Demon Sword

CHAPTER ONE

"Rapist!" Meg screamed, kicking furiously at the corpse. "Coward! Pick on a woman, would you, but you won't get up and fight with a man?" Kick, kick, kick… "Get up and fight!"

Hamish stood like an icicle, his arms wrapped around himself and his face a white glimmer in the gloom. Hamish knew that Forrester's neck was smashed.

"Meg!" Toby said.

Meg went on yelling and kicking. There wasn't much of Meg Tanner, but she had a temper as big as Ben More. She could be louder than thunder at times, and this was one of those times. Her bonnet had fallen off, her two long braids swung like whips around her head as she kicked. "Tell him to get up, Toby! Pick him up and hit him! Show him!"

Men were shouting in the distance. This bend in the road was not a blind spot for watchers in the castle, for it lay almost directly under the battlements. There was light enough yet, and the moon sailed in and out of the clouds. Then a bugle… The fight had been heard and seen, and the Royal Fusiliers would be here in minutes.

Toby Strangerson had killed a Sassenach and terrible things would happen. He did not care. Let them happen! Filthy rapists! He had arrived in time, saved the woman. The toad had not had time to drop his breeches and Meg still had her clothes on, although her dress had been ripped open to the waist.

Not a woman at all, just Meg Tanner, Vik's sister, only a kid. How could that putrid louse have tried to force himself on a child? Even if he'd only been trying to kiss her — and maybe that was all he had intended at first, because Forrester had never seemed like a monster — now he was dead. But he had ripped her dress, and that wasn't kissing. He had scared her out of her wits, and that wasn't kissing.

"Come on, Toby!" Hamish was tugging at his arm. "We've got to get out of here!"

Toby reached for Meg. "He's dead, Meg. Stop doing that."

"Dead?" She shuddered and stopped doing that. Her chest heaved. Her chest was more visible than it ought to be and there wasn't much more than chest there. She was so little! Funny that this morning Vik had accused him of being involved with Meg and tonight he had saved her from, well, from whatever Godwin Forrester had been up to.

Meg realized her dress hung open. She gasped and clutched it tight. "Dead? Well, good riddance! Serves him right! Monster! Bully!"

"What are you doing here, Meg?" Just Meg? He still could hardly believe that a man would pick on a child like Meg.

Hamish wailed. "Toby, they're coming!"

Meg blinked. "Doing? I came to see you. Came to warn you."

"Toby, come on!"

"Warn me of what?"

"Colin! Vik's given him a knife, it's full moon, I think he set him onto you… I came to warn you, silly!"

"You promised I could hang on the same gibbet," Hamish said shrilly.

Demons, oh demons! Toby glanced up at the silver globe floating through the clouds. Full moon. Well, he had much worse things to worry about than Crazy Colin, who was probably off in the hills somewhere, cutting up sheep.

Lights, torches coming, voices…

"Come on!" he said, and began to run, hauling Meg along with him. They would have to leave the road soon, but it would give them a start.

Meg! Stupid, stupid little Meg! This would not be the first time she had turned up at the castle at sunset. He had walked her home more than once. He had not connected… Vik had noticed and he hadn't. Meg was a sweet kid, but only a kid — scrap of a thing, didn't come up to his shoulder, probably no older than Hamish, breasts like two muffins, wore her hair in long braids…

Stupid kid!

They ran down the road, stumbling and reeling. He was almost carrying her, with a hand around her arm — his fingers closed around it.

Had the Sassenachs found the body yet?

He was a dead man for certain.

"This way!" Hamish shouted, veering to the left, onto the path to Murray MacDougal's croft. They left the road. The moonlight faded out. They slowed down of necessity — no use breaking an ankle now.

He had killed an English soldier. No traitor now. Even Vik… Damn Vik! Terrible things. Worry about his own neck. No escape from the glen. The Sassenachs would ride him down in the hills. Who would look after Granny Nan?

"Stop!" he said. They stopped. A moonlit glimmer ahead must be smoke from MacDougal's chimney. "Hamish, take Meg home… Be quiet, Meg! Explain what's happened. You weren't there, friend. You didn't arrive until I'd done it, all right?"

"They'll hang me anyway. Take me with you! Don't leave me to—"

"No. Tell Meg's folks exactly what happened. Then go and tell your Pa. Tell everything. The glen will stand behind you."

It wouldn't stand behind Toby Strangerson, though. If he wasn't handed over right away, the Sassenachs would take hostages. Hamish was just a kid. Kids were hanged, too, of course, but if Hamish could disappear into hiding for a few weeks, until the English wrath subsided a bit, they might decide they would look foolish raising a hue and cry over a stripling like him and accusing him of hurting Forrester. Big brute Strangerson was a different matter. Granny Nan…

He forced his wits to come to order. "Hamish, take Meg home. Now! I have to go, and it's best you don't know where I'm going. Run, both of you."

"Crazy Colin!" Meg squealed.

"Never mind him! I'll give him what I gave the Sassenach. Now off with you! Thanks, Hamish. Good man. Relying on you."

Right on cue, the moon floated into a lagoon between the clouds, and Toby began to run.

He needn't go through the village. He could cut across country. Going home was rank stupid, but he must say good-bye to Granny Nan. He could survive a night in the hills in just his plaid at this time of year. The English would head for the cottage, but he could probably get there before them. They wouldn't push their horses in the dark; they'd stay on the road. He could go around.

He knew the landscape like a spider knew its web. He followed trails from cottage to cottage, short-cutting over the fields, hurdling the fieldstone walls, jumping the burn, ramming through gorse thickets, alarming sheep, setting dogs to barking. Everyone would think it was Crazy Colin up to his tricks. The moon dipped in and out of the clouds.

Rapist! Rotten Sassenach rapist scum! He thought of the other Meg and would have laughed had he the breath for it. So there was justice in the world sometimes? Nineteen years ago the English brutes had imprisoned one Meg Campbell and used her as their plaything for the winter. Now her bastard spawn had rescued another Meg Campbell. Justice! He had avenged his mother.

There was a silver lining to all this — he must leave the glen now. However much Grannie Nan still needed him, he could be of no further help to her. Escape was what he had really wanted, wasn't it? Now he had it. Now he need not worry about the steward's slimy betting schemes.

Go where? South, to lose himself in the crowded Lowlands? There was only one road south, and they would picket that first. Curse the moon!

Or hide out for a day or two? There was one place in the glen where he might find sanctuary and no one would dare come hunting him. No one else would dare hide in the hob's grove, but the hob might agree to take him in if Granny Nan asked it. It might also forget who the intruder was, of course, and turn on him.

Soon he needed all his brain just to keep moving, and could no longer work on the greater problems. The one thought that remained was that Granny Nan's hands couldn't grasp anymore. She couldn't milk Bossie. The first thing he must do when he got home was milk Bossie.

CHAPTER TWO

The trees around Lightning Rock were almost the only trees in the glen. No one cut the hob's wood except Toby Strangerson, and he took only what Granny Nan told him to take, not a twig more. The cottage cowered on the edge of the copse, glowering under its shaggy sod roof and half hidden in broom. Shaking and panting, with the wind cold in his soaking hair, he staggered around, looking for Bossie. Even if she'd dragged her tether, she ought to be there in her shed, bellowing to be milked. There was no sign of her anywhere. He looked in the pens: no pig, no poultry. Just silence.

Thinking was an impossible effort. He wanted to fall on the ground and sleep for weeks. No Bossie. The Sassenachs couldn't have gotten here yet. They wouldn't have taken the cow — not yet anyway.

The shutter was closed. He could smell no smoke. With rising alarm, he lifted the latch and ducked through the doorway. A tiny fire glowed on the hearth, giving barely any light at all. It was just enough to show her white hair. She was huddled in her chair with her shawl over her lap. He fell gasping on his knees at her side, peering anxiously at her face.

Her voice came softer than falling leaves. "It was a just fight."

No need to tell; no need to explain or apologize. He dropped his head on her lap and panted. She laid a hand on his sweaty hair. The shutter rattled gently in the wind. Slowly his heart found peace.

Once she murmured, "A good fight. You're a good man."

He did not feel like a good man. He felt like a lost boy.

How small she was!

When he had his breath back: "I can't find Bossie."

"Sold her to Bryce Twotrees. Sold the fowls."

He looked up in dismay. A twig flared on the hearth. He saw the wrinkles of extreme age, the silver hair loose to her shoulders, the sad, wise eyes, the withered sadness of a smile. She was in her wits, apparently. He was the confused one…

"Why—"

"You must leave now."

"But—"

"Follow the others," she murmured. "So many leaving! Where do they all go? What happens to all the men? They leave the glen and they never return. The hob is worried."

