by E R Dillon
Pinpoints of light behind his eyelids exploded into a blinding radiance that was terrifying to behold. Like in a dream, the image of his cottage from six years ago took on shape and substance, its roof ablaze with flames leaping skyward. As in a nightmare, the screams of fear and pain coming from within his home chilled his blood and wrenched at the pit of his stomach.
Heedless of danger, he plunged inside through the front door. A blast of intense heat drove him back. He circled around to the rear of the house and kicked in the back door. Smoldering rafters flared to life at the influx of fresh air. Dense smoke billowed around him. Scorching heat singed his hair. He rushed in blindly, only to catch his foot on a yielding object in his path. He pitched headlong onto the earthen floor. Filled with dread at what he would find, he fumbled behind him until his hand grazed the object that tripped him. It was a body. His darling wife. He gathered a handful of her skirts to pull her outside. As he drew her body along, he encountered another, smaller body, the size of an eight-year-old boy. His beloved son. A desolate cry of anguish erupted from his throat. It was an inhuman sound mercifully drowned out by the roar of the raging inferno around him. If only he had not spent half the night out gambling. If only he had arrived sooner to foil the raiders. If only he had stayed at home in the first place to protect his family. But there was no time to castigate himself for what might have been. Falling embers from the blazing timbers overhead burned through his thin linen shirt, searing the skin beneath. Smoke stung his eyes. Tears of loss blurred his vision. He crawled back the way he came, dragging his sad burdens along with him to the doorway and out into the yard beyond. Only then did he pause to look behind him. What he saw was not just a house on fire, but his joy, his hopes, and his dreams going up in flames.
Something warm and soft gently nuzzled his cheek. Please, God! Please let it be his wife’s caressing touch. He opened his eyes to find the gelding’s thick lips an inch or so above his face. Beyond the creature’s head, the stars in the night sky winked benignly down at him.
The urgency of his mission suddenly flooded back to him. He climbed to his feet, ignoring the throb in his temples and the ache in his heart from unrelenting memories, which had returned so vividly to his conscious mind.
The dull gleam of moonlight on a conical metal object in the dirt a yard away drew his eye. It was his helmet, dislodged no doubt when he hit the ground. He picked it up and settled it on his head. He put his booted foot into the stirrup and hauled his bruised body onto the saddle.
That was when he noticed the taut rope slung across his path, its ends tied to a tree on either side. It was apparently meant to throttle him as he hastened down the lane to Ogilvy’s homestead. The deadly tactic would have worked but for his height in the saddle. Thanks to his stalwart Viking progenitors, he was taller than most men, and the rope meant to break his neck merely caught him across the upper chest. Although he took a tumble, he suffered minimal damage, the worst of which was the loss of valuable time.
The smell of smoke and the sound of angry shouts from the direction of Ogilvy’s homestead prompted him to nudge the gelding into a canter. He leaned low on the horse’s neck in case there was a second rope strung across his path. He reached the far end of the lane without mishap. On turning into the clearing, he came upon a scene that looked all too familiar to him.
Crackling flames engulfed Ogilvy’s newly thatched roof. Buds of fire blossomed into dazzling blazons of red and gold, spitting glowing embers high into the night sky.
There were half a dozen horsemen in the open yard, their hooded forms no more than black silhouettes against the backdrop of the burning cottage, yet instantly distinguishable as raiders.
This time, there were a number of men on hand to repel the raiders. Although they were on foot, they wielded Lochaber axes or sharpened pitchforks with deadly intent, more than making up for the lack of a steed.
This time, Ogilvy’s wooden barn was on fire and the fenced enclosure was empty. Stray sheep bustled about the open yard, bleating in fright and generally getting in the way.
The defenders, identifiable as such for being afoot, were likewise silhouetted against the flames. Macalister was easy to spot among them because of his height. Fergus the dog was there, too, bounding back and forth to nip at the heels of the raiders’ horses. His point-eared shadow flitted along the ground like a horned demon cavorting in the firelight. Ogilvy stood near the trees at the edge of the open yard, waist-deep in sheep, holding a pitchfork in his hands.
