Chapter 46

Fulchere’s contingent of bowmen, levies and heavily armored Saxons formed up on the wharf at Rhum’s south landing, awaiting Ranulf’s orders. Oswald had given the fat little reeve the unhappy task of leading the beach defenses, should an attack come from that direction, while he waited in safety aboard the Dionysis.

“It’s been a long time since we heard that trumpet, m’lord,” Fulchere observed. “Perhaps we should send out some skirmishers or a scout to see if there is a threat. I was ordered to . . .”

Ranulf pulled a carrot from his tunic and began chewing it nervously. “I don’t care what you were ordered! We will need every man to defend this wharf if we’re attacked. I’m not sending anyone out there in that gorse until we hear from Plumat. There could be thousands of those heathen bastards lurking about, just waiting for us to make the first move.”

A few paces behind Ranulf, Fulchere merely shook his head. Outranked and with no authority to move, even though Plumat had told him to rejoin the main attack force with the archers as soon as possible, Fulchere merely replied, quietly, “As you wish, m’lord.”

* North Beach, Rhum *

Kruzurk and his group’s attempt to hastily approach the north beach had quickly been abandoned. There were simply too many pumpkin sized boulders littering the narrow passage for anyone to move rapidly. With a raging sea to one side and Askival’s sheer cliffs on the other, that left little room for error.

“I think the drawbridge is up, Kruze,” Mediah observed.

“Yes. We’ll have to approach carefully. They must be aware of the Saxons by now.”

The hair on the back of Eigh’s neck went up at the thought of a Saxon horde somewhere in the area. “Mayhaps I should send Talisman ahead to give your boy Daynin a warning that we’re coming. If they see my bird, surely they’ll open the gates for us.”

“You could be onto something, Eigh. Daynin cannot know we are coming, and if his friends are manning that gate, we could be in for a hail of arrows by approaching too boldly. Ebon, I think you should ride ahead and parlay with them. Your armor will protect you, as long as you stay well back from that wall. What say you?”

Ebon’s foot had already hit the stirrup. “Aye! It’s a task well turned to Castor and me. I’ll ride up and let them know we’re friends.”

* Olghar’s Cave *

Olghar’s cave had almost become untenable from the acrid smoke of his alchemy. His first two batches of the dazzle did little more than fizzle when ignited with a piece of cloth. The priest had only a limited supply of the sulfur given him at Drimnin, but he suspected that the dazzle might be of great importance before the day was over.

“We cannot fail, Thor,” he told his dog. “I’ll mix one more batch to see if it works. We may have to find more of this horrible smelling compound if we are to get suitable results.” Thor merely rolled onto his side, content for once to be somewhere warm and dry. Little could he know his master was on the verge of creating history. Nor could Olghar, for that matter.

* North Shore, Rhum *

Brude covered the treacherous downhill trail leading back to the Scythian Stone in a matter of minutes. His reconnaissance uncovered the stone’s hiding place just as Kruzurk had described it. The giant quickly shoved the brush and debris away, preparing to grab his quarry and return to Kinloch as rapidly as possible. That plan came undone the instant he recognized what he had found.

“By the blood of all my ancestors,” he sighed, almost in disbelief. “The Stone of Destiny! Oh, Val Henna! These fools have no idea what a treasure they’ve unearthed.” To celebrate, he let loose another ear shattering blast on the carnyx.

* Standguard Bridge *

Within sight of Standguard Bridge, the Saxon column moved even more cautiously than before. Every man’s eyes scanned the dense woods for the expected attack. With the great chasm of the ‘Willies’ blocking their path ahead, anxiety rose to a fever pitch.

“Take two men and scout ahead,” Plumat ordered Saewold. “Find the squire and report back here. We’re not risking that bridge until I know it’s safe to cross.”

“Aye, m’lord,” Saewold agreed. He had no more than turned around to start the crossing when the thunderous roar of Brude’s horn came tearing through the forest above and behind them.

“Damn these highlanders!” Plumat wailed. “Are they everywhere?” Already on edge from the long campaign, little sleep and constant anxiety, the Saxon leader had almost reached his wit’s end and his men knew it. “Saewold, lead the way—we are all going to cross now, before they hit us from behind.”

