The Watchers Trilogy: Omnibus Edition

by William Meikle

  He was apologetic when he turned back to Martin.

  “You, my lad, will have to fend for yourself. The castle cannot spare any more food without too many questions being asked. But I dare say your barbarian friend here knows the ways of the streams and forests.”

  “I was living on my wits before the lad was born, “Campbell said. “I dare say we will not starve.”

  Menzies stepped forward and clasped Campbell’s arm.

  “Take care of him, he shows promise on the chessboard and I would hate to lose such an opponent,” he said. “Don’t take unnecessary chances—we both know that the Others will come anyway, whatever we do in the intervening time. Do not put yourself in danger unless your life depends on it. And come back safe.”

  He turned and gave Martin a quick embrace, at the same time pushing himself towards the open door.

  “Now go. Barnstable’s messengers are due to leave within the hour, and you don’t want to meet them on the road.”

  And with that he almost ran through the door, which closed behind him leaving them alone with the wind and rain.

  “Which way will you travel?” Martin asked Sean, but Campbell stopped any answer.

  “It is best that we do not know each others movements,” he said. “In case of capture.”

  He didn’t say whose capture, and Martin was suddenly struck with the enormity of the night’s affairs. He had to fight down an urge to return to the door and pound on it until someone let him back in to safety and restored his old life to him.

  Sean, as ever, caught his mood.

  “As usual, we have things turned around,” he said. “Who would have thought that you would be first over the wall while I ride south. We have got our adventure at last.”

  “Aye,” Martin said. “But I have a feeling that it is you who are going into the most danger. Take care, my friend, for I have a pricking in my thumbs and a heavy heart.”

  “Never fear,” said Sean, taking hold of the pony’s reins and leading it away. “We will meet again. I feel it in my blood.”

  Martin shivered to fend off a sudden chill, and turned away so that Sean would not see his tears, and when he looked again his friend was already almost out of sight in the gloom.

  He waved, and it was returned by Sean, and then the pony was lost from sight.

  “He will make it to Sheffield,” he said, more as a good luck talisman than through any great belief.

  “Aye, I’m sure of it.” Campbell said. “But what then? What then?”

  Campbell shook his head as if to clear it.

  “What’s done is done, and she has gone on a path I cannot follow. But come, lad,” he said, turning Martin’s gaze to the north. “You must lead us to a path that will take us over the wall without being spotted.”

  Martin hadn’t thought about that part of it. For the last hour he had thought of little more than being on the other side of the wall, with the Others. Now he realised that he had a task to perform before he even got that far.

  “Which way do we go?” he asked, but the Scotsman shook his head.

  “I came by the gate, remember? I know not the way from here. Until we get over the wall you must lead me.”

  Martin visualised the plan of the town in his head.

  “If we go east,” he said, remembering his watch with Sean from the night before, “There is a patch of wall that is crumbling and is low enough for us to cross. There will be a scramble down a gully on the other side, but that is to the good—it will hide our passage. Once down we will be nigh to the edge of the forest.”

  “Let us be off then,” Campbell said, “For it will not be long before the sky lightens, and it would be best if we are out of sight of the wall by daybreak.”

  For once Martin was grateful for the wind and rain—it served to conceal them as they made their way up the steep bluff, taking care to stay low and out of sight of any watchman who might look south. Although Martin thought that unlikely. Tonight the watch would be keener than it had been for decades, and he doubted that a single eye would be turned in their direction.

  As they approached the crumbled area of the wall, Martin motioned for Campbell to keep low and quiet, but there was no sign of any member of the watch. He began to climb over the wall when Campbell stopped him.

  “Here,” the Scotsman said, pulling apart one of the twin chains of garlic bulbs that adorned the top of the wall. “Fill your pockets with as many of these as you can—we may have need of them later.”

  Martin complied, even stuffing a dozen bulbs under his shirt against his skin.

  They made sure that the remaining chain was whole and secure and, scrambling over it, went further than Martin had managed in his life so far—they were on the north side of the wall.

  He stood there for a long moment, looking back at the wall he had spent so long patrolling. From here it looked smaller, less significant. It did not look like something that would stop an army. When he turned to share his thoughts, he found that the Scotsman was already making his way down, away from the wall. Martin had one last look south before following.

  The gully was steeper than it had looked from on top, and Martin soon found himself scrambling in the dark among wet stones and slippery moss. His ankle turned over one larger stone. He fell, hard, and let out a small yelp of surprise. He was trying to stand when Campbell’s face loomed above him.

  “Would you at least try to make less noise,” Campbell whispered. “We are supposed to be leaving quietly, are we not?”

  Martin’s face flushed hot, and he was glad that the Scotsman wouldn’t see his embarrassment in the dark. He took hold of the man’s proffered hand and pulled himself up.

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  Campbell stopped him with a hand raised to his lips and motioned for Martin to follow him further down the slope.

  Even though he had looked down into this gully almost every day of his life, Martin realised as they descended that he had no idea where he was, nor how far they still had to go before they reached the flatter land beneath the outcrop. The forest butted up hard here and they would be in amongst the trees within a hundred yards of getting out of the gully, but in this darkness, Martin wasn’t even sure about getting that far.

