Chapter 42

“Heave! Heave!” Captain Ames shouted, glad to finally be rid of his strange passengers and their even stranger cargo. The sling Kruzurk had designed for the Scythian Stone worked remarkably well for Ebon’s charger, though Castor seemed none too happy with his ‘flight’ from the Pandora’s deck to the beach below.

“Steady boy,” Ebon said, smoothing the animal’s back while Mediah untied the sling.

Eigh and Muck stood back, watching the process with something approaching amazement. “I wouldnae believed it, if’n I had nae seen it with mah own eyes,” Muck avowed.

“Leverage, Muck—that’s all,” Kruzurk professed. “The same kind of leverage the Egyptians used to build the pyramids.”

“The who?” Eigh asked.

“A great race of builders,” Olghar Fergum answered, his dog Thor nipping playfully at Castor’s enormous hooves.

Mediah began re-orienting the heavy rope sling so that Castor could tow the stone on its makeshift sled. “This rig should work well, Kruzurk—even on these mountain tracks.”

“Let’s hope so, Mediah. We’ve no time to waste.” Turning to scan the horizon, the magician saw the sun was just breaking out from behind the peaks on the Scotian mainland, many leagues to the east. Turning to the west, he could see only the dark slopes of Askival against the pinkish morning sky. The treacherous path to Kinloch remained a mystery, along with the fate of Daynin and Sabritha.

“We must get moving.” Tossing a small bag of silver up to Captain Ames, Kruzurk asked, “If you could return to this spot in a fortnight, captain, I might be able to match that purse with another for transport back to Loch Linnhe.”

“No promises, pilgrim. I’ll do what I can. Good luck to ya!”

* Kinloch Keep *

After laying low for what seemed like an eternity, Ean finally pushed himself to a squatting position. “We’ve got to make a dash for the gate afore the daylight makes us plum pigeons. Could ya tell if the drrr-rawbridge is down, Daynin?”

“Yes, it’s open, grandfather. But if there are archers on those walls, we don’t stand a chance of making the gate.”

“Aye, boy. That’s a fact. But I have a feeling that if the keep had troops in it, they’d be on us by now. There’s only one way to find out and time’s a wastin’. Troon, you get to high ground—there on the left, so’s you can cover us with your bow. Meanwhile, I’ll beat it toward the gate. Daynin—you stay behind me. If I’m hit, you keep on for the gate.”

Frustrated both from fatigue and the dangerous plan, Sabritha spoke up. “Why not let this big bugger go first? He’s taken many a bolt in that armor so far and never missed a step.”

“HaaaaaHaaarr,” Brude bellowed. “Now that’s a plan worth its salt, wench!”

Ean, almost growling from having a woman question his orders, shot back, “Because woman, if it’s mah kin on that wall, warr-rr will brrr-eak out soon as they see this creature coming toward ‘em. If they see mah tarrrr-tan, we’ll be welcomed with hot ale instead of a hail of arrows.”

Satisfied with Ean’s reasoning, Sabritha turned to Brude to settle him back down. “Best wait your turn, you big blaggard. The old man seems to know what he’s doing.”

The long shadows of daybreak outlined the three men as they broke for the second barbican. Troon found his spot first and set up a stand of arrows to cover Ean and Daynin. The elder McKinnon surprised his grandson, both with his speed and agility in the race toward the drawbridge.

An eerie silence greeted them in their hurried approach until someone shouted from the battlements, “Who e’re the hell you are, by God you’re on McKlennan land and you’d best stop or face the consequences!”

Ean dropped to the ground with Daynin right behind him. “That voice sounds familiar, don’t it, boy?”

“No, but it’s definitely not Saxon. You think it’s one of our people, grandfather?”

“Cannae say, boy. No one’s called this McKlennan land since my grandfather Ethren married into their clan. It’s been a McKinnon keep ever since. Give ‘em a shout back. Your voice should throw ‘em off, what with that bloody Anglish tilt it has to it now.”

Daynin’s brow wrinkled at that accusation, but he shouted anyway. “Hold your fire, whoever you are! We are McKinnons, come to reclaim our keep.”

Several long moments of silence passed before the reply came. “Ah can tell a Saxon pup when ah hears one, y’Anglish puke. And there ain’t been no McKinnons here for many a year. They all got croaked by them dog-eatin’ Caledonians.”

Ean waved for Daynin to stay silent. “I do know that voice. It sounds like old Wick McKlennan, but surely he must be dead by now. He was an old mahn when your pap was still a pup. Tell ‘im he’s a fisherman’s fart soaked in seawater.”

