Demon Sword

CHAPTER ONE

Annie Bridge was one of four Annie Campbells in the glen. Her cottage was among the largest, with two sizable rooms. Here she had raised three strapping sons after her husband died at Leethoul. When King Fergan had abjured his allegiance to the English in 1511, the oldest had marched off to avenge his father. When Fergan had escaped from captivity in London in 1516 and returned to the Highlands to light the beacon on the hills again, the other two had followed the laird to Parline Field. For the last three years, Annie had lived alone.

She was a gaunt, white-haired woman with all the softness and compassion of a grindstone. Her face and hands were dried to brown leather by a lifetime's toil and weather. She was stooped but unbending, and she peered menacingly at the world as if daring it to try anything more. She detested the English with passion, and she would do anything at all for a man who had killed one of them. She was also an excellent cook.

Toby had slept, eaten, slept again, washed, and shaved. Every muscle in his body ached and his joints were stiff as gateposts. Normally he enjoyed that familiar feeling — it was a sign of growth and progress and greater strength in future. Now he could find no satisfaction in it. About this same time yesterday, he had prided himself on perfecting the powerful body he had been born with, but then he had watched his own hands crush the life out of men and twist iron bars like dough. Strength was no longer a virtue. The demon had made a mockery of his ambitions.

With sunset angering the western sky, he was eating another meal. The table in the front room held more food than even he could have consumed in a week, although Helga Burnside always told him he ate more than the entire Sassenach garrison. He felt very odd, struggling to come to terms with the sudden shift in his life. He kept picturing ice on a burn — the sudden thaw that turned a smooth white pavement into a foaming torrent. Toby Strangerson's world had just broken up like that, with him not very far across yet.

He should be mourning Granny Nan. He should be worrying about the demon in his heart, the English hunting him, the dangerous passage through Glen Orchy, even the rebels who were probably waiting to recruit him at the far end — and yet all he could feel was a shivering excitement that he was leaving the glen at last to seek his fortune in the world. He chewed, and he wondered.

Seated in the doorway to catch the light, Annie sewed with quick, deft strokes. She turned her head to see how he was faring. "Take more of that beef! And of the goose. The fat'll keep you warm in the hills."

Toby reached out to slice the beef. Fall was the best time of year for eating, the time when the cattle were slaughtered and even the poor could hope to eat meat. Annie snapped at him to stop being so picky, take a decent helping.

"I'll beggar you!" he protested.

For a fleeting moment, something lit her craggy face as a ray of sun on a snowy day turned drabness to diamonds. "Boy, you don't know what it means to me to feed a man again. It warms my old heart to see you put it away. Empty the board and I'll keep filling it gladly."

What was a man to do but keep eating?

Ask a few discreet questions with his mouth full?

For instance: "Any word from the castle?"

Annie lifted her work to her teeth and bit off a thread. "Aye. The Sassenachs have been in a pretty turmoil, I'm glad to say. They've put guards on the roads, and they're riding the hills."

Toby chewed for a while, waiting for more. Then he asked, "Not searching the village or threatening to take hostages?"

"Now why would they be doing that?" Annie raised a needle to eye level and squinted to thread it. "Why would they be looking in the village when there's a horse missing?"

"Oh. The horse hasn't been found?"

"Well, they've not thought to look under Murray MacDougal's bed yet."

Fortunately Toby was not trying to swallow anything just at that moment. He laughed. He laughed the laugh that Granny Nan always said was worse than a clap of thunder and would excite the hob. He felt guilty at being able to laugh already, with her not a full day dead yet.

If Falcon was still missing, then the Sassenachs must assume their quarry had ridden off to join the rebels. Annie's serene approval suggested that he might risk other, more dangerous questions.

"And how do they account for my escape from the dungeon?"

The old woman looked at him sharply. "You were there, weren't you?"

"But what I remember and what they tell may not walk hand in hand."

She nodded, stitching again. "It was that fool woman, they say — the one that wanted to hire you. She went down to the cells to persuade you to change your mind about entering her service." The old woman's voice changed timbre. "That's what they're saying she was after, and I don't want to hear any details if it's not the case. They say you knifed her. They're calling you a mad beast and very dangerous."

Toby chewed, marveling that he could speak so easily with old Annie. Usually his tongue froze solid when there were women nearby. He realized she had not mentioned any dead bodies in the dungeon.

"I don't hold with ladies being knifed," Annie added. "As a rule. But there's rules and there's rules, and if that one is what they say she is, then it's a true shame you didn't do a better job while you were at it."

So Valda had explained the wound in her breast. How had she accounted for the table, the scroll, the blood-stained bowl, and all the other gear of her gramarye? Perhaps she had hexed them out of sight, but what had become of the bodies… or had there been no bodies? Toby had brained one man and broken another's neck. His demon vision had seen the four as other than human, and the lack of mention of bodies was unwelcome confirmation. The bodies had recovered and walked away. If someone now broke Toby Strangerson's neck… would he do the same?

Again Annie bit a thread. "Here, try them on."

He rose and went to accept the trews she had been making. She ostentatiously turned her back to observe the sunset, but Toby turned his back, too. He removed his belt, letting his plaid hang from his shoulder while he pulled the trews on. The new tweed was pleasantly rough on his legs and came with its own fresh peaty smell, but he hated the thought of having to wear such a restrictive garment. He laced up the embarrassing flap in the front and then let Annie inspect the result.

"They're fine," he said. "Perfect fit. I don't know how to—"

"Bend over. Yes, they'll do. I wish there was time for me to make you a shirt, too, and a jerkin. Couldn't manage boots, of course…"

"You've done more than enough already. But you'll excuse me if I stay with the plaid for now?" He stepped by her and went outside, round to the back of the house in search of an area large enough to dress in.

He was unhappy at the thought of giving up his plaid. Legs and arms covered? Feet crammed into boots? But if he was going off to the Lowlands and other foreign parts, Annie had insisted, then he would have to dress like a Sassenach. The same idea had evidently occurred to others. Neighbors had delivered two shirts, a tabard, and a pair of boots — curiosities that had found their way to the glen years ago by one way or another and been lying in clothes chests ever since. None of them had come close to fitting him.

It was troubling — were these tributes rewards for killing Godwin Forrester, blood money? Or did the glen really care about Toby Strangerson after all? Likely he was just being handed his fare out of town and good riddance.

He returned with the trews over his arm. Annie took them as he returned to the table.

"I'll put them in with your things." She fussed with his bundle, which she seemed to have been adding to all day. "You'd best be putting this in your sporran for safekeeping." She dropped Grannie Nan's purse in front of him.

As he obeyed, his fingers found something in there already. He took it out and looked at it properly for the first time. It was clear and angular, one end broken and the other perfectly faceted, gleaming in rich purple — amethyst, obviously, for amethyst was common in the glen. A wandering tinker might pay a couple of pennies for a good crystal like that.

Annie's sharp eyes had noticed.

He tucked it away again quickly. "It was a present from Granny Nan. You know how she was always looking for pretty things to take to the hob, but lately she grew quite odd about it, worrying, hunting and hunting. And last night… saying good-bye… think she confused me with the hob… Just want to keep it for a while…" That was enough explanation. Annie wouldn't tell anyone, and why should it matter if she did? He took a very large bite of fresh bap, not as good as Granny Nan's, but quite adequate.

