Demon Sword

CHAPTER ONE

The long, long night was over. Toby shivered as he adjusted the folds of his plaid. Daylight seeped through a swampy gray sky. A rising wind promised rain and combed a steady shower of leaves from the wasted foliage of the trees. The glen was less than a mile wide, its sides rising steeply to vanish in cloud, but dawn had told him which way was west, so he knew his road to Dalmally. He needed no further guidance from Master Rory MacDonald of Glencoe.

He was less sure of his way back to the shelter. After he had awakened screaming for the second time, he had stumbled off into the woods to sleep by himself. Now he had to find his way back — preferably without having to yell for help. He peered around at the trees. There could be more than one dwelling hidden here.

There could be a whole army. The haunted glen might be a major rebel base, and King Fergan himself on hand to extract Toby's oath of allegiance with a dirk under his chin, as Iain Miller had predicted.

He wanted breakfast, although long habit made him feel that he ought to milk Bossie first. He stamped his feet and blew smoky breath through reddened fingers. Which way to go? Northeast, probably. If he did not find the others in that direction, he would come to the bog very shortly. The hovel had not been far from there, although everything would look different in daylight.

Then he heard Meg laughing, surprisingly close. Relieved, he strode in that direction, crunching dead leaves underfoot and combing them out of his hair with his fingers.

His companions were picnicking outside the hut. They looked up as he arrived, but only two of them smiled. Their ears and noses were red. Meg was huddled in her cloak, and Hamish had pulled his plaid over both shoulders and was heaped like a tartan-wrapped parcel on the grass.

Rory sat on a boulder as if it were a throne. He was younger than he had seemed in the night, his sandy hair looked lighter, the stubble on his chin had a reddish tint, and his eyes were a pale, silvery gray. The permanent sneer was more evident; his failure in the bog had obviously caused him to lose none of his superior airs. With the sword on his belt and the dirk just visible under the fold of his plaid, he could probably be as deadly as he chose to be. The crow's feather still jutted from his bonnet.

Hamish had one, too.

"Toby!" Meg exclaimed. "Hungry?"

"Starving." He knelt down and inspected the fare. It had come from his bundle — Annie Bridge's offerings — and had been well looted. He chose a hunk of blood sausage and bit into it eagerly.

"Do you always sleep so loudly, Longdirk?" Rory inquired.

"No. I'm sorry I woke you all."

"A clear conscience is a great advantage. I did hear you letting rip a few more times. Will you tell us what troubled you?"

"No."

"Was it the bogy?" Hamish inquired solemnly.

Toby shook his head. He would not describe his visions of Lady Valda to anyone.

"I slept like a log!" Meg proclaimed. She seemed to be in very good spirits, considering the ordeal she had been through. Either she was still buoyed up by the excitement of the adventure or else she was one of those vexing people who came awake chirruping like birds. "What do we do now, Master Glencoe? Head on to Dalmally, I suppose? And then Oban?"

Rory chewed for a moment. "We wait here. I'm expecting a friend."

Or several friends.

But poor Master Rory had lost his shoes in the bog, and poor Master Rory was not accustomed to walking on bare feet.

"There's no need for you to trouble yourself further on our account, sir," Toby remarked with his mouth full. "We are grateful for all your help, but we can be on our way now."

"My friend and I are coming with you."

"No, that won't be necessary," Toby said sweetly. "We can manage by ourselves now. Of course, we do appreciate the way you guided us through the bog."

Amused to see Rory's silver eyes narrow at the gibe, he turned to Hamish. "How far to Oban, do you suppose?"

Unlike Meg, Hamish had noted the dangerous undertow. He glanced uneasily at Rory, then said, "Twenty-five or thirty miles."

"Then we must be on our way." Toby laid his sausage on the ground and began repacking his bundle. "Should make it before dark."

"I think we ought to wait for Master Glencoe's friend!" Meg declared firmly. "Traveling with company is more fun. Please, Toby?"

She smiled appealingly at him.

He was disconcerted. She was a distraction from deadly serious business.

Hamish was amused, Rory openly smirking.

Very funny! In the long sleepless ordeal of the night, Toby had realized that Fat Vik's accusations were not entirely baseless. Meg's presence at the castle that evening had been part of a pattern. He had been running into Meg Tanner quite often lately. He had not been pursuing Meg, but she had been pursuing him.

Stupid kid! His only asset was his size. A child might fall for a man just because he was big, but mature women knew that large Highlanders just made easier targets. Meg had been hanging around in his path for weeks, and the dramatic rescue from the fusilier must have confirmed all her romantic fancies. When he had met up with her the previous evening, she had expected him to kiss her.

Small wonder the other two were laughing. She was pretty enough in a childlike way, but by any standards she was small; she had a tiny, upturned nose, a pointed chin, and dark eyebrows. Muffled in her cloak, she seemed younger than ever: a starry-eyed kid with a juvenile crush on Strangerson, the big bastard.

He'd promised her father he would guard her like a sister. He must not encourage her romantic notions.

"No, let's go." Toby looked around — the others' bundles were in evidence, but not his broadsword. He rose to fetch it.

Rory sprang up and blocked his path. Moving with deliberation, he drew.

Toby tensed — here came the violence. Most likely, he was about to be given the choice of swearing to bleed for the rebels at some time in the future, or bleeding on his own account right now.

The rebel's silver eyes glinted. "You'll never make it to Oban, boy." He tossed his sword, hilt-first, so that it landed at Hamish's feet. "You'll never get by Dalmally. There's only three ways out of Fillan — think the English can't count?" Then he pulled his dirk. "I told you last night you wouldn't last a week in the real world, and I tell you now you won't live out the day without my help. From now on, you take my orders." Dirk followed sword.

Well! So it was to be fisticuffs was it? Toby folded his arms and looked down at Rory MacDonald with fresh confidence. "I'm not your man."

"You're nobody's man — at the moment. That makes you fair game."

"Not this way, sir. I'm bareknuckle champion of Fillan."

Rory smiled. "So Meg said. Show me." He raised his fists and put his left foot forward.

On the face of it, he was being suicidal. Granted he had fair shoulders, Toby had a full head advantage in height and probably weighed half again as much. So there was some other game in play that Toby hadn't worked out yet. If Rory was trying to keep Toby here until his friends arrived, then why discard the blades? The smell of a trap was too strong — and in the background Hamish was shaking his head violently.

"No."

"Oh, you are a gentle giant, aren't you? Hit me. Try! Just try!"

"No."

"Won't you spare the maiden's blushes and even pretend to be a man for her?"

"She knows what I can do when it's needed."

Rory put his fists on his hips and sighed in exasperation. "I hate explaining! Let me put it this way — you don't know how to use your strength. If I had stumbled on that Sassenach getting out of line, he would have wakened up an hour later with a sore neck, and there would have been no further trouble. Now be your age, sonny. Get mad! Hit me!"

Again Toby said, "No. I might hurt a little man worse than I meant to."

The rebel did not enjoy being called a little man. "I order you!"

"I am not your man."

"Then defend yourself." MacDonald shot a couple of very fast lefts at Toby's face, followed by a right. Toby's arms blocked of their own accord. Rory came in under his guard, hammered him twice in the midriff, and danced back out of reach. He was fast, very fast. The blows stung, but that was all. A small man's speed might help compensate for a big man's strength, but nothing could counterbalance the bigger man's ability to absorb punishment. Toby could take fifty such blows and then win with one.

