“Our land ends here,” the woman said. “Your way is far to the east.
She turned to Campbell.
“You will see her again,” she said. “And it will not be far away. You must be strong, for it will be in a dark place.”
Campbell nodded and turned away.
Gwynneth took Sean’s hands in her own.
“Come back and we will tell your story in your pictures,” she said. “A soul is not an empty soul if the body has no pictures.”
She laughed, but there was little joy in it.
“Lennan believed you would prevail. Be true,” she said. “And remember that a brother is always a brother, no matter what changes.”
The doubling was back inside him. Gwynneth was still in front of him, but the sight showed him that she had a child in her arms.
“You will see Lennan’s son’s son,” he said.
“Gwynneth knows,” she said, a wide grin on her face. “And he will have my son’s eyes.”
She didn’t give Sean a chance to reply. She turned away, he blinked, and when he looked again she was lost in the mist.
The two men looked at each other.
“It looks like there are just we two again,” Campbell said. “I still have that stake ready if it is needed.” That was more like a question. In truth Sean was still unsure. He had no desire to drink the Scotsman’s blood, but neither did he want to touch his sword hilt any time soon. He put it to the back of his mind. The important thing now was to get back on the trail of Mary Campbell.
“Do you know the way?” he asked.
“Aye,” Campbell replied. “East.”
No more was said as they headed off down the hill.
Chapter 4
THE INN AT FAR SAWREY 5TH NOVEMBER 1745
Martin and the doctor arrived in Far Sawrey just as the last rays of the sun were fading in the western sky.
Menzies was short of breath, his face grey with fatigue, sweat sticking his wispy hair to his forehead.
“I told you we would make it by nightfall,” he said.
Martin managed a smile, although in truth he too was exhausted. They had ran almost all afternoon, trying to make some headway on the Boy-King’s mind-slaves. Five of the pale figures had followed them the whole time, sometimes only a few hundred yards distant, sometimes more than a mile, but at all times doggedly following.
“There are only five,” Martin had said after running for nearly eight miles. “And we are trained men. We should stop and fight, not run like cowards.”
“I am old and tired, and you are recovering from a near-fatal wound,” Menzies said. “What do you suggest, sire...three for you and two for me? I don’t think I could take even one in my current state.”
And so they ran. By the time the two men trotted down the path towards the inn their pursuers were once more only four hundred yards behind.
“It looks empty,” Martin said.
“Aye, sire,” Menzies managed to pant. “And that is not a good sign. I only hope they have not moved on. I fear I cannot run any further.”
“Then we had best get inside. And quickly.”
Although it wasn’t yet early evening, the inn door was closed and when Martin rattled the handle he discovered the door was locked.
“There are true Englishmen here needing shelter!” he shouted, but there was no answer.
“Let us in!” Menzies called. “We are men of Milecastle and we are in peril.” This time the doctor pounded on the door as well. It rattled in its frame, but he could tell that it was solid oak, and unlikely to be impressed by his efforts.
Martin rattled the door again. “Open up, in the name of Jesus Christ!” But still there was no answer.
“Sire,” Menzies said, and there was a tremble in his voice.
Martin turned, and found that the Boy-King’s mind-slaves were almost on them. He only had time to draw his sword before the first of them lunged forward.
He found himself facing a man who looked more dead than alive. His heart leapt in his mouth. For a second he thought he was facing a fellow officer of the Milecastle Watch, but then he realised that he did not know this thing...he couldn’t bring himself to think of it as a man.
His adversary had been an officer of the Watch though—the uniform betrayed that. But he hadn’t come from Milecastle. The implications of that fact would have to wait. It was time for fighting, not thinking.
Martin had time to get his sword up to defend himself. There was a gaping wound at his attacker’s shoulder...one big enough for Martin to lose his fist in, but there was no blood. The Boy- King’s slave didn’t blink, and didn’t flinch as Martin thrust his sword deep into its stomach. It kept coming forward, pulling the sword from Martin’s grasp even as its hands reached for his throat.
Martin grabbed the thing’s arms and threw his weight backwards, taking his attacker with him. Using a move practised a hundred times in drill he dropped his right hip and tossed the grey man over his back. It nearly worked but another grey figure came from his left, and hit them side on. Martin lost his balance and all three were dragged to the ground.
As he rolled among the thrashing bodies trying to regain his footing, he could hear a struggle from his left, so at least Menzies was still alive...but for how long?
Suddenly one of the bodies on top of him was lifted away and he was able to grapple his first attacker around so that he had him pinned to the ground by the shoulder.
“Lift its head, Gord.” He heard a voice say, just before there was a deafening blast. Bits of flesh fell on Martin but he had no time to think as the grey man beneath him tried to struggle free.