Annie nodded solemnly. "When Eric left, I gave him a new plaid. The old one's still hanging on the peg, waiting to be washed." She gathered up her sewing bag. She paused on her way by the table. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he mumbled. Her husband had died before Toby was born.

"You were giving me an awful funny look, Toby Strangerson!"

He felt his face redden from his chin to his hair. "I was just thinking that I never suspected you of being a sentimental person. And I was wondering why you told me about the plaid."

She went on her way, out of his sight. "You've got some growing up to do yet. You're a cynical lad, Toby. Understandable, of course. There's a sword ben the house that you are to take with you."

"Sword? I can't use a sword!"

She appeared at his side again, dangling a bucket in each hand. "And who's ever going to find out? The likes of you wearing a sword will not meet many challenges, I doubt. One look and they'll be tipping their hats to you. Old Bran Westburn sent it. He says it's drunk much English blood in its time, but it's getting thirsty again. So you'll take it. I'm off to milk."

"I can do that for you!"

"You stay here!" Annie snapped. "Eat until you can eat no more. Then take the sword and your bundle and be on your way like I said. We'll have no good-byes."

Toby started to rise.

"Eat!" she barked.

He sank back on the stool. He was completely full, but he reached for the meat again to please her. How to put his gratitude into words? He was a tangle-tongue, with no gift for speeches. "I don't know how to begin to—"

"Then don't. I want no thanks from you, Toby Strangerson." She paused in the doorway. "You're a nice enough lad, but I'm glad you're leaving, more glad than I can say. The whole glen will be cheering to see you gone and the only pity is that you aren't taking the no-good Vik Tanner with you. We'll get him out somehow, though, or some husband'll knife him, and that'll be all of you."

Stunned, he said, "All…?"

Her face was shadowed, but her voice was bitter as sloe berries. "Married off over the hills or wandered away. Don't you understand? You've been the shame of the glen all these years. Did no one ever tell you? Did you never hear of the Taming? Oh, they tamed us, I can tell you, tamed us well! All the strong young men had gone and few returned, but there were still men here. They had things between their legs, anyway, so they claimed to be men. But they didn't burn the castle when the Sassenachs took the women. After a month or so, when the English had tired of the six, they offered to exchange them. No grandmothers, they said, but we younger ones could take their place, spell them off. Do you suppose we lined up at the gates?"

He could only shake his head, his throat knotting painfully.

"You're very right!" Annie grew louder. "We didn't. Of course I had three wee ones to care for, so I couldn't go, could I now? We all had some excuse. Children. Husbands and fathers who locked us up. Who was going to be first to volunteer to be a harlot? Who wanted to satisfy a squad of Sassenachs every night? All those widows… but we all had excuses. Men and women both, we had our excuses. And this way there could only be six Sassenach bastards, no more. That was important. No more than six. Well, six there were of you, and every day since you were born, Toby Strangerson, the sight of you has been a cut across the eyes for us, a reminder of our shame, a reminder that we were too cowardly to help our own! So leave the glen. Take your rotten half-brother with you — I wish you would. When you've all gone, then perhaps we can start to forget."

She marched out the door with her buckets, firing a final shot: "I want no thanks from you." Then she had gone.

Toby rose. He had lost his appetite; he wanted no more of her hospitality on those terms. Providing a meal and some clothes was certainly easier than whoring for Sassenachs all winter.

It helped, though. He need feel no guilt for accepting help.

So much for the Campbells' friendship.

So much for their famous courage.

CHAPTER TWO

He was almost out the door when he decided that there could be no harm in looking at the sword. He went through to the other room. Annie had not picked a very good hiding place — he could see right away that there was something under the pallet. It would certainly not be very comfortable to sleep on. He knelt down and reached for it.

It was a two-handed broadsword, double-edged and almost as long as he was. It seemed both old and of poor quality, probably made right here in the glen. The guard was a simple crosspiece, and there was a weight on the pommel for balance. In the hands of a strong man it would have had value against a knight too much armored to move nimbly, but knights did not fight like that anymore. Nowadays the gentry stood behind the guns and directed the cannon. Even on a rainy day, when firearms were unreliable, a shield and short claymore or a musket with a bayonet would be a safer weapon. The blade was well nicked by use, but had been sharpened and greased recently, probably that very morning. The scabbard was a crude thing of wood and leather that looked ready to fall apart.

He had no use for a sword like that! It was heavier than a sack of oats. It would attract attention to him, and he was not much over a mile from the Sassenachs at Bridge of Orchy. Common sense told him to put it back where he had found it and leave without it, but the feel of the worn leather binding on the hilt and the sense of power as he hefted its weight sent shivers all through him and filled him with a hateful, irresistible longing. A blade like that would make him a man to reckon with — a big man with a big sword.

He slipped the strap over his shoulder. If he found it too heavy, he could always throw it away in the bog, yes? He slung his bundle over his other shoulder and walked out into the dusk.

There was no road where he was going. Beinn Inverveigh on his right and Beinn Bhreacliath on his left were masses of darkness against a stormy sky. Glen Orchy closed in around him, narrow and eerie. The moon would be up soon, but meanwhile he stumbled on the rough ground, stubbing his toes. He passed four or five cottages at a distance and twice dogs barked, but no one came to the doorways to wave. Now he knew what the Campbells thought of his departure—good riddance!

The feeling was mutual.

Going to see the world. Going to seek his fortune.

With a sword! Why did he covet that great blade so strongly? Was it Toby Strangerson who felt that way, or the demon? In a few minutes he would meet up with his companions. Then perhaps a thunder of diabolic heartbeat and his arms would take over, the sword would whistle through the air, slicing heads clean off. He ought to throw the horrible thing in a patch of bracken and go on without it.

He didn't — or couldn't.

He wondered why, during his two episodes of possession, he had heard his own heartbeat drowning out all other sounds. He was not normally conscious of his heart, although obviously it had been pumping away since his birth and would continue until the exact moment of his death. An immortal might find that constant thumping very strange, or even annoying. It was almost as if he had been forced to listen to what the demon heard. The cure for possession was a blade through the heart.

He heard a shout behind him and turned.

"Toby! Toby!" Hamish came staggering over the moor, slim and stooped under a pack almost as large as himself. "You keep your promises, Toby!" The boy's dark-tanned face was an excited gleam of eyes and teeth. He was panting with exertion or excitement.

No monster heartbeat; no sinister glow brightening the twilight… the sword stayed in its scabbard. Toby breathed again.

"I'll keep the one about the gallows, too." They fell into step, Toby shortening his stride. "I take it you're looking forward to this?"

"Oh, yes!" The kid gasped his agreement. "This is a real adventure, going off over the hills with you, Toby! Friends in adversity? We're outlaws together, aren't we! Mates?" He looked up hopefully.

As a friend, little Hamish would be less use than the broadsword. Hamish didn't want a friend, anyway; he wanted a hero. The sort of friend Toby needed was…

He didn't. Some men were strong enough to manage by themselves, so they had no need of friends. He was one of those men. He'd gotten along well with Hamish's brother Eric, but even they had never been close — no boy had wanted to be seen consorting with the bastard very often. Toby Strangerson had been a loner all his life, and he would stay that way.

Mustn't upset the kid, though. "Friends," he agreed.

With a sigh of relief, Hamish heaved his monstrous pack higher on his shoulders. "You worried about the bogy?"

"Not as long as you're with me."