The hob was worried? How could a hob worry? And how could a solitary, friendless fugitive ever hope to escape in a bleak land like this — a man without a clan? But he mustn't distress her by mentioning that problem. He started to speak, she shook her head and he fell silent. He did not understand, but he often did not understand — even now, after a lifetime. She was not acting strange in the way she did so often now. Not crazy. Odd, yes, but a witchwife would always be odd. She had seen his confusion and was amused.

"I made up a bundle for you. I put some money in it."

"But—"

"Shush!" Her voice strengthened. "You must hurry. You have far to go, but I can't see where. Here, I have this for you. Take it with you, keep it safe."

He felt for her bony fingers, found something hard, about the size of the top joint of his thumb. It was cold, although she must have been clutching it. Her hand was cold, too. Firelight twinkled. It was one of her pretty stones.

He mumbled thanks and dropped it in his sporran.

"A just fight," she repeated. "Good man. I promised your mother. I've kept my promise."

"What promise?"

"Have to make your own name in the world. Your father didn't give you his… Go now, boy. Good spirits preserve you, Toby! Hurry."

"I can't just leave you here like this."

"Hurry. I'll be taken care of. He'll be here soon."

"Who will?" He peered closer, saw tears glinting in her eyes. Granny Nan? Never before had he seen her weep, even when she'd delivered stillborn babies.

"You must go before he comes. They'll be after you! Go now!"

"You're leaving, too? Who's going to look after the hob?"

She chuckled. "I found someone! If the hob's happy, then you needn't worry, my little Toby, now need you?"

"But… listen! They'll be looking for me tonight. If I can hide out for a few days — maybe wait until there's fog, or rain, or no moon… Would the hob let me—"

"No! No! You mustn't!" She hissed and cocked her head. Then she pushed at his head. "Go! Go!"

He heard it now, a sound of hooves, many hooves.

Granny Nan wailed. "Too late!" she said. "Too late!"

The English had come. The time for being a lost boy was over; now he must be a man. He heaved himself to his feet, aching in every bone and shocked at how much he had stiffened up. He was too tired to run more. He had had time to say good-bye, so it had been worth it, but he could run no more. He bent and kissed her, trying to mumble something of what he felt, but the words wouldn't come. She kept insisting he go, becoming fretful.

Thinking this was the last time he would ever stoop under the lintel, he walked over to the door. Shivering in the cold air, he latched it behind him.

From the thunder and shaking of the earth, there must be at least ten horsemen coming. They ought to know better! Sergeant Farmer had marched a squad past the copse once with drums beating, and half the men had been stricken with cramps, rolling on the ground and screaming. Where the hob was concerned, any loud noise was dangerous.

Perhaps Toby ought to feel honored that they had sent so many, but he was too weary to feel anything at all. To run and be hunted down like an animal… no. He walked out into clear moonlight and stood with his hands raised to show he held no weapon. He had killed one of their own, and they would not be gentle.

They streamed in around both sides of the cottage as if they were charging a Burgundian artillery post. He half expected them to ride him down, but they encircled him, and when they halted, he stood within a cordon of angry eyes, steaming horses, jingling harnesses. Hands pointed wheel locks at him, and swords. He held his hands up and his head down. He said nothing — what was there to say?

They shackled his hands behind him and put chains on his ankles. They laid him facedown across a horse, like a hunter's trophy, and roped him there. They were not gentle, but they did not abuse him as much as he expected. It was the first time Toby Strangerson had ever been on a real horse. He watched the great hooves beat the road below him until he became too nauseated to concentrate. At least he was headed to a clean cell; he had cleaned it out himself. He hoped they would give him straw, but he thought that tonight he could sleep without it.

CHAPTER THREE

Hamish would call him a cynic, but Toby was genuinely surprised to arrive back at the castle alive. He had not been shot while trying to escape from the horse's back, nor had he accidentally smashed his skull on a gatepost in passing. Dizzy and sick from his head-down journey, he was even more surprised to be unloaded at the door of the big house. He had assumed he would be thrown down the dungeon stairs and left there until dawn, which was the traditional time for hangings. He gathered that the laird was going to hear his case right away.

He clinked and clattered up steps into a part of the building he had never seen before. Soldiers with lanterns went ahead, others followed behind. Luxuries he had only heard tell of loomed out of the darkness and then vanished again: paintings on the walls, tapestries, and fine furniture. He glimpsed wonders and could not linger to admire them. He heard sounds of music overhead and recognized the new reel the laird's piper had been rehearsing for days.

Then he had to climb a long flight of stairs with the lantern shadows leaping and dancing all around. Cynically he waited for an ankle to be jerked from under him, but perhaps his captors were reluctant to get blood on the treads. They had to wait a long time in a corridor before being allowed to proceed. He wriggled his toes on the smooth planks and listened to the music and sniffed the fragrance of beeswax candles, so different from the stinking tallow the villagers used when they must have light after sundown. Little things like that seemed important, as if he must store up memories to take with him.

He wondered why he had been brought up here at this time of night, disturbing the gentry's revels. Why not just leave him in the cell until morning, to be tried and hanged at a more convenient time?

His guards moved, making way, and a stooped old man shuffled through, tapping his cane. Surprised, Toby looked down into the eyes of Steward Bryce. They no longer made him think of dirks. They looked blurred and infinitely weary; Bryce Campbell of Crief seemed to have aged years since Toby had seen him in the afternoon.

His voice was a dry croak. "A baron's court can hang a man caught red-handed in manslaughter."

"Sir? I don't—"

"But murder is withheld. It's one of the four pleas of the crown. Murder goes to the justiciar's court." The steward smiled gruesomely, then turned himself around with care, and hobbled away again, back into the hall.

The soldiers growled. Perhaps they could make more sense out of that than Toby could, but it did sound as if he had been told to hold out for a murder charge. What matter? A man was just as dead whether he was hanged for murder or stealing a loaf of bread. Better to get it over with than languish in a dungeon all winter, waiting for the justiciar to arrive. If the steward still dreamed of having Toby participate in the Glen Games, so he could win a few shillings, then age had rotted his brain. Men in dungeons couldn't attend games. Men in chains had trouble boxing… So what was worrying the old fool?

The music ended. The prisoner was led into court.

He could not tell how large the hall was, for most of it was in darkness. He had a vague impression of banners hanging overhead, and probably a gallery at the far end. An island of light filled the center, where a golden constellation of candle flames twinkled above a table, and it was there that all his attention went. The laird and his guests had just finished a meal. The men wore coats over their plaids, and the women furs, for the hall was cool. They all sparkled with jewels. They had gaudy feathers in their hats.

Toby knew most of them: Steward Bryce was a skeleton someone had dressed up and put there as a joke, Captain Tailor glaring hatred in full dress uniform, white ruff and puffed sleeves and all, his wife and the laird's wife, and the mysterious Lady Valda.

She made the other women look like frumps. She dominated the table — nay, she dominated the hall, the castle, the entire glen, as if everything revolved around her alone. She seemed completely unaware of the chill, for her arms and shoulders were bare. Her violet gown was cut lower than any neckline he had ever seen, displaying a breathtaking vision of firm white breasts. Had Strath Fillan ever known her like? Her hair was indeed black, as he had guessed. It was uncovered, elaborately dressed on top of her head, and she bore a starry coronet of diamonds in it. She was regarding him with austere and intent amusement. He had an insane impression that she had anticipated this scene when they first met, that she had known she would see him tonight, being led in like a beast on its way to the abattoir. Recalling Hamish's wild allegation that her cowled companions were hexers, he wondered if she might have arranged this meeting, or if the instant and unorthodox trial was being held here and now because she had demanded it.

He felt again that sense of evil, stronger than ever.

With a conscious effort he tore his eyes away to look at the laird beside her. By comparison, Ross Campbell seemed old and small — haggard, worried, disheveled. Wisps of white hair had escaped from under his bonnet. His baleful stare at the prisoner was a reminder of the conversation Toby had overheard that morning. The laird had called the glen a powder keg. Worse than what he had feared then had happened already. One of the soldiers had been slain, so one of the villagers must die in retribution, sparks around a powder keg.

"Oh, that one?" The laird glanced uneasily at his companion and seemed to ask a question.

Lady Valda continued to study the prisoner. There was something unholy about so great a lady displaying such interest in a chained convict, disheveled and worthless. She did not reply.

Toby wished he could rearrange the pleats and folds of his plaid.

"Yes, I've seen him around," the laird said. "Big laddie, isn't he? What did you say his name was?"

"My lord!" bellowed Sergeant Drake, somewhere close, but in the background. "The prisoner Toby Strangerson of Fillan, Your Lordship's vassal, accused of wilful murder in the death of His Majesty's servant, Godwin Forrester, enlisted man in the Royal Fusiliers."