Daynin decided to throw caution aside and stood up, that he might be heard better. “Is that you, Wick McKlennan? Ean McKinnon says you’re worthless as a fisherman’s fart soaked in salt water!”

“Hahah!” came a low rolling laugh from behind the walls. “You must be McKinnons—no one knows that story but ‘Evil’ Mac McKinnon. Come forward, cherub, that these old eyes can spy you better. Mind ya, now—I’ve a dozen bowmen with yer head as a target, so nuthin’ funny, eh?”

Daynin stepped forward, only to be stopped in his tracks by Ean’s bow outstretched in front of him. “Take this, boy—for your bona fides.” Ean slipped his sgian du from its hiding place and flipped it to the boy. “Mind ya, lad, he should know the pattern on the blade, if it’s Wick. If he don’t, you get yourself back here strrr-aightaway, and be damned careful with mah blade.”

The small, heavy knife bore the worn but still distinct crest of the Regents of Rhum, Daynin’s blood kin from the dark times before the Vikings and the Romans. He had never before been allowed to touch his grandfather’s most prized possession. The importance of the moment did not escape him. “Aye, grandfather,” he answered.

A dozen strides from the drawbridge, Daynin noticed that a very short, stocky man had taken up a station square in the middle of the gate opening. Though it was not yet full daylight, he could make out the orange and green of the McKlennan clan tartan. As he approached, the man’s gnarled features grew clearer.

“Ahm Daynin McKinnon. Mah father was Duncan McKinnon and mah grrr-andfather is Ean . . .”

“Yes, yes,” the diminutive figure barked impatiently. “Do you think me daft, boy? I may be as old as these walls, but I’ve not lost mah memory. Now, you best be stoppin’ rrrr-ight therrrre, whilst I ask you a few questions.”

Daynin did as he was told, stopping just short of the open end of the drawbridge. A brief scan of the battlements revealed nothing. No bowmen, no lights from the arrow slits in the tower—nothing but his kinsman standing there like a troll from some clan fairytale.

“You said your grandfather is Ean McKinnon. I take it that old fish eater is still alive, then, is he not?”

“Aye, he is. Alive and well. He sends his greetings.”

“Grrr-eetings, is it? I’ll cuff ‘is ears for bein’ impolite, sendin’ someone else to grrr-eet me in his stead. Is he with you, boy—here at Kinloch?”

“Yes, he’s with me, along with some others. He’s back there—no doubt with his bow drawn on you at this very moment, just in case there’s treachery.”

“Treachery, aye. Been a host o’ that since he last supped in these walls, wager that. So, you are Duncan’s boy, eh? And how is he doin’ these days? Still sailin’ the ocean sea?”

“I think you know he was killed here, along with the rest of mah clan. I’ve come to rrr-reclaim what’s mine. I aim to rebuild the keep.”

“Oh well, yer high and mighty lordship! Why didn’t ya just say so right away, and I woulda been layin’ out the good silver for yer arrival.”

Daynin’s patience was wearing thin, both from the long trek and the old man’s attempts to trip him up. He walked straight at Wick, his back stiffened and a new tone in his voice. “Enough of this banter, Wick McKlennan. I have my bona fides. We’ve come a long way and we’ve much to do.”

Wick’s eyes swept from the ground up to Daynin’s face when the boy finally stopped, the sock knife thrust forward in his palm. “Damn, boy, you’re a tall one for a McKinnon. But you’ve got yer father’s eyes. And your mother’s grrr-it, for sure.”

“Grandfather bade me show you this, that you might prove who you are. Do you recognize the design?”

“Bloody hell, boy. That’s the Regent’s crrr-est on that blade. Any fool from around here would know that. Now wave yer men on in. We’ve a lot to talk about and this ain’t a good place to parlay.”

* Aboard The Dionysis *

Though it had been slow sailing all night with the damaged Woebringer in her wake, the Dionysis at last broke out of a light fog into a new day dawning. Brilliantly lit up on the northern horizon, Askival’s crown lay shrouded in cloud and mist, looking for all the world like some mislaid minstrel’s cap.

“Rhum!” the lookout bellowed. “Three points ta larrrr-board.”

Plumat’s head snapped to the left, his hands forming a cup over his eyes. “Good work, Oswald. Now we’ve some sport at hand. Get the men ready for landing and hail Ranulf to follow us in but stay aboard his ship to back us up in case there’s trouble ashore.”

“As you wish, Plumat. I’ll send the Witch in first, to spy us a landing. That bloody island looks to be sheer cliff walls from here. We may have to stand off the beach a good distance with the Dionysis. She’s two cubits deeper draft than the Witch or the Woebringer.”