Hamish chuckled with jittery glee, not realizing that Toby was serious. If the Campbells wanted to dispose of him by feeding him to the bogy, they would not have sent Hamish along.

"Where're you going, Toby?"

"I promised I'd see Meg as far as Oban. And you?"

"Pa says I must go and stay with Cousin Murray."

"Who's Cousin Murray?"

"Murray Campbell of Glen Shira. I'm to stay with him until Pa sends word that it's safe to come home. He sounds old and cranky, but Pa says he should have books. Pa met him once, years ago. Where are you going after Oban, though?"

"Try to get a boat there, I suppose." Toby tried to shrug, but the sword wouldn't let him and Hamish wouldn't see anyway. "After that, I don't know. Travel the world."

"You're not going to join the Black Feathers?" The boy sounded both shocked and disappointed.

Not if he could help it, Toby wasn't. The rebellion had been dragging on for years and showed no signs of success. The first thing he needed was an exorcism, and a town like Oban must have a sanctuary — but would the demon let itself be exorcised? If he tried to go there, would his feet obey him? Would his tongue explain the problem?

"The Sassenachs will be putting a price on your head, Pa says. How much do you think they'll… Not that anyone will take their silver, of course," Hamish added hastily, "but—"

"But it would be nice to know what I'm worth, you mean?"

"Pa says it might be as much as ten marks!" He sounded quite impressed that a friend of his would command a price that high. It was certainly more than the five shillings the steward had offered yesterday.

The moon was rising at their backs. The wind had fallen strangely silent. Glen Orchy was ominously still. Toby listened for the music he had been told to head for, but all he could hear was a trickle of the burn and Hamish's endless prattle…

"What?"

"Cousin Murray's the keeper," Hamish repeated.

"Keeper of a shrine? A holy man, then? An acolyte?"

"Sort of. A shrine isn't a sanctuary."

"But it has a tutelary?"

"Just a spirit." Hamish heaved his pack higher on his shoulders. He chuckled. "More than a hob."

The night was already cold. The ground was squashy underfoot. Not a breath of air moved, yet there was a sound… right at the limit of hearing, a lute was playing a plaintive melody. That was the sign they had been told to listen for, where they would meet with Meg Tanner and their unnamed guide. He veered toward it. If Vik was there with her, Toby would let his demon try out the sword. He shivered at his own black humor.

He was being unfair. He had been entrusted with two youngsters' lives, and he wasn't trustworthy any longer. He could not even rely on himself, so why expect them to? He ought to warn Hamish…

But he had not killed the boy on sight. He had not harmed those pompous village elders in the night, nor old Annie. So far his private demon had behaved itself when in well-behaved company. It had acted only when he was in danger — a curiously helpful and nonaggressive demon! If he told Hamish about it, Hamish would flee. He would run back and tell the whole glen. Then every man's hand would be against Toby Strangerson, not just the Sassenachs'. Did all traitors rationalize their betrayals so easily?

"What sort of work will you look for, Toby?"

"Needlework."

"You mean swords?"

"I mean needles. Embroidery."

"Eric used to say you had no sense of humor."

"That's not true! He did not say that!"

"He did," Hamish muttered, "but I think only when he'd just done something especially stupid that you hadn't joined in. I know he said you were the last man to take to a party and the first one to want in a tight spot."

Thinking that would make a fair epitaph, Toby said, "Ah! Listen!"

In the darkness ahead a woman was singing "The Flower of the Hill," with the lute weaving rainbows of music around her voice. It was a strangely moving sound in this lonely, haunted glen.

Wee Hamish Campbell was a walking library. Toby Strangerson was a muscle-bound dolt…

"You know, this must sound funny. I mean, I was raised by a witchwife, but I don't really know the difference between an adept and an acolyte, or a keeper of a shrine. Granny Nan never spoke of such things."

"Don't suppose she knew. I mean, I'm not trying to—"

"Granny Nan never read a book in her life."

"And reading is all I have ever done!" Hamish's laugh was a nervous twitter of sparrows. "An adept is someone who has studied the occult. I suppose acolytes are adepts, too, but usually 'adept' is used in the bad sense, like the black arts. A witchwife like Granny Nan wouldn't know any ritual or gramarye. She just kept the hob happy. Self-taught. A natural."

Like Toby Strangerson swinging a broadsword, as opposed to a trained fencer like Captain Tailor. "You mean a spirit is a hob, but bigger, sort of?"

"Sort of." Sounding uneasy, Hamish dropped his voice. "A hob's an elemental — mischievous, unpredictable. The books say that a spirit is… bigger, I suppose. Benevolent. A tutelary has a sanctuary, with acolytes and worshipers making offerings. A shrine is in between, with a keeper or two. People make pilgrimages to shrines, though, if the spirit is well thought of."

Toby sounded them in his mind: hobs, spirits, tutelaries. Witchwives, keepers, acolytes. Grotto, shrine, sanctuary. Elementals, adepts. Demons, hexers… were these all just words in the night? Could they ever mean anything to an ignorant country lad?

"And demons?"

"They're bad!"

"I know that. Are they much the same, though? Bad spirits?"

Still the woman and her lute sang of sorrow and loneliness in the night. She had a gorgeous clear voice. Toby had never dreamed that his guide would turn out to be a woman.

Hamish had been thinking, anxious to impress his big friend, flattered by his attention. "There's differences. An acolyte worships and tends a tutelary, just like a witchwife and her hob — serves it. Hexers compel demons and use gramarye to force them to do their bidding. Any spirit is local, whether it's a tutelary or just a hob. Demons are not attached to one place. Well, sometimes they are. Mostly demons are attached to things."

"Or people?" Toby said.

"Sometimes people, yes — husks, they're called, or creatures. More often jewels, though. I read in a book that hexers imprison demons in jewels."

That explained Lady Valda's dagger.

"Thanks, Littledirk. You know something?"

"What?" Hamish asked warily.

"You've taught me as much in the last minute as your Pa did in five years of schooling."

Hamish chuckled, much pleased. "More, I expect, from the way he still talks about you."

CHAPTER THREE

Two people sat on a boulder in the moonlight. The small one, with her hair dangling in two long braids below her bonnet and bare feet showing under the pleats of her dress, was easily recognizable as Meg.

The second was a youngish man of no great height but notably wide shoulders. He had a clean-shaven face with a high, angular nose. The sword at his belt was a basket-handled short claymore, nothing like Toby's cumbersome broadsword. He wore a tartan shirt under his plaid; he had on hose and shoes. He stood up, still holding his lute.

As there was no one else present, the singer must have been Meg Tanner. Toby was surprised, yet not sure why — so strong a voice from so small a person, perhaps.

"Campbells are the most notorious liars in all Scotland," the man announced cheerfully. "They said you were big."

"I'm not?"

"Understatement can be carried to deceptive extremes. Still, you are the chivalrous chevalier who saved the damsel and slaughtered the unsavory Sassenach, so I will shake your hand."

Toby left his fists at his sides, not sure what to make of this stranger in the night. His voice was an odd mixture of Highland burr and English drawl. The fancy words indicated that he was not an ignorant peasant — and implied that Toby was.

"Sir, I'll shake your hand when I know who you are."

