a being, albeit a being Daynin couldn’t begin to understand at that instant. Without analyzing further, he scrambled up onto the ship’s railing, eye to eye with the Great Deceiver. In an unplanned move, the boy reached out to flip open Brude’s visor.

An enormous mailed fist tried to stay the boy’s quick motion. Unfortunately it came too late. “Aaarrggg! Why in the name of Dalriada did you do that?” Brude growled.

Shaking from the painful grip on his wrist, Daynin peered into the helmet’s cavernous interior. He wanted to cry out, or scream, or yell at someone that the armor contained nothing—nothing but an angry spirit bent on revenge. His voice failed—he could say nothing. Words would not come to him. With his free hand, he carefully closed the visor, and looking into the eye slits, whispered, “I’m sorry. Truly I am. I wanted to believe . . .”

“There you go apologizing again. What did I just tell you, Draygnar? Apologize to no mahn. Regret nothing. Live life as if every sunset is your last. And take nothing you’ve not earned with your own two hands. That is what the Cruithni believe—or—believed.”

Daynin’s mind leapt from Brude’s words to the Blackgloom treasure stacked just a few strides away. “What of this bounty I took from the Seed? Did I earn that?”

“Spoils taken in war are paid for with blood, boy. If not yours, surely someone else’s. If you fought for them, you earned them. If not, then toss the lot overboard and be done with it.”

“I cannae do that. I promised the woman I would take care of her. I’ve a keep to rebuild and my family’s honor to rekindle. That will require every coin of that booty. And please stop calling me by that other name.”

Brude’s hand dropped onto Daynin’s shoulder. “Does a hawk apologize if it steals the rabbit you chased for supper? Does the wind make apology if it blows down your tent? Do what you must, Daynin—but never apologize to anyone. The Romans had a saying, ‘Ignoscito saepe alteri; nunquam tibi.’ In your words, that means roughly, ‘Make excuses for others if you will, but never for yourself.’”

That hand on his shoulder sent a flood of images through Daynin’s head. His father’s beefy paws and warm smile came to mind, along with images of Rhum before the great fire. Those were all that mattered now—Rhum and Sabritha—and nobody could take them away from him.

* Aboard The Pandora *

The Pandora scudded quietly to a stop within a furlong of the sheer cliff face that formed Drimnin’s imposing southern defensive wall. Spires, turrets and merlons cut from living rock blotted out most of the stars above the ship, yet not a light showed from any of the keep’s windows. Every sound aboard the Pandora echoed from the cliff face, bounced around the rocky cairns lining the southern side of Lismore Slip, then mumbled again and again from one rock wall to another.

Kruzurk scanned the daunting battlements looming above him and couldn’t help wondering if he had somehow missed ‘seeing’ this particular aspect of their journey to Rhum. “This place is empty, you say?”

Eigh offered another morsel of fish to his bird, then turned to answer. “Aye. Been so since Viking times. They raided it, slaughtered all the defenders and burned alive the cadre of priests who built the place. No one’s been here since, so the legend goes. No one but wandering spirits, if ya believe in such tripe.”

Trying to ignore Talisman’s agitated wing flapping, Kruzurk made another survey of the darkened walls overhead. His instinct nagged that he had been to Drimnin before, even though that was impossible, since this was his first journey so far north into Scotia. He had almost convinced himself to shrug off the nagging when a light flashed from one embrasure to another near the top of the wall.

“Did you see that?” Kruze asked, his boot rousing Mediah from a fitful slumber on the deck.

“Huh? What is it m’lord? Are we there yet?”

“Wake up Mediah. There’s trouble afoot. I saw light where there should be none.”

“What light?” Muck interrupted, his voice on edge.

“Way yonder at the top of the battlements,” Kruze replied. “Someone is moving around—there, did you see it that time?”

“Och, bloody spirits on the move, that’s all,” Muck groused. “I wish we’d never stopped here.”

Eigh set his winged companion on its perching pole. He made a long scan of Drimnin’s upper reaches. Seeing nothing, he growled, “Damned pilgrims—you’re all alike—seein’ things that ain’t there. Now get some sleep and stop all this hubbub. You’re keepin’ my bird awake and he ain’t gonna be fit to live with on the morrow.”