"There were witnesses?"

"Yes, my lord."

Campbell of Fillan sighed. "What's your story, prisoner?"

Nothing Toby could say would make the slightest difference. They were going to try him and hang him, without even waiting for a justiciar to arrive. If he must die, he would rather die proudly, and anything he did say would sound like whining. The only reason to speak at all would be to find out why that sinister woman was watching him so intently. He would hate to die without having at least some sort of clue.

"My lord, I found a man attempting to rape a child. I stopped him. He drew his sword and attacked me. I defended myself. I did not intend to kill him." He had quite liked Godwin, but he could not say so now.

The laird pulled a face. "Take him away and secure him, then." He peered along the table. "Bailie, see you prepare a breeve—"

Captain Tailor barked, "No!" The soldier's bony features were flushed with anger, or possibly drink. "One of my men has died. This is a military matter!"

The bluff had been called.

"Rape is not a military matter," the laird protested feebly.

"My lord… does the prisoner have evidence that rape was intended? Does he have evidence that the woman was harmed?"

"Her dress was torn!" Toby protested.

"That could have happened when you attacked!" Tailor snapped.

Useless to argue. "The only reason I am here at all," Toby shouted, "is that my mother was abducted and unjustly imprisoned and subjected—"

The metal collar was yanked against his throat. He stumbled backward and was pushed upright, gagging and retching.

He expected to hear sentence being passed then, but still the laird hesitated. He must fear the spark and the powder keg. Did he not realize that the prisoner was a bastard, an English mongrel, not even a Campbell? Did he really think the glen cared a spit what happened to that one?

"Steward?" he said. "You know this man?"

Old Bryce had been gazing down fixedly at the table in front of him. He looked up slowly.

"My lord, big as he is, he is still only a boy. He has grown visibly in the few months he has been working here. I doubt much that he knows his own strength. He has never caused trouble before…" His voice quavered away into silence.

Campbell of Fillan tapped fingertips on the table again. Then he seemed to conclude that he had no choice. "Captain, you—"

"My lord?" said another voice.

His head flicked around. "My lady?"

He seemed almost as frightened of Lady Valda as Toby had been when he first met her on the road. If she was King Nevil's mistress — or even if she had been once — then that was only to be expected.

She smiled, as if at some secret joke. "A woman feels a natural sympathy for a man who seeks to prevent a rape, my lord."

"Quite understandable, my lady!"

"And am I to understand that the prisoner attacked an armed warrior with his bare hands?"

She turned to Captain Tailor, who grimaced.

"Your Ladyship, he is bareknuckle champion of the glen! His fists are weapons."

Lady Valda somehow contrived to raise her exquisite eyebrows without wrinkling her forehead. "Champion, and so young? Would he have a future in the ring, if properly handled?"

"Steward? Have you seen him fight?"

The old man chewed his gums for a moment. "I have heard enough. He is almost a legend already. He has the size, as you can see. He has the strength of a bear and the courage of a cornered badger."

Everyone looked expectantly at the lady, who smiled demurely.

"I see no reason why a member of the gentler sex should not sponsor a prizefighter! We can run racehorses — why not pugilists? Suppose I take the boy into my service, giving my personal guarantee that he will accompany me to England? Of course I shall see to it that he remains law-abiding in future, confining his violent impulses to the Manly Art." Her dark gaze settled on Toby with a gleam of triumph.

Captain Tailor looked stunned at this unexpected development. The laird swelled and shed ten years. Obviously it would solve his problem. The glen would have no excuse to rise in revolt. The dead man had been in flagrant violation of orders, and his companions must see the implications.

"That is exceedingly generous of Your Ladyship! The steward will reaffirm his testimony regarding the man's good character?"

The steward glanced briefly at Tony, muttered something inaudible, and scowled down at the table before him.

"Strangerson," the laird said, "you have heard Lady Valda's beneficent offer. I must tell you that your life is presently forfeit, but her suggestion will not merely save it, but open splendid opportunities for you to advance yourself. Will you enter into her service, giving this court your solemn word that—"

"No!" Toby said. Valda had seized on prizefighting as an excuse for something else. Whatever her real purpose, he would rather hang than be that woman's meat.

His reply surprised the onlookers as much as it did him. The guards did not even jerk his tether. The ensuing silence was deadly. The only person who did not seem stunned by his insane denial was Lady Valda herself. She pursed her red lips as if to hide a smile. Toby did not know what she wanted of him, but she made his flesh crawl. Evil had come to the glen, and he wanted no part of it.

"Oh, dear," she said. "What a pity! Of course, as you explained to me this evening, Lord Ross, the men of Fillan are celebrated for their courage. Will you give him the rest of the night to think it over? Perhaps he will change his mind."

"Perhaps I will have him flogged, my lady!"

She considered the proposal for a moment, watching Toby carefully. "A tempting thought, but I think not. Just lock him up until after breakfast. We'll see how he feels then, shall we?"

The laird shrugged, clearly as puzzled as everyone else. "Take him away! Lock him up. This court is adjourned."

"Tell them not to damage him!" she said sharply. "I have no use for a cripple."

CHAPTER FOUR

Six soldiers took Toby to the dungeon; they left him in no doubt that he was much in debt to Lady Valda. Without her final remark and the laird's resulting orders, they would have made him pay dearly for what he had done to Godwin Forrester. They did debate whether they should hang him up by his feet or his elbows, and outlined several other entertaining possibilities, also. They were obviously apprehensive of his strength, testing the shackles carefully, but in the end they merely attached his ankle chains to one wall and his neck chain to the wall opposite, leaving him sitting in the middle of the rock-hewn floor. Then they went away. The gate creaked and clanged. A lock clicked faraway at the top of the stairs.

He was alone in the dark and the silence and the bone-freezing cold. It could have been much worse. By no human contortion could he ever free himself, but he could sit up or he could lie down. As his hands were still fastened behind him and the chain from his collar dangled down his back, that was not the most comfortable of situations. There was not enough slack on his leg tethers for him to roll over, facedown, which was how he preferred to sleep, and he could not wrap himself up in his plaid. But he was still alive and uninjured.

As he shivered himself to sleep, he wondered briefly why the prospect of swearing loyalty to that woman should be so unthinkable. He concluded only that it was, and that strangling in a noose would be preferable. Whose man… Never hers! Perhaps in the morning he would change his mind.

Either a rattling of chain wakened him, or he became aware of the light. He could not have slept long, but his wits were muddled. He did not understand where he was, or why he was on his back with his arms twisted under him. He blinked in bewilderment at the robed, cowled figure holding the candle. Memory began to return. He looked the other way and saw two more of them…

Argh! He tried to sit up and almost choked himself. The chain from his collar had been drawn tight; he was staked out, helpless.

"Who are you?" he mumbled with parched mouth. "What are you doing?"

The man did not respond. Although he was standing motionless, clasping a black candle before him, only a steady glitter of eyes showed within his cowl. Toby's hair rose on his scalp. "Who are you?" he screamed.

"They will not speak," Lady Valda said.

He twisted his head until he located her. She was standing at a small table near the stair, busily unpacking a metal casket. Her four cowled associates stood in a square around Toby. Each held a black candle, and the steadiness of the flames suggested that the men were not breathing.

"Who are you?"

"My name is of no importance to you," she said calmly, intent on what she was doing. "To be truthful, nothing is of importance to you anymore." She closed the lid and laid the box on the floor, then began rearranging the miscellaneous objects she had removed from it. He saw a golden bowl, a scroll, and a dagger, but there were other things, too.

He was shivering shamefully. There was a tight knot in his belly.

To scream would be useless. The guardroom would be deserted. The house was far away, its residents doubtless asleep. The sentries on the walls would neither hear nor come to investigate if they did.

He stared again at the four men. Four flames, eight eyes unblinking. Masks! They all had thick black beards and wore black masks above them. So they were mortal men and that was trickery. But he was not cynic enough to believe that it would all be trickery. Hamish had been wrong about these men being hexers, or not right enough. Lady Valda was the hexer. Toby's recognition of evil had been a true instinct.

"What do you want of me?" His voice emerged as a hoarse whisper.

"Your body, of course. I came hunting a stalwart young man and see what I caught!"

She came across to him, her shoes scraping softly on the rock, the hem of her gown whispering around her ankles. He thought it was the same garment she had worn earlier, although it looked darker in the dim light — that shameless neckline was breathtakingly memorable. Her breasts seemed even larger viewed from below, above an astonishingly narrow waist. Unbound hair floated in a sable cloud around her, almost to her waist.

She crouched down beside him and stroked his cheek. He twisted his head away and the rusty collar scraped his throat.