He had not had to move his feet. He frowned and scratched his stubbly chin. "If you're trying to rile me, sir, you'll have to hit me a lot harder than that."

"I will." Rory came dancing back and swung a deliberate low blow — one that Toby was certainly not willing to absorb. In blocking it, he put himself off-balance, feet wrong, hands too low. Rory grabbed his wrist and… flip! Caught by a cross-buttock throw, Toby hit the ground with his entire length. Ooof! The sky spun and steadied…

"I could kick your head in now," Rory said calmly. "Would that be hard enough? Ready for Lesson Two?"

Toby scrambled up and raised his fists, keeping a firm grip on his temper. He was a boxer, not a wrestler, as Steward Bryce had warned him. The glen followed the Fancy's Rules very strictly, and discouraged throwing. Like a fool he had been expecting Rory to fight as he did. Well, now he was ready…

Rory's bare foot shot up and struck his elbow, jarring his entire arm. "With a shoe on, I could have disabled you. Lesson Three?"

Toby blocked a fusillade of jabs, felt his wrist caught again and hit the ground again with his face in the dirt and his opponent on his back, holding him in a painful arm lock. He discovered that there were angles at which muscle made no difference.

"I could dislocate your shoulder, you understand," Rory murmured in his ear. "Ready for Lesson Four?" He broke loose.

The bareknuckle champion of Strath Fillan staggered up again and looked at the mocking silvery eyes through a red fog of fury. The desire to flatten that arrogant nose had become one of the world's most urgent concerns.

As his opponent came dancing in again, he ignored defense, feinted with his left, and threw a right cross that slammed into Rory's shirtfront like a cannonball demolishing a castle. Against an opponent of equal size, it would have been a wasted blow and possibly costly. Perhaps its very clumsiness caught Rory unprepared. Certainly poor wee Rory could never have been swatted like that before. He struck the grass spread-eagled and skidded before he came to a stop; he lay there, dazed, gasping, and comically astonished.

"I could jump on your guts now!" Toby bellowed. "Lesson Five… Get up!"

"No!" Meg screamed, rushing between the two of them. "That is enough! I won't have it! Put your fists down, Toby Strangerson!" She knelt to help poor Rory.

Toby forced his hands to his sides, quivering with fury. He wrestled his anger back in its cage, took a couple of very deep breaths, and turned on his heel. He stalked away into the trees, boiling. So he was the stronger — who would have questioned that? Rory was the better fighter. The uppity little runt had beaten him three times. The real world would offer no fourth chances. His one talent had betrayed him. He needed lessons in fighting.

CHAPTER TWO

He might have stormed off and fallen into the bog, or become lost in the woods, had he not come face-to-face with another man heading toward him. They both halted, staring at each other with mutual surprise.

He was small and plump, of middle years. The top of his head had been shaved, leaving bare scalp surrounded by a black-and-silver tonsure. He wore a heavy wool robe, ostensibly white, although now bedraggled and smeared with grass stains, and he held a cloth-wrapped parcel under one arm. On the extreme end of his pudgy nose perched a pair of glass lenses in a contraption of gold wire that hooked over his ears. Toby had heard of eyeglasses, but never seen any before.

The newcomer peered up at him over them and demanded urgently, "Was she wearing any jewelry?" His voice was high-pitched and squeaky.

Toby blinked. "Who?"

"The Valda woman, of course, the one you think was Valda."

"Er. No. Well, she had a sort of crown thing on her head at table. It was sparkly, so I suppose—"

"But no rings? No pendants?"

"No… A big gem on the pommel of a dagger?"

"Ah! What color?"

With distaste, Toby concluded that the older man was either drunk or mentally deranged, and the only thing to do was humor him. "Yellow."

The little man shook his head as if that was a wrong answer, then quickly raised a finger to push his glasses higher, although he continued to peer over them instead of through them. "Black crescent emblem? You're sure? Curved left or right?"

"Um. No. Hamish saw it."

"Tell me everything you saw, then."

"Why?"

At Toby's back, Rory laughed. "You'll have to take it slowly, Father. Short, simple words. Toby of Fillan — Father Lachlan of Glasgow."

Toby noted that the robe had a hood and remembered what Hamish had told him. "You're an adept?"

Father Lachlan twitched angrily and again caught his spectacles before they slipped off. "I prefer to be described as an acolyte, although I am on leave from my office at present. I am also a friar of the Galilean Order. I must hear all about this Valda woman."

"Why?"

The little man seemed to find the question incomprehensible. "Because she is dangerous, of course! And evil, if she is who you think she is. Now sit yourself…" He peered around as if looking for a chair. "Right here will do, I suppose." He flopped down on the loam, adjusted his spectacles again, and addressed Toby's sporran. "I must hear everything you saw, everything you heard."

"Why?"

Rory laughed again. "He's trying to help you, Baby Beef."

Toby almost asked, "Why?" again. What reason could a total stranger have to aid him? On the other hand, he had a demon in his heart and had resolved to seek out a sanctuary. Although he distrusted any friend of Rory's on principle, he would have to ask help from somebody. He stared down uncertainly at the shiny bald scalp.

"You can talk on the way, Father," Rory said. "Are those my shoes?"

"Oh… yes, of course."

Rory helped the little man rise and took the parcel, which comprised a pair of silver-buckled shoes wrapped in thick tartan socks. "You don't need that, Man Mountain!"

Meg and Hamish had arrived also, and Hamish was solemnly offering Toby his broadsword.

He said, "Thanks!" and put it on. Then he accepted his bundle also. Meg looked cross, Hamish uncertainly amused.

"I said, you don't need it!" Rory repeated angrily. "It makes you stand out like Beinn Bhreacliath. It's liable to get you shot on sight."

"I am not your man!" Toby snapped. "Go away. We don't need your help to walk to Oban."

Rory scowled, unconsciously rubbing his chest as if it hurt. "You need someone's help, Longdirk. All right — carry the horrible thing if you want. Now tell Father Lachlan the whole story, everything you can remember, every detail. And don't forget your dreams in the night."

He waved for Hamish and Meg to accompany him and marched off through the trees in his shoes.

The acolyte had been ignoring the bickering, looking mostly impatient. He put a hand on Toby's arm to urge him forward. "Come along, my son. Tell me about the woman. Did you have dreams of her in the night — vivid dreams, I mean?"

"Yes, sir. Very vivid. I… I think she conjured…" He clenched his fists and said it: "I think I may be possessed."

The little man shrugged. "That's what we fear, of course. Tell me everything, and we'll see. It's possible, but there are other possibilities." He peered quizzically at Toby and then smiled. "I'm not about to stick a knife in your heart! Even if what you fear is true, there is still hope! But you must give me all the facts. Did you, um, couple with the woman?"

"Certainly not!"

"Even in the dreams?"

"No."

"That's good. I'm sure that helps. Now, begin at the beginning."

Trying to have faith that he was not dealing with a lunatic, Toby began at the beginning, the hob's warning. Father Lachlan displayed a talent for asking penetrating questions and proved to be a concerned and attentive listener, despite his distracted manner. Much to his surprise, Toby found himself telling everything.

Rory seemed to know where he was going, although the woods were totally bereft of landmarks — it would be difficult to become seriously lost in a gorge like Glen Orchy. He strode on confidently, chatting with Meg and keeping Hamish at hand, so he did not linger and eavesdrop on the conversation proceeding in the rear.

Toby's tale had progressed only to the laird's dinner when he saw that the others had stopped. Rain had begun to fall, a fine misty rain sifting down from the brooding morass of gray clouds. Meg was arranging her cloak over her head. Hamish and Rory were similarly adjusting their plaids. The waxed wool would resist the rain, at least for a while.