"Names can be dangerous. I have several." The stranger chuckled and glanced at Meg as if sharing a joke, meanwhile removing his bonnet to scratch at a head of sandy hair braided at the back into a stubby pigtail. The move was slickly done, for when he replaced the bonnet and adjusted it, whatever emblem he had been wearing on it had disappeared. "How about 'Rory'? Rory MacDonald of Glencoe. Will that satisfy you, Toby Strangerson?"

It had better. There was nothing uncommon about sporting an emblem to show whose man you were, but Toby had a niggling half-recollection that in Rory's case it had been a silver badge. A silver badge meant either a chief or heir to a chief.

Toby accepted the handclasp. Of course, what Rory MacDonald wore in a deserted glen at night and what Rory MacDonald dared to wear in daylight might not be peas from the same pod. His palm was smooth, but there was no frailty in his grip. He studied Toby's face for a moment with steady pale eyes, then turned to his companion. "What by the demons of Delia have you got there, boy? Been looting the castle, have you?"

Hamish had lowered his burden to the ground with grunts of relief. "Food, sir, mostly. Clothes. Ma thought—"

"Mothers always do. You'll sink out of sight with that load. A true Highlander carries one day's rations and nothing more, so throw all the rest away." He aimed an arrogant finger at the broadsword. "And you, Strangerson? What foul monstrosities are you planning to slaughter with that thing?"

"Lutists."

MacDonald stared at Toby for several seconds before making a small noise that might indicate amusement or just surprise. "Well, I suppose you can handle the weight. We'll be wading, remember."

Toby had concluded that he did not like Rory MacDonald of Glencoe. He turned to Meg, who was standing beside him — quite close beside him, eyes downcast. "Hello, Meg."

She looked up eagerly. "Toby?"

"I loved your singing. I didn't know you could sing like that."

"Did you ever ask me?"

"No… You're all right?"

"Thanks to you." She seemed to be waiting for something more.

He waited also, puzzled.

She bit her lip and turned away. "I did not have a chance to thank you properly, Master Strangerson, for your dauntless gallantry. It was very brave of you to rescue me like that."

Toby said, "Any man would have done the same."

Rory and Hamish were on their knees together, hauling objects out of Hamish's bundle. "Books? Why in the world do you need…"

Meg tossed her head without looking around. "Your courage is exceeded only by your modesty and does you great honor, sir. I was indeed fortunate that you were at hand to succor me in my moment of peril."

She must have got that out of a book, or else she had been infected by that Rory man's flowery way of talking. In Strath Fillan, words were short and meant what they said.

"Considering how stupid you were to be there by yourself, you certainly were fortunate."

She whirled around, braids dancing. "Stupid? I came to warn you of danger!" Her breath was a pearly mist in the frosty moonlight.

Toby laid his sword and pack on the ground and knelt to inspect the supplies Annie had added to it. Despite his superior airs, the Rory man made sense when he said that carrying unnecessary weight would be folly. Yet nothing in Toby's collection seemed superfluous. He could carry it all without tiring. He decided to leave the bundle as it was.

Meg's bare feet were still there, one of them tapping angrily on the stony ground. She was riled because he had called her stupid. So she was! Her folly had caused the deaths of Granny Nan and four men. It had led to Toby being possessed by a demon and driven from his home — even if he did not much mind the last bit. Still, he could hardly upset the kid by telling her all that. He looked up and smiled at her.

"It was a kind thought," he said gently. "But I can look after myself better than you can. You must realize that you're close to being a woman now. Soon men will begin to lust after you. You should have sent a man with the message, if you thought it was that important."

"Or a real woman, perhaps?"

The moon was behind her. He could not see her face under the brim of her bonnet.

"A man, of course. A woman would have had the same trouble."

The foot tapped faster. She heaved her cloak higher on her shoulders. "I was doubly fortunate that you recognized me in time, though."

He looked up, puzzled by her tone. "Recognized you? I didn't. I didn't know it was you."

Meg said, "Oh!" very violently. "You crude, oversized, shambling ox, Toby Strangerson! What does it take to get an idea into that lump of granite you call a head? Why don't you ever even try?" She whirled in a dance of braids and stalked away.

He shrugged to himself, remembering that last night's experience would have been terrifying for a child and this wild flight into the unknown could hardly be helping calm her down. He should have swallowed his stupid pride and let her rotten brother accompany her… Fat Vik: her half-brother and probably his, too. She would have felt safer with someone she could trust. Now, if he could fasten the bundle to the hilt of the sword, he would have both hands free…

"Do it this way," Rory said, kneeling beside him. "Fine lass, that one."

"She's a nice kid."

"You think so?" Rory chuckled softly. "Feisty, I'd call her. There, try that. So you are leaving home, Toby Strangerson? It may be a long whiles before you are able to return safely."

"When the Fillan flows up Beinn Bheag will be soon enough."

The pale eyes regarded him steadily, shining in the moonlight. "What of the grieving friends you leave behind?"

"They'll survive." In truth — no friends.

"Och, but they will mourn!" Master MacDonald shook his head in sorrow. "And surely there is some small window with a candle lit for you! You have left your heart in trust?"

To admit that there was no one at all who cared whether Toby Strangerson lived or died would be a statement of cold fact. It proved curiously difficult to say out loud. He could easily lie, of course, but lying would itself be a confession that the truth hurt, and it didn't. He had accepted long ago that a strong man must stand alone. He had no need of friends and he would find a woman to love when he had something more to offer than the shame of bastardy and an empty sporran. He had no need to explain all that to this stranger in the night. Besides, he had begun to wonder if the man already knew the answers and was making fun of him. He just shook his head.

Rory sprang to his feet. "We'll be on our way, then. You'll all do exactly as I tell you, because Glen Orchy is no romp in a featherbed."

"Just how does one get across the bog?"

"You talk nice to the wisp, of course."

Hamish said, "The what?" very squeakily.

"The wisp. The bogy, if you prefer. Bogy, boggle, wisp… a wild hob. It's not malicious as a rule. It won't meddle with you if you don't meddle with it, but it can get playful, like a bear cub. Come on." Rory hung his lute on his back and turned to go. "Bring the rope, Longdirk."

"Take it yourself."

Meg and Hamish gasped aloud. Toby had surprised even himself. He should not be refusing orders from a man of rank, and especially not one armed with a sword. Darkness and remoteness did not matter — he would be in mortal danger in a crowded street now.

"Indeed?" said the sandy-haired man softly. "Whose man are you, then, that speaks to me so? Who must I deal with when I have taught you your manners, little laddie?"

Toby Strangerson was an addlebrained idiot! His bundle hung on the hilt of his sword. By the time he had disposed of that and drawn the monster blade from its ramshackle scabbard, Rory would have put more holes in him than a charge of grapeshot. Even if Rory sportingly waited until they were both armed and ready, he could still win easily.

Himself, Toby did not need this self-proclaimed MacDonald of Glencoe. Himself, he would brave the hills and take his chances on starvation or freezing or betrayal, but he had given his word to Kenneth Tanner. He had Meg to consider, was responsible for Meg. Hamish Teacher would be no protector for her with Toby lying dead in the bog. He must back down, and quickly, and count himself lucky if he did not get his tongue slit anyway. Yet the apology stuck in his throat.

"Just don't call me that!" he said.

Rory made an incredulous sound. "I'll call you anything I want, boy. You'd rather be Toby the Bastard? I said, 'Bring the rope, Longdirk!'"

In silence, Toby went for the rope and slung it over his shoulder.

"When I give you an order, Longdirk, you answer, 'Yes, sir!'"