The troop began moving right away, albeit with great trepidation at the constant swaying of the bridge. Half the men snaked their way forward. Though it seemed sturdy enough, Standguard’s height above the sea was enough of a deterrent for those unused to its narrow confines. The open trap door was soon discovered near the center causing pandemonium to break out among the levies. Despite Plumat’s best efforts to stem the panic, discipline became the first casualty of the bridge crossing,

The untrained levies began throwing their weapons and equipment over the side of the bridge, pushing and shoving against the men behind them, all the while being pressed ever tighter in the close quarters. Standguard’s natural rocking motion increased violently and for an instant, Plumat thought his entire campaign would end in a catastrophic fall to the sea.

He drew his sword, determined at whatever cost to quell the mutiny on the bridge. “Hold you lot!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. One man attempted to shove him aside with a scaling ladder. Plumat parried the blow and hit the man square in the top of his head, splattering blood and gore on all those around them. The man’s scream sent more shock waves through the throng, but stopped those who witnessed it dead in their tracks.

“The next man to run will share this fool’s fate!” Plumat bellowed. For an instant, the tumult wavered.

Near the center of the bridge, Saewold and two of the other Saxons also drew their weapons. “Get back, you cockroaches!” came Saewold’s order. The sight of drawn swords turned the tide. The unarmored levies, wedged between fear and frailty, allowed their frailty to win out.

Shoving one of the assault ladders across the gaping hole to allow passage, Saewold barked, “Now get moving you gutless pukes—we’ve a war to wage and plunder to seize!”

Plumat stepped around the dead man, leaving him as fair warning for others who might be inclined to run. None did.

* Kinloch Keep *

“Did ya hear that, laddie boy?” Wick asked, his head cocked toward the faint mob sounds wafting on the wind from Standguard Bridge. Daynin’s attention had suddenly been directed the other way—toward the north barbicans.

“Saxons, no doubt about it,” Ean answered instead.

“Damn,” the boy swore. “They’re coming from the north, too. Look at that—a mounted knight!”

“No bloody way they coulda got horses to Rhum,” Troon chimed in. “Especially chargers.”

“A single mounted knight, with no archers or levies in support?” Ean scoffed. “These Anglish are too brave or too stupid to live. Either that or he’s a distraction, to drrrr-aw us away from this gate.”

Just then, Isa popped her head through the wooden trap door at the top of the tower, startling the men. “What knight are you talking about?” she demanded.

Daynin pointed to the horseman making his way carefully down the north beach toward the barbican. The man’s black armor brought a broad smile to Isa’s face. “Welllll,” she purred, “perhaps I should go and see what this fellow wants.”

“Good plan, girrrrl,” Wick agreed. “You go and parlay with ‘im, but dinnae open that gate, no matter what he says, eh?”

“Not to worry, grrr-andfather—I’ll handle ‘im all right. If I need any help, I’ll wave my helm.”

* The South Landing *

Ranulf paced along the line of archers, impatient and nervous at the same time. “Why don’t they just attack us and stop blowing that damn horn?”

Fulchere stepped in the reeve’s path. “M’lord—it’s almost midday. Plumat ordered me to return with these bowmen as soon as possible. He will need them if there’s an assault to be made. We cannot sit here on this beach waiting for an attack when there may only be one shepherd out there in the gorse, keeping us pinned down with a bloody horn!”

“But—Oswald ordered me to hold this beach.”

“M’lord Ranulf, if you have no bowmen, you could return to the Woebringer. The fault will lie with me, and ultimately with Plumat. Besides, there is nothing here to defend. If we capture the boy and the treasure, we can be off this rock on the morrow.”

The safety of a ship and a warm meal quickly convinced Ranulf that Fulchere was right. “Very well. If you insist on leaving, I have no choice but to take my leave. I need two of your men to row me out. You can take the rest.”

A score of bowmen was better than nothing, Fulchere reasoned. He turned and waved for his archers to follow and off they went to rejoin Plumat’s group.

Watching what had transpired on the wharf and incensed that the beach had been left undefended, Oswald threw himself into a raging fit. “Hail the Witch. I want thirty of their men, all armed,” he ordered his mate. “Lower the longboat. We’re going ashore.”

* The Sea Gate, Kinloch Keep *

A crossbow’s cast from the north or Sea Gate, Ebon pulled Castor to a halt and dropped to his feet. His armor felt unusually heavy for some reason, perhaps because he hadn’t had it on for nearly two full days. He led his charger to a spot close enough to hail the walls. “Halloooooo?” he called out. Only his echo answered. “We are friends here—come to aid Daynin. Will you open the gate?”