Toby began to follow suit and at once ran into difficulties with his broadsword. Rory watched his struggles with open scorn. "Throw it away, Longshanks! It's worse than useless!"

True. But to throw it away now would be to admit that he had been wrong all along. So he wasn't going to.

Gaining no response, the rebel frowned. "This is irrational! Why? Do you think you look romantic with it? Do you expect Miss Campbell to swoon when she looks at you? Even you can't swagger with a thing that size."

Still Toby did not reply. He did not know why he was keeping the sword. He hoped he was motivated only by pride and mulish stubbornness, not by demonic possession, but the great weapon still gave him the same seductive thrill he had felt when he first handled it in Annie's cottage. He wanted to part the air with it, hear it whistle. A fast blow, and torrents of blood… When the others moved off again, he followed with the broadsword back in place over his plaid, its straps threatening to rub holes in his shoulder.

Father Lachlan had pulled up the hood of his robe, but it forced him to crane his neck to look up at Toby, so he soon let it fall back again. He was fascinated by Toby's account of having seen himself from the outside. "That must have been a strange experience! Were you looking at yourself from one direction, or from all around?"

Toby thought about it. "From all around, I think. I could see the signs painted on my chest and the marks the manacles had made on my back, too."

"At the same time?"

"Um… Think so. I'm not sure."

"Remarkable, though! What color was the light…?" He caught his spectacles just before they fell off.

The trees were thinning out, giving way to settled countryside, with crofts, and cattle, and dry-stone pens. The glen itself was widening into a strath and starting to look familiar. The hills to the left were still cloud-capped, but the precipitous slope on the right must be Beinn Donachain. Soon the travelers would reach the Glen Lochy road, with Dalmally no more than a couple of miles ahead.

This was the heart of Campbell country. Were the weather better, Ben Cruachan itself would be visible from here, as Hamish had annoyed Rory by mentioning. "Cruachan!" was the war cry of the Campbells, and Rory had shouted it to attract Jeral's attention when they escaped from the bog. Therefore Rory was certainly no MacDonald and not from Glencoe.

So who was he? Why would he go to such trouble to assist three young fugitives who had absolutely no claim on him? Toby would dearly like to know what his real motives were. His only failure so far had been with the wisp, and that could be blamed on Toby's resident demon.

He told himself to stop being a sourpuss and just be grateful for the unearned and unexpected help. Trouble was, he was not good at gratitude; he lacked experience.

CHAPTER THREE

Drizzle grew to downpour. Toby completed the story of his adventures and then described his loathsome dreams also. The rising wind threw rain to cool the flush on his face and snatched the hateful words from his mouth. Father Lachlan listened in silence, nodding and pursing his lips, but otherwise showing no reaction until the story was ended.

Then he sighed. "That's all? You don't remember the name she was calling you?"

"No, sir. I think it was a woman's name… but I'm not sure. It was only a dream, not real."

"Never mind, then. Can you remember anything you've left out? Anything at all you didn't mention because it didn't seem important?"

"No, sir — Father. I think I've told you everything."

He was astonished that he had so easily confided his troubles to a total stranger and even more surprised that he should feel such a sense of relief at having done so. Now he waited anxiously to hear what the acolyte concluded, but Father Lachlan just plodded on, staring blankly at the watery landscape, biting his lip. The movement repeatedly caused his eyeglasses to slide down his nose, and he would push them back up again with one finger.

At last Toby could stand it no longer. "I wondered if the hob helped me escape."

"Something did," the acolyte muttered absently. "But what? And escape from what?"

"Am I possessed?"

"Mm?" Father Lachlan looked up as if surprised. Then he smiled faintly and reached overhead to pat Toby's shoulder. "I don't know, my son, but you do! If you had a demon, you would know it, because you would be caged up in a tiny corner of your mind, unable to do anything but watch. A demon enjoys tormenting its host by letting him see what horrors his body is performing. I don't think that is what you are experiencing — is it?"

"No, but that's how it began, and then—"

"Demons do not go away of their own accord!"

"Not even…" Toby wished he was better at explaining things. "I thought it might be like owning a horse. Sometimes the owner rides the horse, other times he lets it run in the pasture."

Father Lachlan chuckled and shook his head. "Never heard of a demon dismounting, not even for a minute! Demons enjoy tormenting their hosts as much as hurting other people. Granted, possession can be hard for outsiders to detect if the demon is wily, but the victim knows the truth. Sometimes possession is completely obvious, of course. Those two you think you killed in the dungeon, for example — were they men or demons? Well, the test in their case is whether they are truly dead, or if their bodies are still walking around."

More than the lashing rain made Toby shiver. "That's really possible?"

"Oh, yes. Only for a few days, then the flesh decays too far to sustain even a demon. But that's not a test we are about to apply to you!"

Others might not be so well-intentioned. How could a man prove that he was not possessed without dying? Father Lachlan's opinion would be comforting, if Toby had any reason at all to believe he was telling the truth.

"Do you not have powers to find out?"

The little man blinked at him. "Powers? My son, I have no powers!"

"None?"

"None at all! I have some knowledge of matters spiritual and demonic. I obey the precepts of my order, and I serve the Glasgow tutelary, which has on occasion granted my petitions, so it would seem to approve of my efforts, but—"

"Efforts to do what?" Toby said angrily.

"To aid others. This is my vocation — to help others."

"Help how?"

"As an acolyte, by interceding with the tutelary on their behalf. As a friar, by giving comfort, by spreading the philosophy and ethics of the great founder of my order."

"You even help strangers?"

"Why not?" Father Lachlan smiled gently. "Anyone will help his friends and family! You are troubled and I am honestly trying to be of assistance. Why do you suppose I have been asking so many questions, my son? Just out of nosiness?"

Toby shuffled his feet in the grass. "I'm sorry. I never met an acolyte before. I thought… I wondered if you were just one of Rory's men."

"Whose? Oh, Rory! Yes, Rory. Well, I support the cause, of course — whatever else I am, I am also a true Scotsman! But I would still help you if you were an Englishman. Even if you were King Nevil himself, I…" The little man fell silent, as if struck by a novel idea. He chewed his lip, repeatedly adjusted his eyeglasses, and made no sound except for the wild flapping of his gown.

Toby considered picking him up and shaking him like a riddle — perhaps an answer or two would fall out. There was an interruption, then, as they reached a wide and boggy burn. The other three were already across, heading over the pasture toward a group of three cottages. Toby jumped over it and turned to hold out a hand for his companion, but Father Lachlan hitched up his robe and made a surprisingly agile leap. Toby snatched the spectacles out of the air and returned them to him.

"Thank you," the acolyte said calmly, replacing them on the end of his nose.

"Rory knows who lives here?" Toby demanded. He could see no living thing except shaggy cattle, but a dog was barking. He realized that unexpected visitors could no more hope to pass unobserved through Strath of Orchy than through Strath Fillan. Someone would challenge.

"He knows just about everyone!" Father Lachlan said cheerfully, resuming the journey. "Where were we? Oh, yes. The most reliable evidence of possession is superhuman power, of course."

Despair! "Then I am possessed!"

"Why do you say so?"

"I twisted iron bars like string! I broke men's necks, I—"

"Mmph! Your feats of physical strength do not impress me."

"They impressed me!"

"Oh, no. In emergencies, people can often display astonishing strength. You are probably far more powerful than you realize. Your ability to see in the dark is more worrisome."