Kyle withdrew the battle axe from the loop on his saddle. He was about to make his presence as a lawman known, for he did not want to be mistaken for a raider, when a hulking figure on a huge black steed broke away from the other raiders in the open yard.
That particular raider spurred his black warhorse into a gallop, his sword poised to strike, headed straight for Ogilvy, whose attention at that moment seemed taken with someone crouched in the shadow of the trees several yards away from him.
Kyle urged the gelding into a gallop. He shouted a warning to Ogilvy, but he was too far away to be heard. He watched in helpless dismay as the raider bore down on the unsuspecting old man.
The sudden stir of woolly creatures brought Ogilvy’s head around, but it was too late for him to run.
Firelight flashed on naked steel as the raider’s blade descended, striking Ogilvy squarely on the top of the skull. The old man’s knees buckled, and down he went.
An undersized figure, immediately recognizable as Hob, darted out from the shadow of the trees beyond Ogilvy’s body, brandishing a small axe and screeching like a banshee. To Kyle’s horror, the boy ran straight for the raider who had struck down the old man.
The raider, by that time, had turned the black warhorse around and started back to where Ogilvy lay unmoving on the ground.
Hob swung the small axe with all his might at the chain mail skirting on the raider’s thigh, which was as high as he could reach. Instead of a howl of pain, a rumble of laughter came from deep within the man’s chest.
Before the boy could land another blow, the raider leaned down to grab his cloak from behind, hoisting him into the air and letting him dangle there choking, until he dropped the axe to claw with both hands at the tight fabric strangling his throat.
The raider then tossed the boy, kicking and sputtering with indignation, across his saddle bow like a sack of potatoes.
Kyle rapidly closed the distance between them, scattering sheep in every direction. Without warning, another raider cut across his path to head him off. He strained back on the reins, causing the gelding to shudder and balk and swerve at the last instant.
The intervening raider’s sword stroke missed Kyle by a hair’s breadth. Undeterred, the man wheeled his mount and struck out again with his sword.
Kyle parried the blow and countered with a downward chop at a vulnerable spot at the side of the raider’s neck, above his armored shoulder and below the rim of the metal helmet under his hood.
The raider’s cry of anguish ended in a choking gurgle as the axe blade cleaved through chain mail links, sinew, and bone.
The gelding snorted and pranced, its eyes rolling at the smell of fresh blood.
From the corner of his vision, Kyle glimpsed Macalister and another defender running toward him, undoubtedly to render assistance. He waved them away, positioning the gelding directly in front of the raider holding Hob, who was wriggling and squirming like a worm on a hook. From that angle, light from the blaze on the cottage roof illuminated the man’s face, while casting his own features in shadow.
The gelding minced and sidestepped, its nostrils flared, its teeth clamping the bit. “Let the boy go,” Kyle said, keeping a steadying hand on the reins.
“Why should I?” the raider said in a deep baritone.
Kyle had already identified the man from the shape and size of him. The familiar sound of his voice merely confirmed it.
“Because, Sergeant Inchcape,” he said, “only a craven coward would hide b
ehind a child.”
Inchcape pushed back the hood of his cloak, exposing the Norman helmet on his head. “Are you calling me a coward?” he said in a threatening tone.
“You are not only a coward,” Kyle said, “but a liar, a thief, and a murderer, too.”
Hob quit struggling to glance from Kyle to Inchcape and back again, ostensibly more interested in their conversation than in his own predicament.
“I should kill you for saying that,” Inchcape said. “Filthy Scotchman,” he added, his upper lip curled in contempt.
Kyle felt the heat of fury rising in his body. “You murdered my father,” he said through clenched teeth. “I know how you did it, where you did it, and when you did it.”
“Prove it,” Inchcape sneered, evidently confident such a thing could not be done.
“I intend to do just that. In the meantime, you are under arrest for the murder of James Shaw, whom you bludgeoned to death at Loudoun Hill five years ago.”