"Relax!" she purred. "You're a big, brave boy, remember? You'd rather die than serve me, and you have the courage of a cornered badger."

He could see the burning evil behind the mockery dancing in her eyes. He tried to speak in a normal voice. "What are you going to do?"

"Conjure, of course. But you needn't worry. You will not be eaten by demons. You will not even see a demon, I promise you, not the teeniest, wispiest demon. You will feel no pain — or only a very tiny amount, nothing a strong young lad can't grit his teeth through. And when we are done, you will walk out of here a free man! Now, isn't that an exciting prospect?"

"I don't believe you!" His heart raced in terror and yet he was conscious of her closeness, her musky perfume. He was a man and a desirable woman had a hand on his neck. He noted the long, deep crease between her milk-white breasts.

Seeing his gaze wander, she chuckled. "Not that exciting prospect, boy! Admire, by all means, but those are not for you. To work! All I require of you is that you lie there and be silent. I repeat — you will not be hurt, even by this." She raised a dagger above his eyes. Its blade shone steely blue and was long enough to reach all the way through him. She unpinned his plaid to lay bare his chest, then stroked it playfully with soft fingers.

"I need you conscious, but silent. Must I gag you, or can you be trusted?"

He hesitated and the soft fingers curled. Nails dug into his flesh. "You will be silent! If you cause me trouble, I shall make you endure such agony as you have never imagined. Is that clear, Toby?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"You do believe me now?"

"Yes."

"Good. Remember that you are destined to hang. I am saving your life. Cooperation will cost you nothing except minor indignity." Her scarlet lips curled in mockery. "And you have so very little dignity left!"

With a chuckle of satisfaction, she rose and returned to her table. The four men showed no sign that they had heard a word.

Demonic possession? As a kid, he had believed stories of demons taking over people's bodies. Later he'd decided that being possessed by a demon would make an excellent excuse for doing anything at all, so he'd stopped believing. Now he wasn't so sure. When the hexer said he would not see the demon, she implied that she was going to conjure it inside him. In the morning Toby Strangerson might inform the laird that he had changed his mind and would be a loyal servant to Lady Valda; the laird would let him depart as a free man — but how free? And would he be a man at all? What were these four voiceless, masked figures? Were they really human? Would he be another of those?

Lady Valda returned, clutching a vellum scroll. "Hold your breath and lie still." She placed a shod foot on his chest and put her weight on it.

He heaved with his shoulders and dislodged her. She stepped down hurriedly to regain her balance. She made a tutting sound of annoyance. "Don't be foolish, boy. This is your last chance! If you do not cooperate, I shall make you scream at the top of your lungs for a solid hour. A husky lad like you can endure my weight for a few minutes."

She stepped up and stood full on his chest. She weighed less than he had expected. He could breathe. The manacles dug into his wrists and back, but the pain was bearable, if it did not last too long.

She unrolled the scroll. She read out a proclamation in a guttural language he did not know. It went on for several minutes, the words rolling around the chamber, raising a deep echo he had not noticed before. When she finished, the silence returned. Could a silence grow denser?

She stepped off him and walked back to her table. He drew a long breath. He had a horrible suspicion that his living body had just been dedicated as a sacrifice to… something.

For a while after that, she did not touch him. She walked around him several times, sprinkling various powders from small vials, each time repeating a formula in that same harsh tongue. The flames on the four candles seemed to grow longer. The four human candlesticks never moved. If they blinked, Toby did not catch them at it. She placed a pinch of powder on each of his shoulders, on his heart, his forehead, his sporran. After her next visit to the table, she knelt down beside him, heedless of the damage the rough rock floor could do to her fine gown. She laid the little golden bowl on his chest as if he were a table, and he sensed that the preliminaries were over. How could a man be so cold and still sweat so much? Evil had come to the glen. Terrible things were about to happen.

She had brought the dagger back, too. The quillons were silver, elaborately inlaid with dark red stone. The pommel was a startling yellow gem as big as the top joint of his thumb. She raised both arms as high as she could, clasping the dagger by its quillons, point down. If she dropped it from there, it would go straight into his heart. Her lips moved, but this time she made no sound. She seemed to be addressing the weapon itself, or offering it to some unseen presence near the roof. The jewel on the pommel glittered, reflecting the candlelight. Her victim listened helplessly to his own breath and the thud of his heart.

He noticed… No, he refused to believe… Admit it! The chamber was growing brighter. The vault of the roof was in clear view and parts of the rock walls shone wetly. The candle flames had become almost invisible and the jewel no longer glittered. It was the source of the new light, glowing with an impossible internal brightness. Everything he had seen until now could be cynically dismissed as mere playacting, but that baleful radiance blazing from the dagger could not be denied. It was uncanny. This was real gramarye. Soon the gem was too bright to look upon, illuminating the whole chamber to the farthest corner.

The hexer completed her silent incantation and leaned over him. He wondered what horror was coming next. He saw mad exultation in her eyes, but she seemed unaware of him now. He was only part of the furnishings, an altar for her art. She slipped her left breast out of her dress. Holding it steady with one hand, she cut it with the dagger — an easy, offhand slash at the underside, almost contemptuous. She showed no sign of pain, indeed she watched the blood trickling into the golden bowl with a smile of childlike pleasure.

He felt the warmth of it through the metal. He shuddered and closed his eyes. His heart pounded. His head pounded, too. He wondered if he was about to faint. That could not be just his heart he was hearing. Faint and far away, a drum had begun to tap.

Was that part of her gramarye, or could it possibly be a hope of rescue? Had the laird guessed what sort of guest had infested his house? Or perhaps the shrewd old steward, who had seemed so glum? Dum… Dum… Someone was sounding a tattoo. Rousing the guard to rout the evil from Lochy Castle?

Toby felt the bowl being removed from his chest and opened his eyes quickly. Valda had covered herself, but a spreading dark stain on her bodice showed that the wound still bled. She was holding the bowl in one hand, making passes over it with the dagger, mouthing silently. When she was done, she set the dagger aside by laying it on his belly, as the nearest convenient shelf. He tried not to move at all then.

The drum drew closer, but it did not come from the stairway. It seemed to be inside his head. It could never be the fusiliers. That drummer was not of his world. Sweat trickled across his forehead and along his ribs.

"Aha!" The hexer was gazing at him. Her eyes shone with insane excitement, her red lips were drawn back. "You feel it already?"

She dipped two fingers in the blood and drew a mark on his chest. It felt cold as ice. Another dip, another mark… She was concentrating hard, tongue between her teeth, inscribing some arcane symbol on him. The cold of it burned his skin. A steady yellow light blazed from the dagger, but he could feel no heat, only the winter cold of the sigil. She worked outward — around his nipples, curving down his ribs, up to his collar bones, down almost to his navel.

Dum… Dum… Thundering, the drumming filled the chamber with its relentless steady beat, and now he knew it for the thump of his own heart, magnified to madness. Was this the sound of death? Why so loud? And why so slow? Dum… Dum… Dum… Stop! Stop!

"There!" The hexer cried out in triumph, yet she was barely audible through the pulsing beat. She set the bowl aside. "You hear me, my love? It is almost done!"

She took up the dagger with her bloody hand. Whatever else she said, Toby heard only the grotesque drumming of his heart. He tried to move and his muscles failed to obey him. Nothing happened at all. He could only stare at the woman's lips moving as she lowered the dagger. She laid the point on the sigil she had drawn on his chest and added another line, cutting his skin to add his blood to hers. He did not feel it. Another… he saw her eyes widen in sudden dismay. She raised the dagger as if to strike.

Shift…

A boy lay chained on a rock-carved floor — a huge and husky boy, but still only a boy, his eyes and mouth stretched wide in terror. He was bare-chested, his body inscribed with obscene demonic heraldry that flickered and glowed as if it were some foul living fire. Beside him knelt a woman in a rich gown, clutching a dagger whose pommel also flamed with loathsome internal light. Standing guard around them, four shrouded figures that were men and yet not men. The hands clutching the candles were human, the eyes were human, but within the robes swirled darkness like living smoke.

The boy's shoulders heaved and his hands came free, a few links of rusty chain dangling from manacles around his wrists. Even for his size, those hands were big, the hands of one who had milked cows in his youth. A massive fist slammed the woman aside as if swatting a bug. She sprawled bodily; the dagger flew off and its yellow light went out.

The drum thundered on; there was no sound but the inexorable beat of the drum. Dum… Dum… Dum…

The boy reached up and gripped the collar around his neck. One of the robed things dropped its candle and dived for the dagger. It leaped back across the chamber in a single bound, robe flapping like bat wings, landing on its knees beside the boy in a move that would have crippled a human. It raised the dagger to strike at his heart.