"Only sometimes! And what of the way I rode the horse, Falcon? And finding my way out of the bog?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" Father Lachlan said in his squeaky, fussy voice. "You have displayed some superhuman abilities, but possession is not the only possible explanation of those. Lady Valda may just have put a hex upon you. I can think of a hundred things it might be… She may have planned to send you out as an assassin, for example, to hunt down King Fergan and slay him. Or King Nevil, for that matter. She seems to have selected you for your size and strength. Having chosen a doughty vessel for her perfidy, she may have granted you some demonic abilities to aid you in your task." He beamed encouragingly at Toby.

"Do you believe that?"

He sighed. "Not much. But it is possible; and I don't believe you have a demon! If you do, then it is the most subtle, sophisticated demon I ever heard of. It is making you seem and sound like a very likable young man. You rescued your friends and, ah, Rory, from the bogy."

Toby could not recall anyone ever describing him as likable before. He wasn't sure he approved. "I had to rescue myself and they were tied to me."

"Paw! You could have snapped those ropes like darning wool, couldn't you?"

"I suppose so." He had twisted iron bars.

"No, you rescued three mortals you could have left to drown, and that simple little altruism would be beyond almost any demon, no matter what the stakes. You must remember," Father Lachlan told him sternly, "that demons are motivated only by hate. Originally, they were just primitive earth spirits, elementals. Such entities have enormous powers, but very little inclination to use them. A village hob, like the one you knew, has acquired a rudimentary concept of morality, but completely undomesticated elementals have none at all — good and evil come from mortals. Hexers know ways to enslave elementals, ripping them from their natural haunts and imprisoning them in objects, usually gems. By gramarye, the adept compels the demon to do his bidding."

"Could he not do good with the demon instead of evil?"

Father Lachlan adjusted his eyeglasses. "Perhaps some of them have such designs initially, but remember that they begin with an act of great cruelty. I don't suppose pain is an adequate description of whatever a demon feels, but to tear it away from its natural locale is itself a form of rape. How can such a person have good intentions? How can the demon itself be well-disposed toward mortals after that, or while it is caged and deprived of its freedom? Lady Valda was reputed always to wear three great gems: a ruby, a sapphire, and an emerald. She was therefore assumed to own three demons. From what you tell me, I suspect that she has since gained two more and transferred four of them into the hooded bodies you saw, demonic creatures."

And the yellow gem on the dagger was the fifth? "Then she tried to do the same to me? But why?"

"Perhaps that was what she was trying." The acolyte pulled a face. "As to why… who knows how such a mind works? It depends on what she plans, I suppose. To invoke the powers of a bottled demon takes time. It involves ritual — conjuring — gramarye. You witnessed her at work, so you know the sort of rites she must use. An incarnate demon is more easily biddable. Its powers are not as great, but it can act faster, obey simple orders. It is more dangerous in a sense, and more demonic. If it felt pain before, now it must also learn fear, because it has become to some extent mortal." He shook his head and hastily caught his spectacles. "The result can only be evil, my son, never good. A demon is always driven by hatred."

Toby would enjoy taking Rory down a peg, and he was convinced that Fat Vik deserved a thorough thrashing, but only that. He had no desire to murder anyone. He could spare no tears for Colin and very few for Godwin Forrester — but he still could not believe he was driven by hatred.

"So what roused the wisp against you?" the acolyte murmured. "What provoked the robed man to try and put a dagger through your heart? He must be on Valda's side, so whose side did he think you were on? It's all very murky, my son! I have never met a more complex case. The best we can do is get you to a sanctuary as quickly as possible — preferably before you sleep again, although that does not seem possible, does it? A tutelary can detect possession and sometimes cure it. Even a spirit may be able to help, and the closest shrine happens to be in Glen Shira, whither we are bound anyway."

"We are? I thought we were going to Oban!"

"There is no tutelary at Oban, now," the acolyte said sadly. "There was once, but York sacked the town, remember."

More history… the English army under the duke of York had rampaged through the west in one of the previous wars. Toby could not recall which one, and did not care. "Why does that matter? It was rebuilt, wasn't it?"

"The town was, yes. But a tutelary will not let you sack its town! It isn't just firearms that give the Sassenachs their victories, my son. They use gramarye, too. I suspect that this is why, er, Rory is so interested in you, because—" He stopped and caught at Toby's arm as he was about to scramble over a dry-stone wall. "I think we should wait here a minute."

A hundred paces ahead, Rory, Meg, and Hamish had been challenged by four men from the cottages. Trouble?

Toby's hand reached for the hilt of his sword.

"Wait? Why?"

The acolyte chuckled. He sat down on the wall and turned his face away from the wind. "Because it will be easier for them. If they are questioned, they can admit to speaking with a man and two children. They need not mention a friar and a young giant carrying a broadsword."

"Oh." Perhaps Rory was necessary, after all. The waiting men had obviously recognized him. They were pulling off their bonnets and bowing. What did that say about the self-styled Master MacDonald?

Toby turned back to Father Lachlan. "Why Glen Shira? I promised Meg's father I would guide her to Oban." What were these two up to — Rory and his pet acolyte?

The little man smiled reprovingly. "She might make it, my son, although she would be questioned. You cannot go that way — not directly. Remember, there are three groups hunting you. Laird Ross and his men will pretend to cooperate with the Sassenachs, while doing everything they safely can to frustrate them. The Sassenachs themselves are much more dangerous. They will have blocked the three main roads — north by Bridge of Orchy, south through Crianlarich, and west through Dalmally and Pass of Brander. We are not far from Lochy Castle, you know." He waved a chubby hand at Glen Lochy, which had now come into view.

Toby hitched his sword to a marginally less uncomfortable position and wished he could hear what was being said at that meeting up ahead.

"So how do we go to Glen Shira? And how do we get from there to Oban?"

"We go on down the Shira. When we reach Loch Fyne, we take a boat. Outwitting the soldiers will not be difficult."

"Who pays for the boat? Who will sail around the Mull of Kintyre at this time of year?" It must be nice to be a trusting sort of person, who did not see betrayal in every cock-and-bull story.

"Or we can cut inland to Loch Lomond."

"And Lady Valda?"

Father Lachlan sighed and studied Toby for a moment with a disconcerting stare. "If she is pursuing you also, my son, then I fear for you — body and soul."

The only comforting thought then was that he would not have said so if he doubted Toby's courage.

Rory had finished his consultation with the locals. They turned and ran off, one to the cottages and the other three in other directions. Father Lachlan rose to clamber over the dike. About to vault it, Toby remembered his sword and took a more cautious approach. He would rather not fall flat on his face with Meg and Rory watching.

"The hunt is on," Rory announced when they reached him. He looked annoyed. Hamish looked owlish. Meg was blue-lipped and shivering. "The Sassenachs have set guards on the Pass of Brander."

"Where did your friends go?" Toby demanded. "And where are they off to?" A stream of youths and leggy boys had begun emerging from the cottages and haring off over the pastures, one after the other. Six… seven…

Rory's silver eyes were as cold as the weather. "To make arrangements. Certain persons will be discouraged from seeing certain things. We will be advised when it is safe to cross the road. And so on." He obviously had no doubts as to who was in command of the expedition.

"No word of the lady?" Father Lachlan inquired.

"Not so far."

Toby had promised Kenneth Tanner that he would deliver Meg safely to her relatives in Oban, but to stick to the letter of his promise now would be to break it in spirit. He represented the greatest danger she would ever face. He must reconsider his duty in the light of circumstances, even though that meant putting trust in strangers — never Rory, but an acolyte ought to be reliable if any man was.