Just as Kruzurk opened his mouth to respond, lights appeared again. This time, a dozen or more torches blinked from crenellation to crenellation at the top of the parapet, as though a procession marched along the battlements from one end to the other. “You best look again, Eigh. We’ve got company—and lots of it!”

* Aboard The Woebringer *

From the slopes of the Greenock Peninsula, the rhythmic thumping of a tabour drum echoed off the bluffs, announcing the Caledonian version of ‘to arms’ as first light dawned aboard the Woebringer. Plumat and his men had labored all night helping the ship’s crew jury-rig a mast and make needed repairs on the hull, all the while fending off the sea beast’s sporadic attacks. Fortunately, the monster’s ramming had ceased during the early hours of morning, the beast apparently convinced that Northumbrian oak provided more than a match for its own barnacled snout.

Even without more attacks, the Saxons still had a host of problems to overcome. The new mast could only be considered temporary at best and dangerous in the extreme if the Woebringer encountered a storm at sea. Allowing nothing to deter him—not even the prospect of being swamped in deep water—Plumat worked the men as though demon-possessed. No longer was the venture one for lands and titles. It had instead become a quest for personal satisfaction, revenge and honor redeemed.

Staring up at the sharp slivers of light dancing behind the craggy peaks on the east side of the firth, Plumat finally felt he could ease up from driving his men so hard. “Ranulf,” he said, “now that we’re under way, you should take your men and go below for sleep. I’ll keep watch with the captain and wake you around midday. We will be in deep water by then and safe from that ocean bound ogre.”

“As you wish, Plumat,” Ranulf replied, obviously yet to feel comfortable with the more correct response of ‘m’lord’, in deference to Plumat’s temporary rank. “Do you plan to go on with this insane quest, even with the ship damaged and seven of our men feeding the fishes?”

Plumat’s head snapped ‘round like a jousting target. “My plan was foolproof, Ranulf—catch that boy and his brigands before they could escape by sea—I just didn’t know there would be so many fools in the mix. I intend to chase him to the gates of hell, if need be. You’ll not see the spires of Carlisle again until the deed is finished, if that is what you are asking me.”

Ranulf did not argue, knowing all too well Plumat’s reputation with the blade. And he would be well within his rights to choose that option if Ranulf or anyone else aboard decided to commit an act of mutiny. “Very well then,” Ranulf groaned, tossing the words back over his shoulder with the disdain of a prior’s proclamation. Was he thinking he might better serve the Duke by waiting for another time to unseat Plumat? Instead, all the Reeve added was, “Midday it is.”

* Aboard The Shiva *

From their vantage point high on a precipice of the tiny island of Iona, the treacherous passage known as the Temptress of Tiree appeared to Daynin and his grandfather considerably less precarious than its reputation indicated. The narrow slot between two dark islets showed no signs of being a trap and the intervening waters were as calm as a frozen loch. “Nary a single sail since first light,” Ean said, pensively.

“I think we’ve waited long enough, grandfather. The fog has lifted and we need to get back to the ship. The sun will be high very soon, melting the mist. If the pirates of Tiree were out there somewhere, surely we would have spotted them by now, don’t you think?”

“Aye lad, t’would seem so. But a mahn shouldnae tempt fate this way. All I’ve ever heard about Tiree is that they are a blood-thirsty lot with ships faster than the wind. Once we set out for that passage, we’ll be a bloody great duck, rr-rr-ipe for the pickings, and nowhere to rr-run.”

“We cannae go around Tiree—not now. That would take days and give the Saxons time to catch up. We must reach Rhum and fortify what remains of the keep as best we can before the Anglish arrive and lay siege to our works.”

Ean tossed a puzzled glance at the boy. “Siege, says you? You think those bleedin’ Saxons are still after us?”

“Yes, grandfather. I’m sure of it. I feel it in my gut. And without help from somewhere, I haven’t the first hint how we will withstand such an attack.”