The boy had snapped the collar. One of his hands moved impossibly fast. It caught the attacker's wrist and jerked it forward. The robed figure sprawled prone over him, the dagger striking the floor beyond. The hand shifted to the thing's bearded chin, its mate came down on its shoulders… there was a momentary pause, and then the cowled head bent back at an impossible angle. The roiling internal darkness shriveled and waned. The hands hurled the carcass away like a discarded pillow.

All light disappeared as the other three watchers dropped their candles and fled to the stairs. Pitch blackness filled the cellar, yet somehow it was visible. Every stone in the barrel ceiling showed in the dark, and dampness shone on the ancient chisel marks of the rock walls as if revealed by bright moonlight or the eerie lavender of a frozen lightning flash.

The boy sat up and reached down to his right ankle. Fingers gripped the steel fetter, muscle bulged, tendons flexed. The cuff snapped open. The hands moved over and freed the other ankle also. Those were Toby Strangerson's hands and arms, but they had more than Toby Strangerson's strength, more than mortal strength.

The drumming pursued its steady, unhurried beat. The boy was on his feet, flashing across the floor in pursuit even as the last cowled figure was disappearing up the stairs. He caught the robe, dragged its occupant back. He lifted the thing, swung it, shattered its head against the wall, dropped the body, and stepped over it to follow the others. He raced up the stairs without a change in the overriding beat: Dum… Dum…

The last two robed henchmen slammed the metal gate from the far side. That should have made a noise to rouse the entire castle, but it was inaudible under the irresistible drumming. The men collided with table and benches as they struggled to reach the guardroom door.

The boy took hold of the gate. The thick bars resisted, the arms swelled, iron bent. The gate changed shape, came loose bodily in a shower of rust and fragments of stone. The cowled men had gone, leaving the door open. As the boy passed the mirror, he turned his head and paused to look at his reflection — large, curly-haired, bare from the waist up, rusty bangles on his wrists. Bleeding scratches adorned his neck and ankles. The arcane sigil on his chest had gone dark and become merely a pattern drawn in blood. His juvenile face bore an idiotic simper of satisfaction, the face of one who had no worries and never would have.

Toby Strangerson stared out of the mirror in horror.

The boy swung a fist to meet another fist and the mirror shattered between them. He trotted forward, out the door.

The courtyard, also, was bright with the mysterious lavender radiance. The two cowled things were struggling to open the postern gate, but the boy ignored them and crossed to the stables. All the horses and ponies should have been in turmoil, but they dozed in their stalls, paying no heed to the eldritch light or the drummer's deafening beat. The boy took a bridle from a peg and moved along the line to the laird's pride, the white stallion whose name was Falcon.

Toby Strangerson had no experience with horses. He had ridden ponies a few times and watched the fusiliers at their dressage, but that was the limit of his experience. The stallion jerked its head up and rolled its eyes, then calmed at a touch on its neck. It took the bit without resistance. It let itself be backed out of its stall and led from the stable, ignoring the thunder of the urgent drum. There was no other sound in the world: Dum… Dum…

The postern gate stood open. A flash on the battlements released a puff of smoke, but the range was far too great for a pistol. Where the ball went was immaterial.

Falcon stepped through the gate. The boy sprang lightly to its back.

With his sure hand steadying its reins, the stallion raced down the road, leaving the castle far behind. Responding to the touch of knees and bare feet, it turned aside and made its way across country, soaring over walls, never faltering, never putting a foot wrong. The landscape rushed past, illuminated partly by fitful moonlight, but much more by that demonic blue glow, while an irresistible drummer beat slow time.

CHAPTER FIVE

Reality returned with a crash. The drumming stopped. The light cut out like a snuffed candle. Toby awoke from his trance to instant darkness, full of motion and sound and an icy wind. Starting to slide, he grabbed at the horse's mane with both hands. Falcon shrilled in terror, stopped dead, and sent its rider spinning through the air. He smashed to the turf with a jarring impact. The horse kicked and bucked for a few moments, then thundered away across the fields.

Toby lay and stared at the whirling moon. Where was he? How had he come there? The events in the cellar and his departure from the castle seemed like the most improbable of nightmares. He had watched himself from the outside, yet what he had seen was so sharp and clear in his mind that he could not doubt it. Obviously Lady Valda's conjuration had gone seriously awry, resulting in the escape of her stalwart victim, who now lay flat on his back and half stunned, somewhere in Strath Fillan.

The moon steadied in the sky — the clouds had almost gone and a pale misty ring in the sky told of frost. He felt cold seeping into his body. It brought welcome relief from a collection of aches and pains he could not begin to catalogue. He might have just lain there, slowly freezing into a blessed numbness, had not his teeth begun to chatter noisily. Grunting, he checked that all his limbs moved, that he was still breathing, if only just. He heaved himself upright and looked around. He saw stony pasture, silver with hoarfrost, but right ahead of him was the grove, with the jagged spire of Lightning Rock glittering in the moonlight.

Well, of course! Although he was already shivering hard enough to fall apart, Toby laughed aloud. That was what had gone wrong with Lady Valda's conjuration — she had been messing with the witchwife's little lad! The hob had taken offense at a demon intruding in its glen. The hob had intervened. It had demolished her gramarye, brought the boy home. He had Granny Nan to thank, undoubtedly, but he must thank the hob itself, too. He had money now, so he could buy it some shiny trinket as a token of his gratitude.

First, he must head for the cottage. Even if the soldiers came looking for him again — and that was by no means certain — they could not possibly arrive soon. No mortal rider would travel as fast as he just had. That had not been Toby Strangerson on the horse.

He was a mortal man again now, though, and he had urgent troubles: biting cold for one, outlawry for another. He was still liable to be hanged for murder, and when the carnage in the dungeon was discovered, he could expect to be impaled as a demon, as well. Most urgent of all was the loathsome sigil on his chest. He supposed that it must be the demon's way of identifying him, or its password for entry. He had no wish to be repossessed. Tearing up handfuls of frosty grass, he wiped at the bloodstains until the marks were well smeared and the sign was illegible. If demonology was at all logical, then that ought to block any effort by the demon to return. He found two shallow cuts, but they were nothing to worry about.

Standing upright was.

Even when he was on his feet, it took more effort to straighten. He had lost his bonnet when the Sassenachs threw him onto the horse's back, and now he had lost his pin as well. Pulling his plaid over arms and shoulders, he set off around the copse at a stumbling run.

Granny Nan had said she was leaving. Whether or not she had gone, the door would not be locked, for it had no lock. He could blow up the fire or light another. From the position of the moon, sunrise was still a few hours off. He had a small start on the inevitable hue and cry. The Sassenachs would be looking for a man on horseback until Falcon calmed down and went home or was found in the morning. They might not come looking for him at Granny Nan's right away. He felt light-headed and battered, as if he'd fought two bouts in quick succession. What he needed most was sleep, about three days' solid sleep. Or a square meal and then sleep. If he ever sat down — if he ever got warm again — he would just fall over and snore. In the morning the soldiers would find him there, still snoring.

Would the soldiers come looking for him? Lady Valda had been killed or stunned. The cellar was full of evidence of her black art. Two of her adherents had been slain, chains snapped, an iron gate mangled like a string bag. An untrained farm lad had taken the wildest horse in the stable and ridden off bareback—there was real gramarye! The castle would be in an uproar of terror.

He wondered if Lady Valda was now shackled in the dungeon in his stead. It was an appealing thought, if not a very probable one. Lady Valda might be dead. Or Lady Valda might be alive and using more gramarye to reassert her control over the laird and the garrison. Did she still have a need for the stalwart young man? Spirits knew! To try and outguess the hexer was ridiculous. Or outguess a demon, either. Blocked in its efforts to possess Toby, it might have settled for Lady Valda. He did not even know if there were male and female demons, or whether it mattered. There were all sorts of possibilities.

Assume, though, that Lady Valda was not in control. What would the laird do to counter an outbreak of diabolism in the glen? He would believe the witnesses who had seen the demon ride off in Toby Strangerson's body, so he would order it hunted down and an iron spike driven through its heart. Most likely he would also send to a sanctuary — Dumbarton or Fort William or even Glasgow — for an adept to come and exorcise the castle. Whether the exorcism would succeed, of course, was another matter. Cowshed or palace, if a demon took up residence in a place, it usually had to be abandoned. Many a deserted ruin in the Highlands testified to the truth of that.

Even from Fort William, an acolyte would not arrive for a few days. In the short term, the laird would seek advice closer to hand. The local authority in such matters was the glen's witchwife, Granny Nan.

Toby decided that the situation held some interesting irony.

But he still had not solved the problem of where he could seek refuge, or even hide out until another night gave him a slim chance of escaping from the glen. He was an outlaw, a murderer, and credibly believed possessed. No one would dare shelter him. He bore the scars of fetters on his ankles and neck; he had rusty metal cuffs on his wrists.