"Wait!" he said. "It's me the Sassenachs are after. They have no quarrel with any of you. You all go on. I won't—"

"Not a chance, Longdirk." Rory spoke softly but emphatically. "Firstly, that's not true. And we're all in this together, anyway."

"Don't be crazy! You all go on; I'll take to the hills. Father Lachlan, will you pledge to see Meg Campbell safely to her cousins' place? I promised her—"

"You're wasting breath, young man," the acolyte said, pulling up his hood and lacing it under his chin. "I am determined to find out what that Valda woman is up to, and I shall be much happier having you where I can keep an eye on you. Now let us be on our way."

Rory made an ahem! noise. "Can you give us a few general clues as to what's going on, Father?"

"I wish I could." The little man pondered for a moment, and then spoke with an authority and decisiveness he had not shown before. "I do think Hamish Campbell was right, and the mysterious woman is the infamous Lady Valda—" Hamish beamed. "There can't be many female hexers on the loose, and her appearance here may explain Oreste."

Rory nodded. "Ah!"

Toby said, "Oreste?"

"We are worried about Baron Oreste." We meant all the rebels, presumably. "He is one of Nevil's closest cronies and a notorious hexer, a most evil man. He arrived in Scotland a couple of weeks ago and is still lurking around Edinburgh, as far as we know. We have been wondering what could be so important as to require his attention here."

"Could he be hunting for King Fergan, sir?" Hamish said, looking as worried as if the Oreste problem were all his fault.

"We thought that," Father Lachlan murmured. "Now the timing suggests he may have come in search of the lady. As to what happened… apparently she tried some sort of conjuration involving Master Strangerson, but I don't know what. It seems to have failed, or produced unexpected results — that's my guess. She may pursue him, and it is up to all of us to keep him out of her clutches. I do not believe he is possessed — if he were, you would be dead by now."

"I would, certainly," Rory said cheerfully, rubbing his chest. "I baited him a little this morning. He displayed remarkable self-control for one of such tender years — almost bovine."

That was what Rory had been up to — testing.

Hamish gulped. "Oh! You thought he might… Wasn't that rash of you, sir?"

The rebel shrugged. "As a mortal, he presented an interesting challenge. As a demon… Well, my father is always telling me I am destined to be roasted with hellfire or ripped to pieces. I thought I could find out if he was correct."

Father Lachlan frowned disapprovingly. "You don't know what fear is, do you?"

Rory looked modest. Toby gritted his teeth and wished he could teach him.

"So how did our oversized friend escape from the castle, Father?"

"You must ask him. Anything he told me was in confidence."

Toby had been watching Meg's horrified eyes growing wider and wider. "Tell them, Father — I don't care. If I am a danger to them, they should be aware of it. They know about the Sassenachs, they should hear of Lady Valda, too. Won't her powers enable her to track me down?"

"Powers?" the acolyte said disapprovingly. "I told you. She has no powers, my son, only evil skills that enable her to command demons. She herself has only knowledge — evil knowledge, and evil designs." The little man began to move away. "Pray that one day one of her demonic minions will turn on her."

Toby raised his voice. "Can her demons track me down for her, then?"

Father Lachlan stopped and looked around and adjusted his eyeglasses. "Well, yes. Of course they can. From what you told me, two of them are probably in poor condition at the moment, but one would be enough."

With a macabre chuckle, Rory slapped Toby on the back. "If they get within range, Longdirk, they'll nail your feet to the rocks. We must move."

"What is their range?"

"Good question! Father?"

"Impossible to say, my son. Some demons are more powerful than others, or more biddable, perhaps — it depends on their training. A bottled demon… Well, I am sure that Baron Oreste in Edinburgh can communicate with King Nevil in London, if that is where he is. Demons incarnate, as Lady Valda's are presently, are much more restricted — but I don't think we should let them get any closer than we have to."

CHAPTER FOUR

Rory called a halt for lunch in the lee of a dry-stone dike. If those were dry stones, Hamish remarked, then he had forgotten what the word meant. The five fugitives hunkered down to pool their remaining supplies. There were no trees to provide better shelter from the downpour, but why not a haystack or a cattle barn? Rory insisted on the wall. He wanted to keep an eye on the road.

He seemed oddly concerned about crossing the road. Some of the locals, he admitted, were unreliable, and Sassenach patrols had been sighted. The road itself, running from Glen Lochy to Dalmally, barely deserved to be called a track. It wandered from house to house, fording burns, detouring around bogs and peat cuts, frequently offering the traveler a choice of several ways, none of them appealing. Strath of Orchy was wide, flat, and marshy, but it was inhabited. No one could cross it by day unobserved.

"The rain helps, though, doesn't it?" Hamish demanded, wolfing the last of Annie Bridge's blood sausage — he had freely handed out his mother's stale baps in exchange. Rain was marching gray armies along the glen, ghostly giants.

"It helps blind the Sassenachs. I doubt it will stop demons."

Hamish gulped on a mouthful.

"So what are you planning, Master MacDonald?" Meg asked attentively.

"I've got patrols of my own out." He did not elaborate.

Just who was Rory MacDonald of Glencoe? Father Lachlan knew him by some other name, and although the younger man treated the older with diffidence, there was no question that the younger was the leader. The cottagers had doffed their bonnets to him, and Highlanders did that for few men.

What motivated these two? Meg and Hamish were here by necessity, but Rory and Father Lachlan would be far better off indoors, sharpening swords by the fireside, than struggling through storm-racked hills for no evident advantage. It was Strangerson whom Valda pursued, so why not just give the young bastard a head start and let him lead the hexer into someone else's shire?

The road — or the nearest branch of it — was only a few hundred paces away, and no one had come along it in the last quarter hour. Beyond it flowed the Lochy, which they would have to ford.

"That's where we're going, isn't it?" Hamish asked, peering into the murk. "That gap? The valley of the Eas a Ghail?"

"And the magnificent mountain to the left of it is Ben Lui," Meg snapped. "You can't see that, either."

"I can see the bottom of it. Going to be steep going, sir?" As Eas a Ghail meant "White Waterfall," he was making a reasonable assumption.

"Steep enough," Rory said. "Ah!"

Three men were approaching from the east, leading a pony loaded with broom, winter fuel. A few minutes later, two others came into sight from the west, with another pony similarly laden. The two groups paused for a brief word, almost opposite the watchers. Then they continued on their respective ways — having unobtrusively exchanged ponies.

"That's it!" Rory said with obvious satisfaction. "The all-clear signal. No patrols. Let's go."

Leaving only some crushed grass and not a single crust to mark where they had been, the travelers scrambled over the dike and hurried toward the road. The men with the ponies never looked around.

Toby found Hamish at his side.

"You don't mind if I use you as a windbreak?" His plaid was already sodden. His lips were blue, his fingers bone-white, but he was grinning happily. He was an outlaw and wore a black feather. Incredibly, the kid was actually enjoying himself!

"Be my guest." Toby suspected that the rain was starting to show signs of whiteness. "When we get higher, we're going to be in snow, and then we'll leave a trail."

"I d-d-don't think demons need snow to t-t-track people."

"Perhaps not."

After a moment, Hamish said, "Who do you think Rory really is?" He was shouting over the wind, but his manner implied that he was whispering. His dark eyes gleamed conspiratorially.

"I have no idea."

"He speaks the Gaelic like a Sassenach."