"Yes, sir."

"And run, Longdirk."

"Yes, sir."

"Remember in future, Longdirk. Come along, everyone. May I carry your pack, Miss Campbell? Will you stroll with me this evening?"

Toby stalked off with the rope. He did not know what use it was going to be and would rather not know any sooner than he had to. He wondered why he had been so surly and pigheaded. He certainly did not care about his name. He was determined to find himself a new one, so why insist on the old? That was just dimwitted. And why had he made the snippy remark about lutists earlier? Why had he taken such a dislike to Rory of Glencoe?

He was not usually so childish. Boys of his own age had spurned him, but by the time he was twelve, he had been looking most adults straight in the eye. He had learned that if he acted his size instead of his age, he would often be accepted as one of them. Now the Rory man was here to help him in his time of trouble — a gentleman, probably a noble, well-educated, and wise in the ways of the world. His fancy talk might have been an offer of friendship by gentry ways. So why was Toby Strangerson behaving so loutishly?

Perhaps because he was sure that the stranger was one of King Fergan's Black Feather rebels and intended to enlist another. If the help was conditional on that, then things were going to be tricky.

A few moments later, he was annoyed but not at all surprised to find Rory walking at his side, with the two kids following. The questions began:

"Tell me about your fight with the Sassenach."

"It was nothing much."

"Tell me anyway."

Toby considered his options. If he again challenged the man's right to give him orders, then dawn might find him still trapped in the glen, or lying dead on the heather. He had responsibilities to Meg and in lesser amounts to Hamish. He must cooperate.

"There wasn't much to it. He was pestering the girl. I knocked him down, he drew his sword, I found his musket lying in the grass, I hit him with it, but too hard. I didn't mean to kill him."

"Just like that? It's beautiful! And how did you escape from the castle?"

"Their manacles were old and rusty. I managed to free myself in the cell. Then Lady Valda came down to—"

"Who?"

"I'm told that's her name. Her emblem's a black crescent on purple. She rode in from Fort William."

"Spirits preserve us!" MacDonald muttered. "Black crescent? Black hair and a face to drive men insane?"

"Black hair, yes. Beautiful, certainly, but not my type."

"No?" Rory said skeptically. "Lad, if she decided you were her type, then nothing would save you! You'd howl outside her window for the rest of your life. What exactly… Roughly, what did she want of you?"

"She said she wanted to sponsor me as a prizefighter. I didn't believe that was what she really wanted. I knocked her men down, got out, stole a horse, and rode home."

Put like that, it was gibberish. He wondered how in the world he could expect to be believed. He wasn't.

"A singular narrative!" Rory MacDonald of Glencoe faked a yawn. "Can you add a few plausible details to undermine my native skepticism?"

"Only that I was raised by the witchwife. I think she enlisted the hob to rescue me."

"Ah! Now that helps. That does help. Just because hobs aren't smart, people assume that they aren't powerful, but if a hob ever gets truly riled about something, it can be deadly. I know of one that shook down a castle and had boulders rolling off the hills. I wonder if it took a dislike to Lady Valda? Would I be completely crazy if I decided to believe you?"

The footing was very marshy now and there was a boggy scent in the air. Tendrils of faint white mist drifted close to the ground.

Toby had just been called a liar, but that was dangerous bait. He ignored it. "Tell me about Lady Valda — sir."

"She was Nevil's favorite." Rory glanced around to make sure the youngsters were keeping up. "That's a courtly way of saying mistress. She was a hexer even then. She disappeared about ten years ago. Nevil put a price on her head, but she was never found."

Feet made sucking noises in the moss.

"King Nevil offered a reward for her? Why?"

"He didn't tell me. It was a hefty one."

"So what's she doing in the Highlands? Is she pardoned now?"

"I very much doubt it," Rory said firmly. "Wherever she's been, it was beyond Nevil's clutches, probably abroad."

"Perhaps she hid from him by gramarye."

"Do you think she's the only hexer in England? The king himself is an adept of renown. I cannot imagine why any woman would masquerade as her, though, so you are probably correct. I suppose I must let you live after all."

"What do you mean?" Toby growled.

"What I say. Your account of the fight agrees fairly well with Meg's — allowing for your touching modesty and her romantic fancies. I can't see how the encounter could have been faked, or set up in advance. But that flying-pig-singing-fish tale of your escape from the dungeon is pure malarkey. You're bait, my boy. You've been set up as a lure to lead the Sassenachs to my friends. The question now is whether you know it or not."

Toby stumbled, not entirely because the footing had just changed to bare rock.

Rory steadied his elbow with a disconcertingly powerful grip. "We're there. This is where we enter the bog. I'll lead you across alive."

Toby looked down at him angrily.

His guide beamed benevolently. "I mean it. Do you doubt that I would kill you? Do you doubt that I could?"

If he was a competent swordsman, which he probably was, then he was certainly capable of spitting Toby Strangerson. He might, of course, find himself with the same diabolical problems Crazy Colin had run into.

"If you can catch me."

Rory laughed, a flash of white teeth in the moonlight. "We're going to be roped together! But you have my word: I'll see you safely through."

"This is a change of plan?"

"Possibly a temporary one. You've made me curious. You're either a spy or a lure. If the Sassenachs set you up, then you're a traitor and a spy. You wouldn't be the first man to buy his life with a few solemn oaths. If Lady Valda is behind it, then there's gramarye involved. Since she's not on Nevil's side, I don't know what game you're playing. No, that's not right. What I mean is, I don't know who's using you, or how. Somebody is. Until I find out who and how, I'll let you live, Little Man." Rory turned to include the two kids in the conversation. "This is the edge of the bogy's bog."

CHAPTER FOUR

"I came through last night," Rory continued, "and it never reached my knees, but we could go in up to our waists — icy water and mud. We'll be roped together, because the wisp may try to separate us in the mist."

Hamish moaned. The mist was closing in already.

"A wisp's just a sort of hob." Perhaps Rory meant that remark to be comforting. "I'd prefer that you go blindfolded, but you can look if you want. Just don't believe anything your eyes tell you. You'll see lights and strange shapes in the fog. Some of them may be ghoulies, trying to scare you off the path. Pay no attention to those — dead people are the least dangerous sort. Most of what you'll see will be only the wisp's idea of fun."

The wisp was not the only one with a nasty sense of humor, Toby decided. "And what if it leads us to our deaths?"

"It may," Rory said seriously. "I warned you this would be tricky. Fortunately, it likes music. I had no trouble last night; of course, there was only one of me." He kicked off his shoes and tucked them into the folds of his plaid. He left his hose on. "I can't guarantee that my lute will stay in tune in the damp, but the wisp doesn't seem to mind a few twangs. Hitch your dress up, Miss Campbell, as far as your modesty allows. Plaids, too."

The clammy fog was growing thicker, muffling the moonlight. Meg plucked up her dress and somehow tucked it into her belt. Toby hitched his plaid up until the hem was above his knees.

Rory began looping the rope under their arms. "I'll go first. We'll put this wee fellow next, because he's the strongest. Normally, we'd go in single file, but I'm going to tie both of you to him. Hold your tethers in front of you with a little slack in them, so if one of us falls, we don't drag the rest under, too. There's holes in the muck you can't see."

"I hope the wisp can hear your music over the noise of my teeth chattering, sir," Hamish said bravely. Meg was saying nothing at all, hovering close to Toby.