  Suddenly his feet slipped out from under him again and he tumbled, first into a small stream that immediately soaked through every layer of his clothing. Then, when he was trying to regain his balance, his foot slipped on a layer of moss and sent a large boulder tumbling ahead of them which, as it rolled away into the darkness, brought a small avalanche of scree scurrying after it.

  High above them on the wall someone shouted, immediately followed by the loud crack of a musket at the same moment as Martin felt something tugging at his left forearm, and looked down to see the blood already starting to seep from a wound. He felt around it, and was glad to note that it was only in the flesh, with no sign of a musket ball lodged there. There was, however, a lot of blood.

  The shouting was getting louder, and within ten seconds more musket shots followed.

  “It seems like your English hospitality is all that I expected of it after all,” Campbell shouted from somewhere below. “I suggest that we make haste down this slope—it wouldn’t do to get ourselves killed before we’re even out of sight of your home.”

  Another musket shot rang out, and that decided it. Campbell headed the way down and Martin followed, only just able to see the bulk of the Scotsman moving away down the slope.

  More shots were fired, but the watchmen had lost them in the gloom and they were only wasting ammunition. Martin would have to have a word with them about that tomorrow...he stopped himself in mid thought. There would be no tomorrows, not back in Milecastle at least.

  His thoughts had distracted him from what he ought to be thinking about, which was keeping his footing. Once more his foot slipped, but this time on scree, his legs flying from under him and knocking him down hard on his rear end. He fell hard enough to dislodge a fresh area of l
oose pebbles which collapsed, him along with it, and together they rushed headlong down the slope. He only had time for one shout of warning.

  Campbell turned towards him, only his face showing in the dark, then Martin’s flailing legs struck him and they both tumbled away into the blackness in a rush of stone and earth.

  It seemed to Martin that they fell forever, but it was only a matter of seconds before they slowed as the land levelled out. The scree continued to rattle down behind them, and musket shots were following on behind it.

  Campbell was pulling himself to his feet some three yards away from Martin, checking himself out for injuries, when a shot hit a rock only inches from him.

  “Come on,” he said to Martin, “We’re not out of range yet.”

  Martin’s arm had suffered further damage on the way down, and thick blood was dripping from his fingers as he stood. Somewhere back there he had lost his musket, but now wasn’t the time to go looking for it.

  Campbell had not yet noticed that Martin was wounded, and was already walking away towards a darker part of blackness that Martin knew was the start of the forest.

  Just then something small and white plopped down into the earth between the two men, then another. Martin bent down and picked one up. It was a single garlic bulb. They must have been using a catapult to get them this far.

  And suddenly he was laughing, so hard that a fresh pain lanced along his forearm. He howled, a long low screech that he had learned years ago from Sean, and was answered by another volley of shots. He was still laughing when Campbell finally dragged him away, but the laughs had turned to sobs before they had even reached the forest.

  “You’re not going to lose your senses—are you son?” Campbell hissed, and Martin shook his head, but just then another bulb landed on the ground just in front of them, and the laughter rose again. This time Campbell saw the bulb, then they were both roaring and laughing, before Campbell finally dragged them into the relative shelter of the overhanging trees.

  “You’d better have a wee word wi’ your watch,” the Scotsman said. “It seems they believe the bulb to be as potent as a cannonball.”

  “It may be they are trying to persuade the Boy King to laugh himself to death.” Martin replied, and he could feel a manic giggling threatening to rise inside him.

  “Aye,” the Scotsman said, laughing “And it may be with those tactics they’ll succeed. But come, let us not tempt them further.” He led Martin further into the undergrowth.

  Stray shots still rang out, but as they moved further beneath the trees their sound was muffled until soon all Martin could hear was the steady drip of water from the canopy. Even the wind was shut out down here.

  After they had gone thirty yards in, Campbell stopped and turned to Martin. All Martin could see was the pale face seemingly hanging in the darkness, and he had a sudden attack of panic—had the whole night been a charade purely to get him out here? His hand was moving for his sword, but then the Scotsman moved towards him, and Martin could see the concern on his face.

  “But you’re hurt, man. Why did you not tell me?”

  Martin lifted his arm and saw with dismay that the blood was still flowing and that his sleeves were sodden with the heavy red liquid.

  “It’s nothing, merely a flesh wound,” he said, with more courage than he felt.

  “Aye,” Campbell said, “But there’s some beasties in the woods that can smell blood a mile off, and I wouldn’t be wanting to meet any of them on a dark night.”

  Martin started and began to stare around him.

  “Surely they are not here already?” he said.

  “No, it’s not the Others I’m feared of.” Campbell said. “They’ll all be off to serve their Blood King—it’s what they’ve been waiting for all these years. No, I mean normal, flesh and blood beasties. Some of them have thrived, even prospered, under the regime of the Others—bear have been found this far south, and there’s wolves around that would chill your blood to see them. Pray that we never do.”