"Yes he does."

"You think he might have lived in England when he was a kid? Prince Fergan was a hostage in England during the Taming, after the Battle of Leethoul."

Toby shrugged, feeling the wet plaid rubbing his skin under the weight of his sword. "You think Rory is King Fergan?"

"No," Hamish said reluctantly, obviously wishing that he did. "He's too young. A lot of chiefs' sons were taken, too. He may be a chief's son, or even… No, he mentioned his father, so he's not a chief yet. He may be a chief's son!"

"What if he is?" He probably was.

Hamish stumbled along in silence for a while. They crossed the muddy trail, then waded across the foamy brown Lochy, following Rory and Father Lachlan and Meg, who was chattering as if they were all old friends.

"Toby… do you like Meg?"

Toby looked down coldly — which was not difficult under the circumstances. "She's a nice kid."

The boy grinned impishly. "She's madly in love with you!"

"No, she's… Well, she may think she is, but she's not old enough to be really in love."

"She's older than I am!" Hamish said indignantly. "Girls grow up faster than boys do, and she's only a few months younger than you are."

"She is? But…" Toby thought for a moment and then said, "Oh." School memories were no help, because boys were taught in the morning and girls in the afternoon. Meg had been around for as far back as he could remember. She might not be much younger than he was, after all.

Maybe that did make a difference.

Hamish grinned triumphantly. "She's in love with you!"

"How do you know?"

"Everyone knows. The other girls all tease her about it, because she's so little and you're so big."

Did that explain some of her brother's enmity? "I'm also an outlaw, and I'm probably bewitched. She ought to find a better prospect."

"Tell her that!"

"You tell her, if you think it's any of your business."

Hamish shot Toby a wary look. "Father Lachlan's a Galilean, did you know? He was telling me some of their teachings and he says they don't contradict what Pa taught in school, which is mostly Stoic, because there's more Stoics in Scotland than any others — Pa uses some of their tracts — but I know the Socratics have a chapter in Glasgow, and of course the Tartars favor the Arabic…"

Toby listened to the prattle with less than half an ear and mulled over the implications of what he had been told about Meg. The idea was oddly worrying. He liked little Meg. He did not want to hurt her feelings, and he had probably done so already. A man could tell a woman that he loved her and risk being rejected — that was part of the burden of being male. A woman must be more careful, lest she seem brazen. If she dropped a few hints and the man was too stupid to notice, what more could she do? That must make things very difficult for her. He had never really thought of that before.

He certainly couldn't start falling in love now — not with Meg, not with anyone. Until he had been purged of his demon, or hex, or whatever Valda had done to him, he was not fit for human society. And even after that, he would still be an outlaw, and a homeless wanderer with no trade, no money, no prospects. Love would have to wait a long time.

Besides, he had promised Kenneth Tanner that he would treat Meg as a sister.

"Down!" Rory shouted. "Down, you big oaf!"

Hamish grabbed Toby's plaid and tugged. Hamish was already down — they all were. He had been daydreaming. He dropped to the wet moss.

They had come about half a mile from the road. A band of riders had emerged from the mist, heading east, coming fast.

"Toby!" Hamish squealed. "It's them! It's Valda!"

They were too far off to be certain, of course, but horses like those were rare. It was not a military patrol, certainly. Six… the lady, her maid, four demons…? If Valda had used Toby's dreams to locate him, then she would have had no need to detour around by Bridge of Orchy. She could cut him off by taking the Glen Lochy road.

Then what? What could demons do? Could they smell his tracks like bloodhounds? With sick apprehension he watched the sinister cavalcade draw near the point where he had crossed, expecting any minute to see the horses reined in, the hunt turn south in pursuit.

It seemed unfair that demons could travel the world while benevolent spirits like tutelaries remained in one place. Why should forces of evil have such an advantage over the good?

But the riders kept going, onward to the west, and in a few more minutes the rain hid them from sight. Hamish released a loud gasp of relief, speaking for all of them. He scrambled to his knees.

"What happens when she gets to Pass of Brander and finds out Toby can't have gone that way? She'll turn back!"

"Come on!" Rory shouted, jumping up. "We're easy meat on the flats. Let's get into the hills."

CHAPTER FIVE

The land steepened into pasture, then bare hillside. A faint trail climbed the valley of the chattering, frothing Eas a Ghail. Toby discovered that he was alone with Meg for the first time. He wasn't sure if she had arranged this, or he had. It didn't matter. Hamish had gone scurrying on ahead. Father Lachlan and Rory were deep in conversation at the rear.

Her cheeks were bright red; her braids dangled from under a brown bonnet. She looked up expectantly, blinking as the rain blew into her eyes. He smiled. She smiled back — so if she blamed him for her present troubles, she was not going to say so.

Smiling was fine. Talk… he felt totally tongue-tied. Meg had never affected him like that before. He could recall the nights she had turned up at the castle and he had walked her home… he could remember himself chattering like a flock of magpies — like Hamish, even — but now he had no idea what about.

"Er… Um… How're you managing?"

"Fine."

"Cold?"

"Yes."

Oh.

Pause.

"Meg… I'm sorry. I mean, I'm sorry to have dragged you into all this danger."

Her slender eyebrows almost disappeared into her cap. "It wasn't your fault, Master Strangerson. It was my fault for being so stupid, remember?"

"I'm sorry about that."

"You're sorry I was stupid?"

"No! I'm sorry I said that."

"But if a person is stupid, it must be a kindness to tell her so, so that she won't be stupid in future."

Why was talking with women so much harder than talking with men? Why did words seem to change their meanings and simple sentences turn around to bite the tongue that spoke them? Why did humor always become insult and criticism poison?

"You weren't stupid. I was stupid to say you were stupid."

"Then you didn't mean what you said when you said I will soon be a woman and men will start to lust after me?"

Demons! "Did I say that?"

"Indeed you did, sir."

"Then I was wrong."

"Oh?" Danger crackled somewhere in that monosyllable. Bonfires blazing on the mountain…

"I mean, men lust after you already."

"Such as who?"

"Any man!" Toby dearly wished Lady Valda and her demons would descend on him immediately and carry him off. Since that did not happen and he was already in over his head, he snapped, "Me, for instance."

Meg's eyes opened wider than normal. "Truly?" Then she tossed her head so that her braids danced. "I mean… Toby Strangerson, that's a terrible thing to say! How dare you say such a thing! What does she look like?"

"Who?"

"Lady Valda. Describe her!"

What had Toby Strangerson ever done to deserve this? He described Lady Valda. Having totally taken leave of his senses, he went on to relate how she had bared her breast in the dungeon. Then the wind felt icy on his heated face, but it was warm compared with Meg Campbell's expression.

"And you dream of her now, I understand?"

Oh, demons! "Never mind about that!" he said hastily.

Fortunately, they had caught up with Hamish, who had reached a fork in the river and was sheltering against a boulder, waiting for directions. Toby had never been more pleased to see anyone.

He grinned at them with chattering teeth. "Having fun?"

"Fun?" Meg said. "Hamish Campbell, you haven't got the brains of a peewit! Freezing in a storm on a mountain, being hunted by Sassenach soldiers and Sassenach demons, and why would you think we're having fun?"

"Why else would you be holding hands? Helping Big Toby up the hill?"

Meg snapped that she would clip his ear. Toby wondered how long he'd been holding her hand and why he hadn't been aware that he was. He realized, too, that Meg regarded Hamish as he did — as just a kid. That meant she was more than a kid, didn't it? How long had he been holding her hand? Helping her up a steep bit, then not letting go… Had he ever held her hand walking home from Lochy Castle? If this was the first time, why hadn't he been more aware of it? Because he had always thought of her as a child?