Rory hung his lute around his neck. "We'll find out."

"How can you tell which way to go?" With the others all strung to him, Toby felt like a spiderweb.

"That's up to the wisp!" Rory strummed strings to check the pitch. "Should do." He began to play a cheerful, jigging tune.

For long, shivery minutes, nothing seemed to happen. Then Toby realized that the mist had become patchy. Behind him, it remained solid, but over the marsh it was breaking up into pillars and sheets, opening gaps. Soon a faint glow flickered in the distance, a tiny candle burning on the water.

"There we are!" Rory said cheerfully and strode forward. "Our guiding beacon!" The others followed him, stepping down from the rock onto moss — soft, cold, and squelchy.

The moon must be shining somewhere overhead, but its light was diffused by the fog. The way led between pools and channels so dark that they seemed like empty space, between tufts of sedge and clumps of tall, spiky bulrushes, and through the slowly shifting coils and wraiths of mist. The twinkle of light ahead shifted; Rory changed direction. Soon it shifted again.

Somebody's teeth were chattering, providing a counterpoint to the jangle of the lute.

The muck underfoot grew softer, treacherous to walk on. Water came up over Toby's ankles, agonizingly cold. Hamish was the first to slip, going down on his seat with a splash and a cry. His rope jerked on Toby's chest. He scrambled to his feet again and they continued to trudge forward, heading for that illusive beacon glow. It receded before them, leading them on. Leading them where? Following a bogy into a bog was not a traditional mark of sanity.

The mist had begun to take on nightmare shapes: women writhing in slow and silent dances, giant faces, vague hints of ghoulies or bogeymen. They gleamed with an eldritch light of their own. Toby wondered how much was his own imagination and how much the wisp's reported sense of humor. Tangles caught at ankles, bulrushes brushed with wet fingers on shivering legs. The world had shrunk to the size of Granny Nan's cottage, enclosed in silvery fog monsters. Mud sucked harder around his feet, and slowly the cruel cold climbed higher on his shins. The footing was sludge or moss or tangled grasses, and never sure. Every step involved hauling a foot straight up before it could be moved forward. The light kept changing position until he lost all sense of direction.

Could the wisp detect his demon? Would it resent the diabolic intruder? He was sure that the hob had been gone from its grotto when he went to look for Granny Nan. If the wisp reacted that way, then Rory might march them in circles until they all froze to death. On the other hand, the demon had proved it would protect Toby Strangerson, so it was not likely to let him freeze or drown. Which was stronger — Lady Valda's demon or the bogy of Glen Orchy?

Meg cried out and disappeared completely. Toby hauled on the rope until he could grasp her arm and drag her upright, spluttering.

"All right?" Stupid, stupid question! His feet were sinking deeper as he stood there. Rory had turned to see, still strumming vigorously.

Meg shuddered. "Yes! Keep g-g-going!" Her sodden dress had fallen out of its tuck and was clinging to her slender legs.

The journey resumed, curving to the left. Water lapped around Toby's thighs and mud sucked at his feet. He was a beetle wading through cold porridge. Everyone's teeth were chattering now.

Rory's suggestion that Lady Valda had expected Toby to escape was an unwelcome complication that he should have thought of for himself. It was certainly plausible, for surely a hexer as powerful as everyone said she was ought not to have botched a conjuration so badly.

She had not explained her real motives. He had no idea why she had gone to all the trouble of demonizing him. To believe that she wanted him as an incubus would be stupid vanity, and he did not doubt Rory's statement that she could bewitch any man she wanted. Surely love charms did not require daggers and self-mutilation and bowls of blood — those must be gramarye of deeper, darker purpose. Why go to so much trouble over the big Highland lad? She must have been playing for higher stakes than just a prizefighter or a very questionable gigolo.

Tendrils of mist floated over the water like glowing fingers. Here and there they seemed brighter than they should be, and not matched to their reflections in the dark mirrored surface below. He could see three or four lights now, and he wondered how Rory knew which one to follow.

The water was up to his crotch. He glanced back and saw both Meg and Hamish waist-deep and struggling. The cold was making his whole body tremble. The lute sang a wild lament.

Rory had hinted that there might be a hex on Toby, but had he guessed about a demon? Predictably, he was fleeing from the glen, heading for the rebels in the hills. In a sense, he was a loaded gun that could fire at any moment. Who was the intended target? King Fergan?

Without warning, his feet slid from under him and he plunged into icy, inky blackness. He struggled upright, coughing and cursing and spitting. His mouth tasted of swamp and the water hurt in his nose. Now he was wet all over — his hair, his pack. He rescued his bonnet and tucked it in his belt. Cold was driving deep into his body, and he was the largest of all of them. How much of this could little Meg stand?

Two eyes glowed at him. He shied away and almost fell again before he remembered Rory's warning. The wisp was playing tricks. The eyes drifted apart and became just two globes of fire. Then three. A dark shape threatened amid the bulrushes. Giant worms writhed, pallid faces grimaced.

"Go faster!" he shouted. "We're all freezing!"

"Daren't!" Rory shouted, still strumming. "If I fall, we're done for."

Splash, splish… The lute sang discordantly, hitting unexpected pitches, dissonant trills. A face with glowing red eyes and green teeth loomed out of the mist. Toby waved an arm through it, dissolving it into streamers.

Silence. Rory had stopped moving and stopped playing. The water was up to his waist. "This is bad! In case you haven't guessed, we're in deep trouble."

"We're getting deeper just standing here!" Toby snapped. "Play on. Move!"

Their leader was barely visible in the darkness. "I was never this deep last night. The wisp is playing with us!"

Or the wisp was trying to kill them. It didn't like demons in its swamp? Monstrous white shapes moved in the darkness, glowing with more than moonlight. The very silence was menacing.

"We haven't much t-t-time, sir," Hamish wailed.

"Which light do you fancy? That one? Or that one? Let's try the green one, shall we?" Rory shrugged and began playing again, picking his way forward through the cruel, cold water.

The mud sucked harder. Their progress had slowed to a snail's crawl. Every step was a struggle to pull up a foot, balance in the sludge on the other leg, move the foot forward without tipping over, find bottom again… Toby could not feel his toes at all, which did not help.

Meg submerged with hardly a splash, but he felt the tug. He hauled in the line, dragging her to him. He scooped her up in his arms. She and her pack together weighed more than he expected, but she was a frozen, trembling waif. She coughed and gasped and clung to him. Now he could no longer keep a grip on the line to Rory. He sank deeper with every step. The muddy bottom sucked at his knees. Hamish's head went under and then reappeared, gasping that it was all right.

The music twanged painfully and stopped. Rory had gone. Toby almost overbalanced as the rope yanked him forward.

Then Rory came up right in front of him, his face plastered with mud and wet hair. "That's it!" he said hoarsely, between coughs. "I've lost the lute. The wisp won't cooperate without music. Sorry, children, but there's going to be four more ghoulies playing in the fog."

The glittering marsh monsters drifted closer. Every direction looked the same, the stars were hidden, and the cold was eating into bones. No sound except chattering teeth and thumping heart…

Demon! I'm dying!

Dum… Dum… Faint and muffled by the reeds, lost in the water sounds whenever anyone moved… It might be only his own normal heartbeat, but he thought it was coming from outside him, from over there, and in that case it must be a signal.