  Martin stood still as Campbell cleaned and bound the wound, and tried not to cry out as the bandage—made out of part of the sleeve of his shirt—was tied tight. His heartbeat pounded loud in his ears and in the muscle of his lower arm, but there was little pain and he was clear-headed.

  Finally the Scotsman stood back.

  “That’ll have to do for now,” he said. “But we had best be moving on—you’ve left a fair puddle, and a trail that a child could follow.”

  Martin looked down at his feet, amazed at the size of the pool of blood that had gathered there, and at the same time he realised that he could see Campbell clearly—at some point when his wound was being cleaned, the sun had come up.

  He also realised that the rain, if not finally stopped, had eased to a light drizzle and, although water was still running from the trees and making its way down the back of his neck, it was definitely less than it had been.

  “Aye, it’s morning.” Campbell said, seeing the younger man looking around him. “But we’ve a ways to go yet before I’ll be comfortable breaking my fast. Now, how do we get to the road without being seen from the wall?”

  Martin was stunned to realise that Campbell was looking to him.

  “I don’t know,” he said, “I’ve never been over the wall before.”

  “Come on, man,” Campbell said, “Once we get to the road I’ll ken where I am. But until we get there, it’s up to you. You’ve stood up there and looked down often enough—you must be able to see for a good ten miles from there, if not more. Which way do we go?”

  Martin tried to picture the scene in his head. From the wall the ground fell sharply away into the gully they had recently descended. They were about two miles to the east of Milecastle, and the forest was at its thickest here, a stand of birch and alder that stretched away north as far as the eye could see until it came up against a small group of hills in the distance. It butted up almost to the road, and to the west of the road there was a wide expanse of open moorland, wild heather and cottontail that stretched away to the sea some ten miles beyond. The road wended away into the distance, skirted the hills to the north that bounded the forest, and disappeared out of Martin’s ken some fifteen miles away.

  “We have to stay just inside the forest,” Martin said. “From the wall it looks solid, with no way through, so I think that a direct route would take more time than we have. If we head west we will hit the road, but we have a good ways to go before we can safely walk in the open.”

  “Just what I thought.” Campbell said, and sighed loudly. “I had hoped to reach relative safety by nightfall, but crawling about in the trees will take us most of the morning. We’d better be going. Lead the way.”

  Martin pushed his way through the trees, bringing fresh drips of rain on their heads. He headed west, keeping them just inside the tree line. Occasionally they would catch a glimpse of the wall and see small figures along the tops of the ridges, but there were no more gunshots.

  The trees here were twisted and stunted and large hairy mosses dripped from their branches to brush wetly against the men’s faces. Everything that they touched or that touched them was damp and the ground underfoot was wet and boggy. Sometimes they had to skirt large pools, black, dank areas where flies hung thickly in the air. Once Martin thought he saw a flash of russet flank as a deer got out of their way, but there was no sound but the sucking of their boots in the mud. They didn’t talk. Martin did not know what was in Campbell’s thoughts but his own turned constantly to Sean, wondering just how far apart they now were.

  After what seemed like an age, they approached Milecastle, the point where they had to go north. The gate was barely two hundred yards away, and the towers and turrets loomed over them. It had taken them the best part of the morning to cover that small distance. Martin looked up at the tallest turret and wondered if his father was standing there, already waiting his return. He fought off an almost overwhelming urge to step out of the trees and wave, just to see if any
one up in that tower would wave back.

  “Come,” Campbell said. “We must stay hidden in the trees beside the road for a while, but at least we will be heading north.”

  They headed onwards, and for a while he could feel the heavy stone presence of Milecastle brooding behind them, but soon all sight of it was obscured. Far to the west, between the trees, he saw that a thin mist was hanging over the moors, and a constant drizzle hung in the air. The ground beneath their feet was even more sodden than that in the shadow of the wall, and they soon had an inch-thick layer of mud on their boots.

  They had been trudging in silence for over an hour when Campbell finally spoke.

  “We can’t go on like this—it is taking too long. We must take to the road and hope we aren’t seen.”

  Silently Martin agreed, but there was another thought on his mind. “Not only is it taking too long, the rumblings in my innards tell me it is long past time to break fast. Curse Menzies—he could at least have allowed us one day’s rations.”

  Campbell looked at him in mock surprise.

  “Do you think I came out here completely unprepared?”

  He took a small pack from across his back and, digging among the spare garlic he had stashed there, came up with a leather pouch about a foot long and six inches wide. Opening it up he removed several long thin strips of what looked like dried bark.

  “Horse, I’m afraid, and dried last summer, but washed down with some forest water it should go down well enough. Beggars cannot always eat like kings.”

  Martin eyed the meat suspiciously.

  “I had thought it only Frenchies who ate horse meat. I would expect anything of people who eat snails and frogs. But I took you for a more civilised man.”

  Campbell threw back his head and laughed, sending several crows out of the trees in startled flight.

  “Rather horse than rat,” he said. “Or are you trying to tell me that those were coney on the spit above yon fire in the hall last night?”