"Right fork," Rory said, coming up behind. "I do wish you'd tell me what you're going to do with that sword, boy. How are you faring, Miss Campbell? I wish we did not have to subject a lady to such uncongenial circumstance."

Meg simpered, but she had not released Toby's hand. "Oh, I fare well, thank you, sir! Are we not like the mother plover, who feigns a broken wing and so leads the foe away from her nestlings? We have drawn the hexer away from Fillan!"

"So you have! A very poetic allusion!"

"The plover runs toward danger, not away from it!" Toby said.

Meg looked up at him with disgust.

Rory laughed.

The track soon disappeared altogether. The entire world disappeared behind walls of sleet and draperies of rain. Reality was reduced to rocks, grass, patches of heather, fading swiftly to gray in all directions. It moved underfoot, but never arrived anywhere or changed significantly. The journey had become an endurance test. The only hints of excitement came from the little stream, whose peaty brown waters already frothed at the lip of the banks. The wind buffeted, snatching away breath, trying to freeze any flesh it could reach, turning even raindrops into needles. Rory decreed the way with undiminished confidence, although Toby was hard put to believe he could possibly know where he was.

Hamish lost some of his enthusiasm, no longer questing ahead like a hound. He was the most agile, with Meg a close second, hampered by her long dress. Father Lachlan kept up a steady pace. Toby cursed his outrageous sword and himself for being such a fool. He could not admit defeat and discard it now, of course. A man had pride.

The way grew steeper. Snow swirled in the air now, starting to coat the ground. Only Rory had shoes. Toby had never worn such sissy things in his life, although he had kept a couple of leathers he would wrap around his feet when he attended to the chores in winter. In really bad weather he just stayed home. True Highlanders prided themselves on being hardy, but even true Highlanders had to make concessions to the rigors of their climate sometimes. With a regular job at the castle and his feet grown to full size — they couldn't be going to get any bigger! — he had been reconciling himself to acquiring a pair of shoes and probably a leather cape. He could use them now…

"Can't bring horses up here!" Hamish crowed, scrambling on hands and knees up a scree slope. "This'll stop the demons! Won't it, Father?"

"I expect it will," Rory said cheerfully. "We'll find them waiting for us at the top."

"Is that possible?" Meg asked.

Father Lachlan just nodded grimly and kept on plodding.

Once they came to an overhanging rocky wall that had even Hamish looking baffled. Toby cupped his hands and hoisted him overhead until he found a handhold and scrambled up. Meg smiled gratefully and offered a foot. Then it was Father Lachlan's turn — Hamish and Meg grabbed his arms and pulled him after them.

Rory beamed royally and raised a muddy shoe. Scowling, Toby cupped his hands once more. That left him alone, but he jumped, caught a grip, and swung himself up unaided, sword and all. He found Rory waiting for him, while the other three had moved on ahead.

"You are definitely useful, Muscles." The silver eyes twinkled devilishly. "Too good to waste."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you are promising material. You have strength and a certain raw brute courage, even if your brains leave much to be desired. I'll turn you into a rebel yet! Field craft, horsemanship, swordsmanship, unarmed combat — a month or two should do it. We'll make you the terror of the Sassenachs from the Mull of Galloway to John o' Groat's."

"I'll choose my own enemies, thank you. And my own friends."

MacDonald shook his head. "Lummox, you have already chosen your enemies, and they plan to hang you. Now you need friends, don't you?"

Toby scowled and said nothing. Some men were strong enough to stand alone.

"You don't want any more enemies, do you?"

"Is that a threat?"

"Could be."

It was time to change the subject. "Listen. I've been thinking."

"A novel experience?"

Toby's fists clenched. "If you're so smart, Master MacDonald of Glencoe, then explain something to me. Ten years ago, King Nevil put a price on Lady Valda's head. Has she ever been pardoned?"

"Not as far as I know."

"Then if she's not on Nevil's side, perhaps she's on your side — the rebels' side."

Rory sobered. "Never! She's the sort of help that nobody needs." He strode in silence for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. "All right — here's how I see it. Any hexer is inherently evil. Valda may still be opposed to Nevil, but Oreste certainly isn't. In that case, he's come hunting her for his master and you're mixed up in some sort of demonic duel. If she's made her peace with the king of England, then she's hand in glove with Oreste, which is even worse."

"Doing what?"

"I wish I knew! Hunting down Fergan? That would not be difficult for them. Either of them could find him easily, and then destroy him. Demons are his worst danger. It's no secret — the reason we Scots tend to lose when we fight the English is not just that they have more men and better guns. The Sassenachs often use gramarye, too, and we've never had many hexers in the hills. Theirs is the sort of help you're better off without. Fergan feels that way, or I assume he does, because of the way his father died. You know about that?"

"King Malcolm died at Leethoul, the Battle of the Century." Toby had managed to forget most of the history Hamish's father had taught him; that fragment must have escaped.

"Eyewitnesses claimed he drew his dirk as the fighting started and cut his own throat. Perhaps it's not true, but it could well be. A single demon can't destroy a whole army bodily, but it can swing a battle!

"So even if Valda has dreams of raising an army here to carry on her fight with Nevil, whatever that fight is, I don't want anything to do with her, and I'm certain that Fergan doesn't either. If we won with her help, we'd probably end up wishing we hadn't, and be in a worse state than before." Rory wiped rain from his face. He was very familiar with his king's thinking.

"I don't know what she's up to, but I'm sure I would hate it. One possibility is that she's come to the Highlands to harvest some more demons. Father Lachlan says she has at least four already. With that much power at her command, she can enslave any elemental she can locate, understand? And not just elementals — spirits, even tutelaries!"

"Tutelaries aren't demons!"

"They can be made into demons! They can be enslaved, ripped from their locales… And tutelaries are more… I suppose 'sophisticated' would be the right word — Father Lachlan can explain this better than I can. He says when tutelaries are perverted they make even deadlier demons than simple elementals do. Just because we've never had many adepts here in the hills, we still have more native spirits than the more populated parts of Europe do. You've heard of the siege of Oban? It wasn't the armies that decided that — it was when York's demons overcame the tutelary that the town fell, and the demons roamed the streets, burning people and tearing them apart. So Valda and Oreste between them can do more damage around the Highlands than whole regiments of fusiliers. I just hope they are enemies still, and not partners!"

Toby almost wished he had not asked, but it was a pleasant change to have the rebel drop his flippancy and address him as an adult. It tied in with some of what Father Lachlan had hinted about his motives. Meg had stopped and was waiting for them, but he asked anyway:

"So what's your interest in me, sir? Where do I come into this?"

Rory cocked an eyebrow at him. "Valda wants you as a lover, of course! Lucky lad! Are you willing?"

"Never!"

"No? Quite certain? Don't you lust at all to fondle that pale aristocratic flesh?"

"No!"

"Ha! Any woman scorned can be a dangerous enemy, Longdirk, and that one is hell in a basket! You seem to have a knack for collecting enemies. Don't you think you need all the friends you can get?" With a laugh, the rebel pushed on up the slope to rejoin Father Lachlan.

"Isn't he wonderful?" Meg sighed.

"Wonderful?" That was not a word Toby would have used to describe the man in question.

"Oh, yes! He's a real gentleman!"

"And Lady Valda is a real lady!" Toby snapped.