He wondered if he was still under the protection of the hob. Its influence would not extend beyond the limits of the glen, and it might have forgotten about him already. Hobs were fickle, not to be trusted. All the same, it was a hope to cling to. It was all he had.

Twigs crackled underfoot as he neared the door. Then his heart lurched. Dismay! Moonlight shone on wraiths of smoke coiling up from the chimney — far more smoke than would come from any fire Granny Nan ever set. She must have company, or intruders.

For a moment he dithered in despair. Then he decided that whoever had come visiting, it could not be the English. If it was a bunch of Campbell neighbors and they decided to turn him in, then he could have a little enjoyable exercise. He limped over to the door, lifted the latch, and ducked in under the lintel.

There was no one there. The extravagant fire crackled and sparked, shedding a joyful light. The warmth of it reached out to him like a lover's arms, or what he supposed lovers' arms would feel like. But there was no one there. He shuffled across to the hearth and eased himself to the floor. At once he began to shiver and shudder and break out all over in more goosebumps than he would have believed possible. He rubbed his feet, trying to work some life back into them.

Granny Nan's chair was empty. Her bed was empty. The bundle she had prepared for him lay in the corner where he slept. Nothing seemed to be missing: the kettle on the ingle, the two black pots hung by the chimney, the crocks on their shelf, the loom. A list of everything in the room would not fill one sheet of paper. Ah! Her bonnet hung on its peg, but her cloak was gone. And his bonnet was hung in its place! That was the most welcome sight he had seen all night. Granny Nan must have found it after the soldiers left. But where could she be?

She had said she was going away. None of the villagers were rich, but they cherished their witchwife. She had pulled most of them from their mothers' wombs. She had tended their sicknesses. If she had announced that she needed care in her last years, then someone would have agreed to take her in, no question. Someone would have come with a cart to fetch her — Iain the miller, or Rae the butcher, or someone.

Someone had put logs on the fire not very long ago, someone accustomed to burning peat or broom, not wood, so perhaps the glen had a new witchwife. Until tonight Granny Nan had never mentioned choosing a successor, but she had been acting so strange these last few months… Other women had taken over the midwifery. The glen did not lack for widows. One of them must have agreed to serve.

She would not have gone far without her bonnet. The logical conclusion was that she had slipped over to visit the hob — perhaps introducing the new witchwife, or inducting her, doing whatever was required. She was taking a long time about it. Toby must go and find her.

He should also find the salve she used for scrapes and cuts, but he lacked the energy to move. His thawing limbs ached and throbbed, which was the penalty for coming back to life. He was also starting to feel intensely sleepy. His eyelids were as heavy as rocks. He must not sleep! He turned around to roast his back and stretch his legs. First, he must find another pin for his plaid, and he thought Granny Nan had a spare somewhere. Then find her and thank the hob. Then decide where to run and start running. The idea was an impossibility, but his only alternative was death.

He was still facing the door when it opened and the men came in with drawn swords. Their eyes were filled with the same hatred and accusation he had seen earlier that night in the eyes of the soldiers.

CHAPTER SIX

Plaid-clad Campbells crowded the cottage. The first in was Iain Miller, faintly coated in flour so that he seemed like a fat ghost in the firelight. His plump hand looked absurd holding a sword, but that same hand had wielded that same blade at Leethoul with deadly effect. No eyes more deserved to be called piggy, but they glinted with the same dangerous shrewdness as a boar's.

Behind him came Eric Smith, who was broader but shorter, whose arms shamed even Toby's. No one would question his right to hold a sword — his hand was crooked and twisted from long years of hammering, but the smith was the strongest man in the glen. He had been bareknuckle champion for ten years and could still be, if he wished. When words led to deeds, it was usually Eric who took the combatants by the scruffs of their necks and dunked them in the burn.

Then came Rae Butcher… bushy black brows, shaggy black mustache, usually a hearty smile and a joyous greeting, but somber now.

These three were understandable, for they were the unofficial leaders, men who would take charge whenever there was trouble that did not involve the laird — especially in these troubled times when the laird was a stranger and a suspect traitor. Toby thought of them as Brains, Brawn, and Blarney.

Surprisingly, there was a fourth: the peg-legged Kenneth Tanner, leaning on his cane. Nobody thought much of that souse, so why was he here?

Toby pulled up his knees and dragged his plaid over his shoulder again, resisting the temptation to stand. He was taller than any of them. They were armed; down on the floor he was less likely to provoke violence.

"What's happened?" he demanded sharply. "Where's Granny Nan?"

"Suppose you tell us," Iain Miller said.

Toby raised his hands to show the manacles. "I don't know! I escaped. I just got back here."

"The Sassenachs did not take her?"

"Of course not! Even English must know better than to meddle with a witchwife."

"Then where is she?"

"I don't know. She was here when I left. She said she was going away, that someone was coming to fetch her." With rising panic, Toby stared at the blankly accusing faces. "She knew I would have to leave the glen. I thought someone in the village…"

"News to me," the miller said.

Fear touched Toby with icy fingers. If there was to be a change of witchwife in the glen, these men would know of it. He began to rise, and again decided to stay where he was. They did not trust him any more than he trusted them. "Tell me what happened!"

Fat Iain glanced uncertainly at his companions, but none of them offered any help. "We came looking for you, but we were too late. We saw the horses' tracks. We decided to talk with the witchwife. She wasn't here. We've been waiting, looking…" He wasn't close to the fire, yet his fat face was moist. Iain Miller was worried half out of his wits.

"She'll be with the hob!"

"She's a long time about it."

"Did you go to the grotto?" It was a foolish question. They would not have dared. That was what witchwives were for. Hobs were touchy and unpredictable.

"We called out," the smith muttered. "She didn't answer."

"I'll go see, then," Toby said. Granny Nan took him to visit the hob sometimes — or she had when he was a child. He could assume that he was in its favor since it had saved him from Lady Valda's demon. He must go and thank it for its help anyway.

"Just tell us how you came back," the miller demanded suspiciously.

Toby scrambled to his feet and the men backed away from his fury. Right there by the fire, the roof was just high enough to let him stand upright. Groggy with fatigue, he leaned a hand against the chimney to steady himself and glared down at them all.

"I told you!" he shouted. "I escaped! They accused me of killing a soldier. I admitted it. They locked me up. I broke out. Are you suggesting I did something to Granny Nan? That's crazy! No one can have hurt her!"

He saw the answer in their eyes. No one could harm the witchwife — not here, so near to the hob — except perhaps Toby himself. He, too, lived close to the hob's grotto. Perhaps in their minds he had taken on some of the uncanniness that hung around those who consorted with elementals. In the last few years the orphan bastard had shot up to become the biggest man in the glen. Today he had killed a soldier, and yet here he was, home again.

Swords or not, they were frightened of him.

He gripped hard on his temper. "Well? If you're accusing me of something, say so. Yes, I killed a Sassenach tonight, and I don't care overmuch. What else is bothering you?"

The men exchanged unsure glances, like children in school when the teacher behaves unpredictably. Toby waited for one of them to ask about the blood on his chest, but he had so many other scrapes that the smears escaped notice.

"I think he's telling the truth," Rae Butcher announced loudly.

Smith and miller nodded with less confidence.

Tanner scowled. "I want to know how a man escapes from Lochy Castle." His voice was slurred.

Toby could not, must not, tell them how he had escaped. If they even suspected he was possessed, they would run a sword through his heart instantly, probably three swords. He tried to invent a plausible explanation and realized that there wasn't one. "I stole a horse." That was the best he could do.

Pause… Then the smith chuckled. "Before that? Rusty chains and the second best shoulders in the glen, I'm thinking." He was trying to break the tension.

"What do you mean second best?" asked the butcher. "I know quality beef when I see it."

The smith and the miller laughed very heartily. They all sheathed their swords. Toby Strangerson had been found not guilty in his second trial of the night — for the time being, at least — and now everyone was friends and everything was sweet and beautiful… for the time being.

"Stole a horse?" The miller's lardy face rolled itself into a smile. "Good for you! We're not accusing you of anything, lad, except being a true Scotsman, and Sassenachs' horses are another fine tradition in the glen, I'm thinking. We're all proud of what you did tonight!"

Oh, really?

The fat man turned to the tanner. "Kenneth? You have something to say to this man?"

"Aye." The flabby tanner lurched forward on his wooden leg. He stuck his melancholy face up at Toby's. It needed shaving and it brought a strong odor of liquor. "Thank you," he said sourly. "We're real grateful, the wife and me. And Meg herself, of course." He thrust out a hand, which Toby stared at uncomprehendingly.