Fear and desperation crossed Inchcape’s face for only an instant before he regained his composure. “The man was a traitor. He deserved to die.”
“You struck him down from behind,” Kyle said. “A contemptible thing to do, even to a traitor, is it not?”
The two men glared at each other over the heads of their horses, oblivious to the clang of steel, the shouts of men, and the incessant bawl of sheep around them.
“Will you come along quietly?”
“I don’t plan to come along at all,” Inchcape said.
“Do you deny you are answerable to a court of law for your crime?”
“I answer only to my king.”
“You will answer to your Maker this very hour for murder. As blood kin to James Shaw, I challenge you to trial by combat.”
“To the death?” Inchcape said. He sounded hopeful.
“To the death,” Kyle said grimly. His honor and that of his father required no less.
Inchcape let the boy slide to the ground, his eyes fixed on Kyle’s face. He lifted his sword to hold it upright in front of him, after which he swept it out to the side in a mock salute. “Let us lay on, then, shall we?”
As soon as Hob scampered clear of the horses, Kyle and Inchcape began to circle one another, each looking for an opening to strike the first blow.
The others in the open yard, raiders and defenders alike, heard the challenge issued by the Scots lawman and the terms of acceptance by the Englishman. All of them paused in their fighting, as though in mutual accord, to witness the outcome of God’s judgment upon the combatants.
The pop and crackle of the blaze on the cottage roof sounded loud in the hush that followed. Gray smoke from the charred rafters curled listlessly into the air. The tops of the trees, dark against the starlit sky, encircled the open yard like the walls of an arena.
Kyle tightened his grip on the handle of the battle axe. His rancor drained away, leaving in its place an icy calm. He learned long ago as a mercenary never to engage the enemy in the heat of anger. He closed in on Inchcape, prepared to fight for his life. No quarter was expected, and no quarter would be given. Without appearing to do so, he took his opponent’s measure. Even with God on his side, he was realistic enough to assess the chances of his own survival against such a foe.
Inchcape was a heavily muscled man who carried most of his weight in his upper body. His arms were of a length to give him the advantage of a long reach with a sword. Although a blow with the edge of such a weapon might cause massive damage that could maim or cripple a man within protective armor, the killing power of a sword lay in its tip, which, if driven in with sufficient force, could pierce even the chain mail links of a hauberk. A battle axe, on the other hand, was deadlier than a sword, for both the curved blade on one side and the tapered spike on the other could kill with a single well-placed blow.
Kyle watched Inchcape’s every move. As he looked on, he noticed something he previously failed to discern. The man was holding his sword with his left hand. A memory flashed into his head of the night on which Count Jardine was wounded. The hooded man with whom he exchanged blows in the woods also held his sword with his left hand.
The left was called sinister because, as everybody knew, a left-handed man was the bastard spawn of Lucifer himself, whereas the right or dexter signified divine favor.
Kyle doubted the truth of the former. However, in Inchcape’s case, he would make an exception. Neither did he give credence to the latter, for he’d killed his share of right-handed men in battle. What he did believe was that Inchcape and the hooded man in the woods were one and the same.
There was no more time to think on the matter, for Inchcape set spurs to his horse’s flanks.
As the black warhorse passed the gelding on the left, Inchcape leveled a sword stroke at Kyle’s neck.
Steel clanged against steel as Kyle lifted his axe to deflect the blade. As the warhorse lumbered away, he followed through to land a blow on Inchcape’s armored back. Though the angle was awkward, the curved axe blade left a deep gouge in the hardened bull hide.
Inchcape turned his mount and came back to deliver a hacking blow to the left side of Kyle’s body.
Kyle blocked the stroke with the flat of his axe, twisting in the saddle to let the sword blade glance harmlessly off his leather scale armor. He countered with a mighty wallop to Inchcape’s armored ribs, eliciting a grunt of pain from the man.
Inchcape retreated for several yards, only to bring the black warhorse around to charge again. This time, he swung his sword in a tight arc at Kyle’s head.
Kyle parried the blow, retaliating with a downward chop aimed at Inchcape’s neck.