CHAPTER SIX

The snow had turned back to sleet and then to mere rain. The travelers had reached the pass, a windswept moor flanked by steep hills on either hand. Clouds streamed low overhead, and wind thrashed the heather.

"See the burn?" Hamish exclaimed. "It's flowing the same way we're going! It's leading us!"

"I wish I could move that fast!" Meg sighed.

"Well, it means we're going downhill… Toby? What'ch you looking at?"

Toby had stopped. Everyone looked where he was staring. "Those rocks? You see anything odd there?"

No one commented until Father Lachlan said:

"What do you see, my son?"

"I think I see a hob."

"Indeed? I see nothing, but my eyes are not as good as they were. Anyone else see it?"

"Just rocks," Rory said. "What does a hob look like?"

"Nothing at all when I look straight," Toby admitted. "But out of the corner of my eye… a sort of shimmer. It's right by that pointed one at the moment. It's the way the hob looks, back in the glen."

Hamish squeaked. "I never saw the hob in the glen!"

"I did, sometimes."

"Where?" His eyes were wide, not wanting to disbelieve his hero, but worried that he was being kidded.

"Several places. Outside the schoolhouse a few times. At the games, once — finding out what we were all up to, I suppose. It's nosy!"

"If that one's just watching us," Father Lachlan said, "then I think we should just proceed. Staring may alarm it."

He shepherded them onward. They moved faster than before, edging away from the rocks. The shimmer flitted to another boulder.

"I expect it's merely curious," the friar continued soothingly. "It won't be a hob, not up here, just a wild elemental. They're usually called specters in mountains. Those that inhabit groves of trees are dryads. Bogies in bogs, naiads when they live in water… I doubt if there's any significant difference between the various types."

"Why not a hob?" Toby asked.

"Hobs have some experience with people. But to see any immortal is unusual. This is very interesting! Of course Fillan knew you, so it let you see it. But a wild elemental is another matter altogether! I am truly surprised that you can see it, my son, and more surprised that it is interested in you, because it obviously must be. Most curious."

Toby had to turn his head to watch now, for they had gone by. "Could I go and speak with it? If I gave it an offering, would it help me? Ask it to stop Lady Valda—"

"No, lad," Father Lachlan said sadly. "First, you can never trust a wild elemental. It might turn on you or betray you to the hexer instead of aiding you — remember the wisp? Secondly, to make it understand what you wanted of it would be almost impossible; and then it would probably forget the whole affair as soon as you left. Thirdly, adepts like Lady Valda are constantly on the lookout for more demonic slaves. If she detects that one, she may seek to entrap it — if not now, then later, when she is not pressed for time. That is why I am surprised that it has allowed you to see it. Elementals are naturally distrustful of mortals for that very reason."

"Valda can't be following us!" Hamish protested. "No one could get horses up that hill!"

Father Lachlan did not reply, but Toby was sure he disagreed. Hamish began speaking in Latin with him. The old man responded, seeming to spend more time correcting his grammar than telling him anything.

Quite soon after that, the way pitched downward. The wind was still vicious, but the world grew larger: life began to seem more tolerable. Green hillsides dotted with cattle came into view below the thick flannel sky. The glen ahead was narrow and steep-sided, and apparently almost uninhabited.

Toby was sore, hungry, and soaked to the skin, and he knew none of his companions were in any better shape. The idiotic broadsword had bruised his backbone and made his shoulders ache — but everyone else must be in just as bad a mess, and he felt better being able to see where he was going.

This was new country for him, his first glimpse of the world waiting for him outside the glen. It wasn't much different, except for the absence of cottages.

Hamish had noted that also. "Why aren't there more people?" he demanded of Father Lachlan. The three of them were together at the head of the parade.

"You'd best ask Master Rory about that." The acolyte had pulled his hood back, seemingly oblivious to the drizzle. "I think the earl reserves Glen Shira for hunting."

"Nice for the deer."

Father Lachlan chuckled. "Until he comes for them! Another reason may be Loch Fyne. People would rather live close to the water." A gleam of eyes over glasses suggested that the remark was intended as a question.

"So they can get about in boats."

"Right you are."

"And Loch Fyne is a sea loch, of course, and the sea is the greatest highway of them all. You can sail from Loch Fyne to anywhere in the world, can't you, Father?"

"If you have a ship."

"France," Hamish said. "Castile, Flanders, Aquitaine, the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies…"

"You'd like that, would you?" Toby asked.

He was granted a cheeky grin. "What I'd like most right now would be a warm fire, a dry plaid, and a dead cow on a spit."

"Add one for me," said Father Lachlan, "and two more for Master Toby."

They were both bearing up very well, the boy and the older man. And so was Meg. Toby glanced back. Rory was yattering his head off at her. That was beginning to seem serious! She was very young. That ax-nosed smoothie was trying to impress her with his smarmy manners. Toby had promised her Pa he would look after her, but he couldn't handle Rory. Rory could tie him in knots, even without drawing his sword…

"I beg your pardon, Father?"

The little man smiled up at him over his spectacles. "I said I think that one has her head on straight."

Hamish had run off to inspect the river, perhaps hoping to find a suicidal trout to tickle.

"Uh? Who? Meg?"

"Meg Campbell. I don't think she's any more fickle than most young ladies. You don't need to be jealous yet."

"Jealous? Me jealous? I…" Toby decided not to explain. Let the old man think what he liked.

"Master Glencoe is a better friend than an enemy, my son."

"Friend? The likes of him can never be friends with a churl like me."

"That's not true, my son," the acolyte said gently. "He outranks you, yes, but if you think that prevents him from being your friend, you don't understand the duties of a chief. The relationship between man and master is a very close one. Many legal systems regard it as the closest tie of all, even closer than marriage. My order disagrees, but others do not. A good chief cares very deeply about his men, for they have wagered their lives upon his judgment — as he wagers his upon their courage and loyalty. He values his followers ahead of anything else."

Toby said nothing.

After a moment, Father Lachlan continued even more softly, as if musing more to himself than his companion. "You are not of Clan Campbell, of course, and Fillan lost its hereditary laird. Perhaps that is the trouble?" He peered up shrewdly over his glasses. "We must all take the world as it is, Tobias, and make what we can of it. Everyone owes loyalty to someone. If you own land, you need men to defend it. If you do not, you need a leader to defend you. Soldiers obey their officers, lairds obey their kings. Even kings do homage to the Khan. A good master is beyond price. The law should protect everyone, high or low, but in practice it inevitably favors the great. You will never find happiness or security in these troubled times until you find a good master and give him your heart."

Obviously Toby must now say something tactful. "I admit that I would rather be Rory's man than Lady Valda's. Can you describe this hex you think she put on me, Father?"

The acolyte sighed and pushed his spectacles up his nose so far that he had to pull them down again to see over them. "Not easily. Remember what I said about powers — hexers have no powers of their own. All Valda can do is use gramarye to compel her demons to carry out her wishes, so what she would have done — if she did it, and remember that we are only guessing — is order one of them to force you — or whoever she wanted to put a hex on, that is — to do whatever it is she wants doing." He frowned as if he had confused even himself with that statement. "And a demon's range is not unlimited. It depends on the training it has had and the hexer's skill. Incarnated demons are less potent than those confined in material objects, like gems." He chuckled squeakily. "The irreverent refer to those as 'bottled' demons, by the way."

Toby had a strong impression that his question had not been answered at all. He took another look back at Meg.

He cried out.

In the far distance, a line of riders was coming in pursuit.