"Well, we can go faster without that damnable lute!" he said. "Follow me. Swim, or float on your backs. I'll tow you." Demon? Which way? Taking the lines over his shoulders, he plunged forward without waiting for argument.

He turned to the sound of the beat, clawing through sedge and bulrushes. No occult lavender glow came to lighten his path. The wisp's mocking beacons twinkled in red and green and blue, but he could barely see anything for the vegetation splattering water in his eyes. He felt no surge of demonic strength — this was Toby Strangerson fighting this battle, fighting for his life. Every few minutes he would pause and listen, locating that elusive thump, but to stop moving was to freeze, to sink deeper. Weeds clutched at his legs; the combined burden of Meg and his broadsword was driving him down. Rory and Hamish struggled along behind him, half wading, half floating, offering little resistance except when he had to pull them through tangles of sedge.

Dum… Dum… Why so faint? Why no demonic power? Was the bogy keeping the demon at bay? Were the two spirits locked in battle? Or was he imagining some foolish echo of his heart, struggling around in circles in the dark? Glowing faces bared fangs at him. His blood coursed and his lungs were bursting, but at least he must be warmer than the others. Would he arrive at the shore towing three corpses?

Ah! The ground was firmer and the water was down to his waist. The mist brightened overhead, taking on a sheen of moonlight.

"Almost there!" he yelled, and lost his footing as he trod on a painfully sharp stick. He went down in a bed of knives, it seemed, swallowed half the swamp, and struggled to his feet, helping Meg up. As he wiped the water from his eyes he saw the guards, a crowd of skeletal shapes looming out of the haze, arms spread to bar mortal intruders.

Rory was upright, teeth chattering wildly. "I know this part, it's a drowned forest. It's near the west shore, but we'll never get through it. Which way round? Left or right?"

Toby listened. Silence?

Rory cupped his hands and bellowed into the darkness: "Jeral? Cruachan!"

"Shut up!" Toby barked. "Be quiet."

More silence, just Hamish's chattering teeth — no, a faint dum… Dum…

"This way. Come on!" He scooped Meg up and set off again, letting the others wade behind or float as they could. The cold seemed to burn, it hurt so much. The water was below his waist now, yet he could move no faster, for the bottom was a tangle of branches and roots, hard and sharp. Deeper water would have helped to support his weight. Every muscle shuddered convulsively. Moonlight glowed brighter; pale wraiths floated between the dead white trees. The guardians seemed intent on barring the way to shore until the intruders froze to death, and surely that ending could not be many minutes off.

Almost without realizing, he had left the swamp and was scrabbling over a litter of driftwood, stumbling up a shingle bank, dragging the others behind him. Fire! He must have fire! If the water had penetrated his tinderbox, they were all going to die anyway.

Then his head came level with the land, and he saw light in the darkness — real flames, and none of the wisp's fox fire. A few hundred paces or so along the shore, someone was waving a lantern.

Rory shouted, "Cruachan!" again, and a faint cry responded, "Cruachan!"

CHAPTER FIVE

The cottage was very small, just four dry-stone walls roofed with branches and sod. Meg was the only one who could stand erect in it. There was no chimney, no covering for the doorway, and one corner of the roof had collapsed, but a heap of peat glowed in the center, giving at least the illusion of warmth. At some time in the past it had been used for livestock, yet it was shelter from the night, and the travelers huddled gratefully around the fire to thaw.

The man named Jeral had disappeared. Rory had sent him off somewhere, and Toby found that troublesome. Someone had cleaned out this little hovel and covered the floor with rushes to make it habitable, but not recently. That was even more worrying.

Four faces gleamed faintly in the firelight. The shivering had mostly stopped. Wet wool steamed.

"Are we safe from the bogy here, sir?" Meg inquired.

"Probably." Rory eyed Toby thoughtfully. "I expect it's busy burying my lute. It's probably forgotten all about us, and it never worries overmuch about dry land things anyway. I would like to know why it took such a scunner to us."

Meg missed the implications of that dangerous question. "Where are we, then?"

"We're in Glen Orchy, still. A few miles down we'll get to Strath of Orchy and Dalmally, but we can worry about that in the morning."

Poor Master Rory had lost his fine shoes; his feet stuck out of the remains of his socks. Pity poor Master Rory!

Toby was thinking about trees. There were trees here. Trees implied an absence of people to turn them into lumber or firewood. No people meant no roads, no traffic. No one came through the haunted glen. But Rory did, and Rory now wore a black feather in his bonnet. The rebels had a shelter here that the English did not know about. The Jeral man had been sent off somewhere — possibly to fetch help.

Secrets were dangerous in time of war.

"I've been to Strath of Orchy!" Hamish announced. "That's where Kilchurn Castle is, and the laird's name is Hamish!"

Rory grunted. "Lord Hamish — Hamish Campbell, foster brother to the earl of Argyll."

The boy pulled a face. "How will you get by Kilchurn Castle, then, sir? It guards Pass of Brander, where the road's squeezed between the cliffs and the water—"

"We begin by hoping there are no Sassenachs there. Then we worry about Campbell traitors."

"But… you can see Ben Cruachan from Dalmally."

That innocent-seeming remark caused MacDonald of Glencoe to turn and stare at the boy. "What of it?"

Hamish flinched. "Nothing, sir! Ma says I talk too much."

"Sensible woman."

Hamish subsided, shooting one of his owlish looks at Toby — meaning he thought he knew something that Toby was too stupid to work out for himself.

Rory turned his attention back to Toby. "You haven't explained how you managed to lead us out of the bog."

"I have a good sense of direction."

"A superhuman sense of direction? You escape from dungeons, from hexers, from bogies? You have more lives than a cat!"

"I hope so."

The rebel wanted to know what had vexed the wisp, how a mortal man had found his way out in the dark. Was the young fugitive merely a spy, or was he one of Lady Valda's demonic creatures? Let him wonder! Toby did not know the answers himself.

Hamish yawned. Meg caught the infection.

"May as well sleep," Rory announced, but he did not move. "Miss Campbell is bound for Oban. You, lad?"

"Pa told me to go and stay with Cousin Murray in Glen Shira. The keeper of the shrine of Glen Shira."

Rory snorted. "Old Murray Campbell? You know him?"

"No, sir."

"You have an interesting experience in store, then. And you, Man Mountain? Wither goest thou, Big Man?" He raised sandy eyebrows, waiting for Toby's reaction. He was not actually sneering; he just seemed to, because of his eagle-beak nose.

"I promised to see Meg safely to Oban, and then—"

"That was very rash of you, Longdirk. You're not really up to being a reliable protector with your history of blundering into trouble." Rory was still dropping hints about demons, but he wasn't sure. "Suppose I come along to hold your hand and we get her there between us, what then?"

Yesterday morning, Vik Tanner had tried to make Toby lose his temper. Baiting had not worked then. It would not work now.

"Then I'm going to travel and see the world."

Be a prizefighter and win large amounts of money.

"Mm? Travel where? To the Lowlands? To England? There must be a price on your head by now, you know. An insultingly small one, I expect, but every penny counts, as they say. You're not the sort to disappear into a crowd — not unless you walk on your knees, that is. How do you plan to feed that oversized carcass of yours?"

"Honest work."

"Digging ditches?" The sneer was undeniable now. "You're an ignorant country lout who won't last a week in the real world."

Meg looked shocked, Hamish owlishly worried.

"That isn't your problem," Toby said steadily. Demons would be, though.