"It was a brave deed," Rae boomed, "worthy of a Campbell."

Oh, that? One of the better murders! Toby shook the tanner's hand without enthusiasm. "Any man would have done the same." Why should they expect him to be different?

"Not any man, only a very brave one."

Brave was stupid. He did not trust their sudden change of heart. What were they doing here anyway? Where was Granny Nan? "You said you came here looking for me? Why?"

He put the question to the miller, but with the swords out of the way, the slick-tongued butcher had taken over. He rubbed his gorse-bush mustache. "To help you, of course. To get you away before the Sassenachs catch you."

Or to hand him over before the English began reprisals for Forrester's death? Toby Strangerson was not fool enough to expect help from the glen. It had never shown him any affection in the past.

"And just how do you expect to achieve that? They'll take hostages."

Rae Butcher raised his thick brows. "Then they'll regret it! They're outnumbered twenty to one. We have friends we can call on. Don't worry about that, lad."

"They'll watch the roads, send word—"

"We've made arrangements," said the miller.

"I don't think I like the sound of that."

The men rolled eyes at one another.

"Annie Bridge," the butcher explained soothingly. "She'll put you up until dark. We'll have a guide to get you out by ways the English don't know." He smiled knowingly. "And there's a noble lord who can use good fighting men."

Toby took the statements one at a time. Annie had lost her husband at Leethoul and sons at both Norford Bridge and Parline. No one hated the Sassenachs more than Annie did. If he could trust anyone, he could trust Annie. Her croft stood near to the mouth of Glen Orchy, which was supposed to be blocked by impassable bog and implacable bogy. If there was a safe way through that, then the English were not the only ones who had never heard of it. The lord was Fergan, of course. Because the village bastard had killed an Englishman they assumed he wanted to join the rebels. He had not intended to kill Godwin. He had done what he did because of Meg, not for King Fergan. He had better not go into that.

They were the laird's men, but he would have to trust them, or at least pretend to trust them. He could not hope to escape from the glen if these men turned against him. They might support a Sassenach-killer, a potential rebel recruit, but by morning the details of his escape from the cell would be common knowledge. Their sudden enthusiasm for Toby Strangerson would not extend to a resident demon.

"Young Hamish's going, too," the butcher said. "He was with you when it happened, so the Sassenach bast — the Sassenach scum, I mean. They may pick on him."

Something nudged the back of Toby's mind until he remembered young Hamish's bright-eyed appeal on the way to Bridge of Orchy: Take me with you. The boy might hang on the same gibbet yet.

"He's a good kid," he said, and realized that to these men he was only a kid himself.

"And Meg, too," Tanner mumbled. "The wife's having fits."

Considering the ordeal she had endured in her youth, Elly Tanner had every right to throw a few hysterics over her daughter's narrow escape, but even so… "You don't think they'll take it out on Meg?" Toby protested.

"It's a hard world, lad," the miller said cynically. "Not the laird, of course. But it's best for the lass to leave."

Not the laird, nor even Captain Tailor, but some of Godwin Forrester's friends might seek out the girl and see she got what she had missed.

"Elly has family over Oban way," Tanner stated, with the exaggerated precision of a drunk who had realized he was slurring his words. "Vik will see Meg there safely."

Fat Vik?

"Oh, no!" Toby straightened up and felt his hair brush the roof. "You let me near Vik Tanner and there'll be another murder in the glen."

He must have looked as if he meant it, because the men made shocked noises and began to protest. He didn't hear. He was remembering what had started all the trouble and his blood froze in his veins. Where was Granny Nan? It wasn't possible, was it? The hob would have protected her?

Apparently they were waiting for him to put it into words.

"That lout gave Crazy Colin a knife — on the night of the full moon, too! He set him onto killing me."

Vik's father yelled, "No! That's not true!" The accusation had not surprised him, though, and the other men shrugged. Why had they brought him here? How likely was it that the tanner would limp all this distance just to shake Toby's hand?

"It is true. That's what your daughter came to tell me. That's why she came to the castle — because of your precious son! And where is Granny Nan all this time? Out of my way!" He pushed past them to look in Granny Nan's sewing bag, where he might find a spare pin for his plaid.

"Kenneth," said the smith, "the fewer people who go, the better. You could trust Strangerson to see your girl safely to her cousins in Oban, yes?"

Silence. Toby had tipped the bag out on the clay floor, but now he looked up. The men were waiting on the tanner, and even in the shadows, he seemed to have been shocked sober.

"You'd take good care of her, lad?" he said uncertainly.

The night grew madder and madder. Yes, it would be a good idea for Meg to disappear until the affair blew over and that no-good half-brother of hers would be worse than useless anyway. But to trust her to a murderer and a hunted outlaw… Of course, if they were asking whether he would take advantage of the child, then the answer was easy. "I'd guard her like a sister, but…"

The tanner nodded and looked away.

"That's arranged, then?" the miller said.

"Aye." Tanner nodded. Then he added, apparently more to himself than anyone else, "I'm thinking I got the wrong one."

The smith grinned at the butcher and the miller smiled knowingly. If that was a joke, Toby had missed the point completely: wrong what?

He found the pin and rose to adjust his plaid. Again he pushed by the visitors — the cottage was cramped when there was only him in it. He knelt to unpack the bundle Granny Nan had made up for him, wrapped in a square of tartan. He found his razor in there, his tinderbox, a metal pan, a knife, a new bonnet that she'd promised to make for him, a pair of gloves he had not seen before, a bag of meal, a lump of salt — and her little leather purse. It was fatter than he remembered, surprisingly heavy. He pulled the drawstring and took a look. He had given her what he'd been earning in the castle all summer, but he'd had to buy a new belt, and the rest could not amount to this much. Here was Bossie, and the poultry, and a lifetime's savings. Some of it was his, though, and probably all of it, because she wanted him to have it, because she had no use for money and he was going to. He slipped the two shiniest coppers into his sporran, then rolled the bag up in the cloth with the other treasures.

"Come on!" he said, and ducked out the door ahead of the village elders.

CHAPTER SEVEN

He was stiff and his feet still hurt from his walk to Bridge of Orchy. He limped slowly along the path, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, letting the other men keep up. The moon was low in the west, still encircled by her misty wreath. His breath smoked in the cold.

He had never visited the hob by night. He could have brought a torch, of course, but fire would get the hob excited. The hob was excited easily, especially by thunderstorms. Any storm that visited Strath Fillan inevitably spent most of its time there directly over Lightning Rock, blasting trees and the rock itself in a continuous orgy of fire and sound, rolling echoes off the hills. For days afterward, milk would sour all over the glen, calves be stillborn, children fall sick, until the witchwife could get the hob calmed down again. A few weeks later, it would become annoyed at the blackened trunks disfiguring its grove; then it would let Granny Nan have them for firewood and she would send Toby to chop them down.

One of the men coughed nervously. Toby realized that they were at the copse itself.

"Why don't you wait here?" That was what he was supposed to say.

"Well… If you don't need us?" Miller said, feigning reluctance.

"Just one of us might be best. Don't want to make it snarly."

They all agreed it would not do to make the hob snarly.

Toby went on alone, climbing the narrow path. He wondered if the hob would be more or less visible by night than it was by day. The most he had ever seen of it was a faint silver shimmer, a sort of glow in the trees, as if all the leaves were twinkling and the air was sweeter. Usually it stayed in its grotto, but sometimes it would come and watch him chop wood. Very rarely, he had detected it elsewhere in the glen. It never spoke to him, only to the witchwife. He was not at all sure that it could speak to anyone else, or that anyone would understand it if it did. He suspected that it had very little intelligence in any human sense. Granny Nan rarely talked about the hob, even to him. She sang to it, and gave it pretty things, and kept it happy.

The path ended abruptly. Granny Nan was quite obviously not there. Directly ahead, a shaft of moonlight illuminated the side of Lightning Rock and the little open crack that was the hob's grotto.

Toby knelt down on the moss. He bent his head, glancing around surreptitiously. He saw nothing, except bright things twinkling inside the hole — offerings of pretty stones, mostly. People with troubles would bring little offerings to Granny Nan and she would take them to the hob and pass on the requests: Gerda Murray's cow is drying up… the pain in Lachlan Field's back keeps him from earning his bread…

He decided to begin by introducing himself, just in case it did not remember him. "I am Toby Strangerson, the boy from the cottage, the witchwife's boy." He felt oddly stupid, as if he were talking to himself. "I am very grateful to you for saving me from the demon tonight, and bringing me home safely." Almost safely — no bones broken, anyway.

He fumbled for the two coins, and found something small and sharp also. He remembered that Granny Nan had given him a pretty stone. He left the pebble in his sporran and brought out the money.