He was dimly aware of another blast over his head, and his head rang in sympathy. Martin shook his head, trying to clear it as the thing got one of its hands free and reached for him. Martin reacted instinctively. He let go of the grey man’s shoulder and dug his thumbs into the eyes, gouging and tearing. There was a rippling in his arm again, and once more the wolf hairs ran along the back of his hand.
“No!” Martin shouted, and thrust his hand forward. He felt the bones of the thing’s head crumble under his fingers, then cried out in disgust as he drew his hand away covered in blood and brains.
“You can stop now,” a voice said above him dryly. “I think it might be dead.”
Martin looked up, and up further. The man who had spoken was the tallest person Martin had ever seen. Martin had thought Barnstable was big, but this fellow was a head higher again. Barnstable would have got him on bulk though—there was little more than skin and bone on the figure who helped him up.
“Gord Rollo at your service,” the man said. He had a faint accent that Martin couldn’t place, but his smile was broad and his eyes sparkled as he helped Martin to his feet.
“Ah, I see you’ve met my cellarman,” another voice said to his right, and Martin turned to see a bald, round man leave the inn. He was carrying a blunderbuss with a barrel that flared by at least six inches.
The round man patted the barrel of the gun.
“I always knew I would need old Susie again one day. I’m just glad she still works.”
“And so am I,” Menzies said. The doctor was just getting to his feet. He had an egg-sized bruise under his left eye, but otherwise looked none the worse for wear. There was a headless body at his feet, and blood and brains scattered across a wide area. In all, five corpses littered the small yard in front of the Inn.
The old doctor groaned. “I’m glad to see your aim has improved,” he said to the man with the gun. “But then again...it could hardly get any worse.”
“Sawney? Is that you, Sawney?” the bald man said.
“Aye,” said Menzies. “But it’s Doctor Menzies to you.”
Martin was amazed to see a broad grin break out on the doctor’s face as the bald man grabbed him in a bear hug and waltzed him around in a circle.
“It’s good to see you, you auld bugger. I thought the Boy-King would have got you for sure.”
&nbs
p; “It was a close run thing,” the doctor said. “But put me down before you do a job for him and break my back.”
The doctor was put back on his feet, and Martin noticed for the first time that the bald man had only a stump for a left hand.
“And you must be Fitzsimmons,” he said. “I must thank you for the aid you gave my friend.”
“Ah. The scarecrow made it back then?”
“Aye. And he survived the attack of the Others. Even now he is somewhere across the wall,” Martin said.
“Still chasing the lass? The pale one with the zombi stare?”
“Aye,” Menzies said. “For she is of great import in the Boy-King’s plans.”
“So we have stories to tell, and ale to drink,” the innkeeper said. “Come inside…it will soon be full dark and no time for Christian men to be abroad.”
“And since when were you a Christian man?” Menzies said, but followed Fitzsimmons as he turned back to the door.
“What about the bodies?” the tall thin man said.
“Leave them,” Fitzsimmons answered. “If they’re still here in the morning we’ll bury them, but for now I need a drink.”
Rollo looked down at the body at his feet.
“I’ve never seen one whose skull disintegrated so easily,” he said.
Martin shrugged.
“Maybe he was partly turned. He certainly put up a good fight.”
“Mayhap you’re right.” Rollo said, but he didn’t look convinced. Martin said nothing. He didn’t want to raise the man’s suspicions any further. Besides, he had just killed, with his bare hands, for the second time in as many days. He couldn’t seem to stop shaking.
“That’s young Gord?” Menzies said.
“Aye,” Fitzsimmons answered. “He’s grown a bit since you last saw him.”
The innkeeper put his good arm around the doctor and led him into the inn. Neither noticed that Martin stood where he was, tremors shaking his body. He was staring at his hand. It was normal again, but the sight of the blood and brains that still dripped from his fingers caused the gorge to rise in his throat.
“Your first kill?” Rollo asked him.
“No,” Martin replied. “But they don’t get any easier.”
“That’s what makes us men,” the tall man said. “Come inside and get some ale into you. I always find it helps.”
Martin thought of the hairs that had appeared on his arm and hand, and wondered if anything would ever help, but he allowed himself to be led into the inn. There were no customers, only the four men and one woman who was cleaning the tables.
“Megan. We have visitors. An old friend,” the innkeeper said. She looked up, and her face lit up in a broad smile.
“Sawney. Have you come to give my old man his arm back? Come over here and give me a cuddle.”
Martin thought the old man would be embarrassed, but he almost ran across the bar to be enveloped in the woman’s embrace.
“Hey. Put him down,” Fitzsimmons said. “He’s not as young as he used to be.”