Isa had just reached the north tower in time to hear the last words. “Who are you that you demand we open our gates? Are you Saxons? We’re well defended here. If you intend to lay siege, I warn you—you’ll be glad of your shields this day.”

Taken aback by both the tone and the anger in the response, Ebon wasn’t quite sure how to reply. “We are not Saxons. I am Ebon of Scone, come to aid Daynin and a fair maiden. I travel with Kruzurk Makshare and others. Now, will you open or not?”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Isa answered, her voice giving way to a bit more of the feminine side.

Realizing the voice was female, Ebon removed his helmet, a time honored sign of deference to the female sex. “I am a knight, sworn to the truth. Open the gate, my lady, that we may parlay in peace. There is no treachery here, I swear it.”

“If you move once that drawbridge is down, my bowmen will empty their quivers on you. Now drop your weapons and stand away from your horse.”

Ebon did as he was told, wondering what manner of female could hold sway over an army of bowmen. Then he remembered what Brude had said about how few people there were defending Kinloch. The portcullis slowly rose, creaking like an ancient grist wheel while the drawbridge groaned its way down into place across the moat. A hollow whump announced that the gate had opened.

Ebon turned to see a blade thrust right under his chin. “Hold!” he implored, eyes flashing. “Stay that blade!”

Though considerably shorter than Ebon, Isa’s reach with her short sword was sufficient to make him totally defenseless. “You don’t look so big now, sir knight. What say you?”

Just then, Mediah came out from hiding behind Castor. His beefy paw swept the woman’s sword arm down and away from the kill zone. “Ease off, woman,” he ordered.

Isa struggled, but in vain. “You bastard! You lied—you’re no knight! Damn you, blaggard, let me go!”

Kruzurk stepped into Isa’s vision at that moment. “I assure you, Ebon is a knight, and we are here to help Daynin. I’m sorry we had to trick you, but time is pressing—a Saxon army approaches this place from the south and they mean to take no prisoners.”

“We know that, you old crow,” Isa snapped, her hands now free, but empty. “We thought you were part of their attack. Who are you people, anyway? Twelve years I’ve lived on this island without one visitor and now we have scores of you!”

Kruzurk motioned with his staff for everyone to move along. He could waste no more time with introductions. Reinforcing Kinloch’s tiny but obviously determined garrison was far more important.

Over at the main gate, Daynin and Wick watched what was happening at the north gate while Ean and Troon kept an eye on the open ground surrounding the south barbican. At the very edge of the woods nearest the trail from Standguard Bridge, a solitary figure emerged from the thicket.

“Who’s that?” Ean wondered.

“Bloody Saxon, from the cut of his garb,” Troon replied. “Must be a scout, sent to ferret out our defenses. He’s too far away to hit with my bow, but maybe he’ll come closer.”

Daynin’s attention quickly shifted to the man in the clearing. “Wick, are there more traps out there like the one I tripped over?”

“Aye, lad. Trrrr-aps, pitfalls and a few other surprises those Anglish dogs will be sorry they’ve found. If ya know where to look, it’s easy enough to see ‘em, but if you don’t, or you’re in a hurry, that open ground is a death trap. You were mighty lucky, boy.”

Straining for a better view of the lone figure, Daynin suddenly recognized him. “Holy Saints of Argyle! That’s Miles Aubrecht!”

“Who?” Wick asked.

“Aye, Daynin, I think you’re rrr-ight. Looks like ‘im all right,” Ean agreed. “How the bloody hell did he get here? And what’s he doin’ out there all alone?”

Daynin pulled himself up on top of one of the stone crenellations so Miles could see him better. He began waving his arms and shouting, “Wait—don’t come any closer, Miles!”

Ean reached up and dragged Daynin off the top of the wall. “What’s wrong with you, boy? He’s our blood enemy, likely sent to scout our perimeter for an attack.”

“No he’s not, grandfather. He hates the Saxons as much as we do. We’ve got to let him in and find out what he knows.” Before Ean could scold him again, Daynin bolted down the ladder and made straight for the levers that opened the gates.

Wick still watched the events at the north gate, but the distance and a light haze screened most of the action. He heard the gate opening which was enough to set him off. “Somethin’s amiss at the Sea Gate—ahm gonna go and see what Isa has done.”

“Bloody bones!” Ean barked. “A Saxon army at this gate and everyone seems to have something else to worry with!”

Rushing past Sabritha, Wick only had time to yell, “Hold fast, girrrl—we’ve company at both gates.”