Inchcape flinched away at the last instant, so that the tip of the axe blade merely hewed out a chunk of bull hide, instead of cleaving the flesh beneath. He then purposely wheeled his mount to collide with the gelding.
As the horses staggered to keep their footing, Inchcape reached out to seize the gelding’s bridle.
The two horses spun as one, nose to neck, ears laid back and teeth bared at being forcibly thrust together.
With Kyle unable to move out of range, Inchcape lashed out with his sword.
Kyle presented the shaft of his axe to fend off the blade. Before he could reciprocate with a stroke of his own, Inchcape rained down upon him blow upon mighty blow. Each unrelenting stroke probed for an unguarded flaw. Each hit sought a weakness in his defense.
The clang of metal rang out as Kyle blocked and parried each hacking blow with his axe, summoning all the skill and dexterity he’d acquired over the years. The gelding beneath him bucked and plunged in an effort to divest itself of Inchcape’s restraining hold on its bridle.
Though Kyle was younger and more agile, Inchcape possessed the strength of an ox. The pounding blows began to take a toll on Kyle’s right arm and shoulder. His stressed muscles screamed for relief. His fingers were cramped and nerveless from tightly gripping the handle of the axe.
Inchcape seemed to sense that his opponent was growing weary, for he leaned close to direct a particularly hard blow at Kyle’s head.
Kyle bent to the side, his right arm raised to meet the blade with the shaft of his axe. The force of the blow shattered the hardwood. Flying splinters struck him about the face and neck. The descending sword slammed into his armored shoulder. He gritted his teeth in agony at the jarring impact, certain his right arm had been torn from its socket. Blackness closed in around the edges of his vision. The ground swam around him, and the roar in his ears deafened him. With a great effort, he wrenched himself back from the brink of the bottomless pit that yawned before him.
A fleeting glance at the injured limb assured him it was still there, though it now hung at his side, limp and useless, unresponsive to his command. He raised his head to look Inchcape in the eye, his body braced for what was sure to come next.
Chapter 18
Rather than delivering the killing blow, Inchcape placed the tip of his sword under Kyle’s chin to lift his head an inch o
r two. The flush of triumph on his brutish features was unmistakable, even in the moonlight. His thin lips drew back in a cruel smile, as though to savor the sweet taste of victory.
In spite of cold steel pricking into the bare skin of his throat, hope burgeoned in Kyle’s heart, not for clemency, but for the gift of those few precious seconds he desperately needed to untie the battle axe secured to the saddle roll behind him. The sheathed sword on his left was of no immediate use, for any attempt to draw it with his left hand would be slow and clumsy. Inchcape would surely strike him dead before the blade even cleared the scabbard. His only chance, then, lay in freeing his father’s axe.
His fingers plucked frantically at the leather ties. So intent was his concentration, he barely heard the clank of steel on steel and the angry shouts start up again in the open yard. Evidently, both raiders and defenders saw fit to resume their fighting now that one of the two challengers had prevailed.
“I want to hear you beg for mercy, Scotchman,” Inchcape said. “Like your rebel of a father did on his knees to me.”
“So, you admit you murdered James Shaw,” Kyle said, stalling for time to work on the last stubborn knot.
All of a sudden, the axe came loose in his hand. He grasped the handle firmly, scarcely able to contain his elation. He must wait for the right moment to strike, and then he must strike hard. The blow must count, for there may be no chance to strike again.
“I never said I didn’t,” Inchcape snapped. He tugged on the bridle to bring the gelding and its injured rider even closer. “I’ll see you in hell!” he growled. Instead of a quick thrust to the throat, he swung back his arm with the confidence of a man about to dispatch a helpless foe.
“After you!” Kyle snarled. He swung the axe with all his might in a left-handed stroke, spike forward, at the right side of Inchcape’s neck.
The gelding lurched at that moment to break the curbing grip on its bridle.
The unexpected motion threw off Kyle’s aim so that the spike punctured the bull hide armor on Inchcape’s upper right arm. Sharpened steel tore through the muscle and sinew beneath.