"Lady Valda is. Besides, you intrigue me, Shoulders. The Sassenachs are hunting you; you killed one of them. You seem to have courage, unless it's all stupidity. Why aren't you planning to join Fergan, your rightful king?"

Toby eyed the fingers of red fire caressing the peat. "The brave Black Feathers? Tell me what you're fighting for."

Rory MacDonald considered Toby for a long moment before he answered. "For freedom. To clear our land of the oppressors. For our own ways, for our families, for justice."

Toby adopted what he hoped was an expression of amused cynicism. "Freedom, you say? One lord is much like another. I have no land, I have no family, and I'll believe in justice when I see it. Your fight is not mine, Rory MacDonald of Glencoe." He could add much more — that King Fergan was a rebel only because he had broken the oath of allegiance to King Nevil; that the wars were always started by the Scots and won by the English; that the English paid their troops, which the rebels did not… but he had said more than enough already.

The rebel was scowling. "You support the English?"

"No. Just a neutral."

"There are no neutrals in this war."

"My father was an Englishman."

"From what I was told, you can never know who your father was."

Evidently Meg had been yattering.

Toby turned himself so he had space to lie down — there would not be much room for four. He unfastened his pin and rearranged his damp plaid into a bedroll. Hamish copied him. Meg began fussing with her cloak with the same end in view. Only Rory continued to sit upright, apparently waiting for an answer.

The argument was a waste of breath. Toby was not about to lose his temper and neither of them would ever change the other's mind. "That's true — I am no man's son. So I'm free to make my own decisions, aren't I? I can think what I want, not what my Pa tells me to think. I will never be King Fergan's man, Master Glencoe."

"We'll see about that." The rebel smiled thinly. "Again I tell you: there are no neutrals in this war."

Toby rolled over, facedown, and went to sleep — for the first time…

CHAPTER SIX

It had begun again. He was in darkness — utter, total, impenetrable darkness, as if he had sunk to the bottom of the bog. He was in silence. It always began with darkness and silence.

He could not move. His hands were behind him and his feet apart, as they had been in the dungeon. He could breathe, so he was not in the marsh. He was vertical, but he could feel no floor under his feet or wall at his back, no shackles binding his limbs. He was not conscious of cold or pain, but he was aware he had no clothes on. He floated in nothing, and waited.

The first time, or the first few times, he had assumed that he was dead. He hardly remembered the first times, except through a vague certainty that he had been here before, that this had happened before. There was someone else here also. Someone was hunting for him in the darkness, wandering, searching. At times he could hear her. She was calling to him, calling him by name; the name she was using was not his name, but he knew that he was the one she sought.

Soon the light… Yes, the light was coming now. It began as a very faint milky glow, no more than starlight glimmering on ghostly mist-shapes all around him, with darkness beyond. It grew brighter, but slowly, very slowly, while the filmy haze writhed, grew more definite, then faded again, dancing and twirling in endless variations of shape, glowing in indefinable colors like the lights a man saw when his eyes were closed. His were open. He caught occasional glimpses of a dark and shiny floor, perhaps water, but it was a long way below his feet. He sensed the huntress gliding to and fro. He saw no shadows — how could he, when he himself was the source of the light!

The first few times, he had awakened screaming when he had realized this. Yes, he was asleep, but the vision was real, and dangerous. Demons could take men in their sleep. Sleep was no defense. To waken would be to escape, but he could not force himself awake, and he was in peril.

Wherever he was, wherever this nothing-place might be, he was being hunted in it. She could not find him — indeed, she seemed to be more visible to him than he was to her — but she could make him reveal himself. The light was her doing. He shone in the foggy darkness, and as his glow brightened she drew closer, her voice became clearer.

As the unmeasured time crept past, as his silvery glow brightened, he sensed that other essence — moving, searching, seeking him, calling him. Not his name, but a name meant to be his, and other words in a tongue he did not know. Yet their meaning grew clearer: Lord? Beloved? Master?

This was worse than before. This was the first time he had made out words. What was that name she was calling?

The danger was becoming more imminent, the huntress questing ever nearer, a pale and sinister presence in the mists. Beloved, why do you hide from me? He wanted to run, to flee to the ends of the world, and he could not as much as blink. He was alive, for his heart was beating. He burned brighter.

Waken, fool, waken!

The hunter, a huntress, Lady Valda, of course… he could see her wandering through the roiling mists, searching. Why could he not awaken, as he had awakened the other times — screaming and sweating, but unharmed? She had never come so close in the earlier dreams… approaching, receding, returning. Blurred in the fog — pale arms outstretched, delicate hands feeling in the mist, dark hair, white body. His heart thundered faster. Each return brought her nearer to where he was and revealed more detail: dark eyes, red lips, the great round nipples, the fascination of the black triangular patch that he tried not to see and could not ignore. There were stories. Young men had dreams, but no dream could equal what he saw now. Oh, the beauty of her!

She had seen her quarry. She peered, frowning, as if barely able to make him out, or dazzled by his brilliance. Her lips moved, her red tongue stroked them. She approached, heading straight for him, not walking, just floating, shining brighter in his radiance.

Waken, waken! The dream had never gone this far before.

He could not swallow, could not move except for the beat of his heart. Dum… Dum… Faster than before. His body was responding to hers. He felt desire as he never had.

There was no wound in her breast. Her breasts were perfect, her body was perfect — her limbs, also. There was not a mark on her anywhere. Her flesh was alabaster, with faint blue veins under the skin. He could see the texture of her nipples, her lashes, the tiny hairs in her eyebrows. He was aware of her perfume, as he had been in the dungeon.

She smiled. She was close enough to touch or be touched. Beloved! Lord! I have found you. I have come to you. Speak to me.

She waited eagerly. Waited for what? He could not move to seize her in his arms. He could not compel his lips to curse her. She drifted closer, until her breasts were almost touching his chest, until he could feel her warmth. The scent of her was maddening. Her dark eyes stared directly into his, but watering as if his brightness pained them.

"I restored you," she whispered. "See the fine young body I found for you, my love, my adored master! What pleasure we shall have together with it! What joys will it bring us?"

Her fingers touched his chest as they had in the dungeon. He could not feel them — not quite. Soon, though? He shivered, and felt the shiver. His arms were coming around. She was drawing him into her world, making him real to her, making them real to each other. He blazed like a sun and she basked in his warmth, yet he shivered convulsively.

"Where did you go, my love? You have already traveled farther than I expected. I have searched and searched. But I have you now. Will you not return to me, my love? There is nothing to fear. Rhym cannot know."

The ghostly fingers stroked his cheek, his neck, his flanks, and their touch was almost, almost perceptible — swansdown, gossamer on his skin.

"So strong, my love! What shall we call you?" Scarlet lips pursed in a coy smile: "Shall I call you Longdirk? Why do you not yield to me? Do you not know what I have suffered these long years? Suffered to bring you back to me?"

Valda, glorious, irresistible, beauty to drive a man insane…

Triumph! "I have you now!" she cried. Her fingers caressed his cheek, and this time they were warm and smooth. His body came to life at her touch. His arms fell free, reached out to take her. She leaned her lips forward to his, her hair brushing his shoulders.

The apparition changed. It shrank, darkened, writhed. Hair became scant and silver, the skin shriveled, the breasts sagged. Wounds and scars and hideous…

He screamed. He awakened.