"I brought these for you. I hope you like them." He tossed them into the grotto. They clinked on the gravel.

Silence. No sound, no wind. Nothing.

He was suddenly quite certain that the hob was not there. He was talking to himself.

Somewhere a twig cracked.

His heart jumped madly. He peered around, waited, heard nothing.

"We can't find Granny Nan." He spoke faster. "We are worried about her, because she is frail and the night is cold. Will you lead me to her, please? Or send her home?"

Behind him, somebody chuckled.

He was on his feet in an instant, staring into the darkness, aware that he must be visible against the patch of moonlight. His heart thumped in his chest… Dum… Dum… Somebody sniggered, giggled.

Crazy Colin!

Crazy Colin Campbell was here in the grove, and he would still have the knife.

Shift…

The trunks of the trees gleamed with a frosty light, every leaf and twig clearly visible. The mad drum beat steady time. Off to the left, Granny Nan's body was a tiny crumpled heap in the shrubbery. A man was creeping up the path, knife glittering, teeth bared in an ecstasy of blood lust. He could not hear the drummer, could not see the eerie blue glow.

The husky boy stepped into shade, out of the moonlight. While he watched the killer come, he gripped the rusty bangle on his left wrist, pulled at it until the lock snapped. He tossed it away.

The man jumped and peered around to see where the sound had come from.

The boy worked on the right cuff. That was harder. Blood oozed from his wrist before the foul thing yielded. This time the madman heard the breaking and located the noise. He started forward again, panting with excitement and making little circles in the air with the point of his knife.

When he was within reach, the waiting boy shot out a hand to grip the knife arm; he took the man by the throat with the other. He squeezed until the arm bones crumbled and the blade fell to the ground. Then he crushed the lunatic's throat as a man might crack a flea, watching him die — eyes bulging, mouth open, making no sound audible through the relentless, all-pervading rhythm: Dum… Dum… Later he tossed the twitching corpse away like an empty eggshell.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Granny Nan had been dead for hours. Her body was cold and stiff, and it weighed no more than a bundle of branches. Toby cradled it in his arms as he strode down the path, trying not to see the loathsome gash across her throat, black with dried blood.

He went by the waiting men without pause, heading for the cottage, hearing them muttering angrily among themselves as they followed. Quick though he was, they would have seen the tears coursing down his cheeks. It was shameful for a grown man to weep, but he hardly cared.

A murderer weeping? He had killed again. For the fourth time in one night his hands had killed, and this time he had slain the wrong man. The corpse stiffening in the copse should be Fat Vik, not Colin. Crazy Colin had been born faulty. Whether that was the hob's doing or mere chance, it had certainly not been Crazy Colin's choice. The terror and slaughter at Norford Bridge had spoked his wheels completely, yet the war had not been his fault either. The guilt was Vik's, who had put the knife in his fist.

Who had slain Crazy Colin? Toby Strangerson or the demon? He could no longer deny that he had a demon in his heart. He could no longer believe that the hob had saved him in the dungeon. That had not been the hob taking him over just now to commit another murder, for the hob worked more directly. When the soldiers' drums had annoyed it, the men had been felled by cramps. Years ago, a wandering tinker had tried to chop firewood in the copse; his ax had turned in his hand, slashing his leg, and he had bled to death. Stealing another mortal's body to be executioner was demon stuff, not the hob's style.

The drumming heart and the ghostly blue light were symptoms of the demon. It had taken control of Toby in the castle and led him safely home, but it had not abandoned him then; it had merely dropped the reins for a while. When danger loomed again, it had reasserted its control. The demon must be just as concerned with Toby Strangerson's well-being as he was himself, because now they shared the same body. Crazy Colin had been a threat, so the demon had killed him. It had solved the problem and again withdrawn, like a man turning a warhorse loose in the pasture to frolic and graze. When next the trumpet sounded, the rider would mount the steed once more.

Whose man was he now? He belonged to a demon.

He had sensed that the hob was absent — had it fled when his demon approached its grotto? But then why had it not saved Granny Nan earlier? Perhaps it had known of Lady Valda's arrival and quit the glen altogether. Useless to try and guess… no mortal could understand an elemental.

So twice Toby Strangerson had been possessed. The demon had overlooked the manacles the first time. It must have learned from his thoughts that they would be a problem, so it had disposed of them, knowing that he could not do so by himself. Therefore the demon knew what he was thinking and doing, even when he was not aware of its presence. It was doubtless reading his mind even now, chortling to itself in whatever fashion demons showed mirth. It was learning. It was growing more proficient at using the human body it had stolen.

What would happen next? Who would he kill next? What horrors might he find himself committing? He ought to cut his own throat first, or turn himself in for impalement. Men possessed often took their own lives — like the gravedigger's apprentice in Oban two years ago, who had run amok with a mattock, butchering women and children. They'd found him in bed with his wrists slashed. Could Toby Strangerson do that? Would his hands obey him if he tried? Would suicide be release, or just a victory for the demon?

He kicked the cottage door open, hearing the latch splinter. The fire had crumbled to embers, but his eyes were well adjusted to darkness. There was enough light for him to carry Granny Nan over to the bed and lay her there. He sank to his knees, laid his head on his arms, and let the sobs come until he gasped for breath and his throat ached.

The door thumped shut at his back.

"Go away!"

"No, lad," said the smith. "It is you who must go."

Toby looked around angrily. Old Eric stood there as solid as his own anvil, but the others had remained outside. Shrewd! If Toby had to trust one of them, it would be this one; they had known that.

"We'll see that she is laid to rest," the big man growled, "and the hob will care for her soul. She's been dead a long while. No one will blame you for it."

No, it had not been Toby's hand holding the knife, but if he had heeded Granny Nan's warning, if he had avoided the fight with Forrester, if he had hidden out in the copse instead of letting the soldiers take him… any of those ifs and he could have been here to save her from Crazy Colin.

Why had the hob not defended her, or at least warned her? Why, after all these years, had it proved so fickle?

The other death did not matter. The madman's body would not be found for months or years. No one would mourn Colin, and likely the killing would be attributed to the hob's vengeance anyway.

"The Sassenachs will come soon." Smith moved closer. "Can you make it as far as Annie's, lad? Or must we fetch a donkey?"

Toby on a donkey? He heaved himself to his feet, although the effort took every fragment of strength he had left. He leaned his head against a rafter for support, feeling its cold roughness. "I'm not a child! I can walk!"

"Then go. Take your bundle and—" The smith's hand flashed out and seized Toby's wrist.

Toby tried to jerk away, but the man's grip was as tight as his smithy tongs. For a moment they faced off, the two best sets of shoulders in the glen, jaws set… Then the younger man yielded. He would not have been taking the weight-lifting crown this year.

"You're bleeding!" The smith peered at the scrapes. "The hob's doing?"

The hob had not been there, but to say so would provoke unanswerable questions.

"You think I pulled them off by myself?"

Pause for thought… then Eric released him. "No. No man could do that." His scarred and weathered face peered up at Toby appraisingly. "You have been working strange wonders tonight, lad."

Toby looked down at the tiny body on the bed. "Not wonders enough," he whispered.

A heavy hand squeezed his shoulder. "She had more time than most. She was old when I was a pup and when my father was, too. The glen will miss her. She did not say who was to care for the hob after she had gone?"

"No. She said someone would, but she did not say who."

"Well, we'll find out in good time, I'm thinking. Go to Annie, now. She's expecting you, and it's almost dawn already. Stay on the dirt as much as you can, boy, so you don't leave tracks in the frost. We'll get you safely out of the glen."

There was something that should be said now. Oh, yes. "Thank you." Why was that such an effort? Why did he feel so resentful for their help?

"It is we who are grateful," the smith said. "You raised your fist to a swordsman. Courage is a fine thing in a man, but by rights you should have died, lad. Even big men bleed. Don't make a habit of being reckless. Play the odds when you can."

A Campbell of Fillan counseling discretion? Truly, the skies would be full of flying pigs tomorrow. There was nothing more to say. Toby stooped and went to fetch his bundle. As an afterthought, he found Granny Nan's jar of salve. Then he headed for the door. Annie's croft was close to Bridge of Orchy. He could walk another couple of hours without dying of exhaustion; it was no worse than prizefighting.

As he bent for the lintel, the smith said, "May good spirits care for you, Toby of Fillan."

He stopped and looked around, leaning against the jamb. He could still dredge anger from his pit of fatigue, and his resolve had been forged long since. "Oh, no! I will have a new name. I will make my own name in the world, Master Campbell. But it will never be that one."

The big man's jaw clenched at this affront to his beloved glen. "Choose what name you want, then, bastard. Will you have the world love it or hate it?"

"Fear it!" Toby said, leaving his birthplace forever.