“I don’t care how you manage it, Oswald, just get us ashore. If there’s no landing, we’ll use the longboats. And I want half your crew as levies—is that clear?”

Oswald turned the tiller block over to his mate, that he might parlay with Plumat a little closer than from half a ship’s length. He strode into the Saxon’s space with the defiance of a small bull, ready for discourse or recourse, whichever came first.

“Now look ‘ere, Saxon—you might be the Duke’s almighty servant in this Scotian sortie, but by God, this crew belongs to me! They’ll not be going ashore as your ‘levies’ as you put it, ‘cause I know what that means. You’ll send them in as arrow quarry whilst your men go on their merry way. Well, I ain’t havin’ it. They’ll go ashore when I say so and not before. And they’ll be under my command, not yours—is that clear?”

A quick survey of the crew, most of whom were listening to Oswald’s tirade, told Plumat he was once again in no position to demand anything. “Of course they will be under your command. I meant for them to carry the siege equipment—that’s all. My men will do the fighting, if there’s any to be done. We’ll need your men to sail us back to Anglia, once we get this boy and his treasure.”

Plumat’s last word set the crew to murmuring from stem to stern. Apparently the Blackgloom bounty had not been mentioned in their ranks before.

Oswald stepped closer to the Saxon and in a low breath, snarled, “Damn it, Plumat. Now you’ve let the cat outta the kettle. We may have a mutiny on our hands, thanks to that ‘treasure’ remark.”

“Not to worry, Oswald. There’s treasure aplenty. I’ve seen some of it with my own eyes. We could pay a hundred more like these men and still be rich as lords when we get back to Carlisle.”

“Ahh, then you’ve no plans to turn the booty over to the Duke, eh?”

“With the bounty I’m told that boy took from the Blackgloom keep, I may be the Duke when this is over. And you can buy a fleet of dracos for yourself! Now, are you with me?”

“Aye—for the bounty—I’m with you!”

* North Beach, Rhum *

The beach trail quickly played out, branching off into two overgrown paths leading straight up the north slopes of Askival. Muck had gone ahead to scout the best track while the rest of Kruzurk’s group rested for the arduous climb facing them.

Mediah stood scanning Askival’s awesome features. “I fear the horse may not be able to handle the trek, Kruze. That sled is unwieldy on sand—it may be impossible to climb with it.”

“Yes, I know, Mediah. And it will make our journey much longer. We may have to leave it here for now. Daynin’s plight is my immediate concern. Disposition of the Scythian Stone may have to wait.”

“Master,” Olghar intervened, “are we near a cave?”

“A cave? Not that I know about, Olghar. Why do you ask?”

“There is something I must find. Something the monks told me about back at Drimnin. It is very important, should you see one on our journey.”

“Muck is coming!” Eigh crowed, excitedly. Talisman let out a shriek to echo Eigh’s voice, his enormous wings flapping against the restraints that held him to his perch pole.

Out of breath from the rapid descent, Muck rushed into the group’s midst. “The path to the right is verrr-ah steep, but much easier than the left one. Ah went up as far as the left one would allow and could see no end to it. It appearrr-s to go straight off a bloody cliff, though ah’ve no way to tell for sure. I don’t know if the horse can handle either path with that big load behind ‘im.”

Ebon of Scone spoke up to defend Castor. “He can handle it. We’re not leaving him behind.”

Kruzurk reached out to put a hand on Ebon’s shoulder. “We’ll take Castor. We just won’t take the stone.”

A round of agreement spread through the group while Mediah untied the stone’s rigging. “I’ll cut some brush and cover the stone. No need to leave it out in the open.”

“Good idea,” Kruzurk agreed. “I think the rest of us should move on. Muck, have you any idea how far Kinloch keep is from here?”

Muck swept the shiny pot from his head and wiped his brow. “Ah cannae say for certain. Mayhaps three or four leagues, but it may be very tough going. It could take us most of the day to get there.” He tossed his head toward Olghar, not wanting to voice aloud what had already become obvious.

Kruzurk didn’t have the heart to leave the blind priest behind, especially in such a desolate place. “Let’s move on. Perhaps we’ll find a cave for Olghar on the way.”

“Ahh, that would be good, master,” Olghar replied. Though blind, he was no doubt keenly aware of the situation they were in and knew he would slow them down. “Mayhaps, if we find a cave, you could build me a fire and I could stay there whilst you go on to Kinloch.”

“If that is what you wish,” Kruzurk answered, glad that he didn’t have to force the issue.