“You haven’t changed,” the doctor said to Megan when he came up for air. “And I wish I was thirty years younger, then I might take you away from this pirate here.”
“If I was thirty years younger I’d go with you,” she said, and the doctor, the innkeeper and his wife were all suddenly laughing together.
“I take it you three know each other?” Martin said.
“You could say that,” Fitzsimmons replied. “Thirty year ago old Sawney here had passage in the Indies with us. Let us have some ale and I’ll tell you some tales to make your hair curl.”
“Don’t listen to him, my Thane, he is a notorious braggart,” Menzies said.
“Aye. And I learned from a master.” Fitzsimmons said, before the import of what the doctor had said sunk in.
“Thane? But I thought your Thane to be an older man.”
“Aye. He was.” Martin said, and suddenly tears were flowing down his cheeks, and he had to sit down before his legs gave way.
“Christ, lad, I’m sorry,” Fitzsimmons said, and awkwardly patted Martin on the shoulder. “Gord. Go and break open a barrel of winter Porter. We won’t have any customers to drink it, and the lad needs something stronger than that cat’s piss you call ale.”
Gord left the room singing a ditty about “A wench from Brest with a great big chest…” at the top of his voice.
“Don’t mind him,” the innkeeper’s wife said. “He’s a colonial and can’t help himself.”
“Come on, Megan,” Menzies said. “That was thirty years ago. The man’s as English as you are by now.”
“Don’t go saying that to his face, Sawney. His family were old Scots from the days before the dark came to Scotland, and he says he can trace his family back to a sheriff of St. Andrews. You know what these colonials are like—always looking for links back to the old country. Do you remember...?”
“Now stop right there,” Menzies said. “No reminiscing without food inside us. We have been running from those black bastards all day. Is this how you treat guests these days?”
Megan gave the doctor a look that would kill a lesser man. “You’ll have bread and cheese and like it,” she said. “And anyway, the Sawney I remember didn’t eat when there was drink available.”
“That was before I spent a night down a well, ran all day from brain-dead zombi, then nearly got my head blown off by a pirate with a gun. I do believe I might be able to eat something.”
“Now calm down, Sawney...” Fitzsimmons said.
“Why do you call him Sawney?” Martin interrupted.
It was the doctor who replied.
“It’s an old sailor’s joke,” he said with a grimace. “I had to lop the lower half of the leg off too many men, so they christened me Saw-Knee. You can see the level of wit I had to deal with.”
Five minutes later the five were sitting around a table eating bread, cheese and some cold pork pies, all washed down with a thick strong ale.
Menzies told the story of how Sean had made it back to Milecastle and what happened there. Martin kept quiet throughout, but when the story was finished Megan came round the table and enfolded him in a soft warm embrace.
Then Martin told the story of what happened in Carlisle. Gord’s eyes went wide, and Megan cried, but Martin went on until the story brought them to the inn.
“That thing about the disturbed earth. That is important?” Megan said.
“Very,” her husband said. “But it will have to wait till the morning. No sane man would venture out tonight.”
Some time, and several flagons of porter, later the four others were trying to tell Martin the story of how they had all met, but they kept interrupting each other, diverting to a completely different story, and laughing at things which Martin didn’t think funny.
But the pure joy in their conversation, coupled with the effects of the food and ale on an empty stomach were enough to make him relax completely for the first time since that night in Milecastle when Campbell arrived at the gate.
“We must set a watch,” he said, and was aware that he was slurring.
“Aye. And we will,” Fitzsimmons said. “But rest first. The night is young, and we have dogs out in the yard that can smell an Other a mile off. Have another drink.” But Martin didn’t even hear the end of the sentence. He put his head in his hands and was asleep immediately.
When he was shaken awake the first thing he was aware of was sunlight streaming in through the open door.
“Wake up, sire,” Menzies said to him. “There is a messenger from the Protector.”
The old doctor looked worse than he had after the long run the day before. His eyes were red- rimmed and his skin was grey and waxy. His hair was tousled, and he smelled like he’d been doused in beer.
“Forgive my appearance, my Thane,” he said. “It was a long night.”
Rollo was asleep and snoring on top of one of the tables, and on another table there were food remains, half-empty p
itchers of beer, and a puddle of something that smelled rank and didn’t bear too close investigation.
Martin blinked to adjust his eyes to the light. His head was clear, and he felt rested, almost healthy.
“Just as long as it doesn’t happen every time you four get together,” he said.
Menzies looked sheepish.
“More often than not, I’m afraid. But Fitzsimmons is a good and true man. It will be useful to have him with us.”
“With us?” Martin replied.
“Aye,” the doctor said. “It seems we have been given our orders. But come...the messenger will explain.”
The doctor led him to the door, where he had to blink again at the brightness of the early morning sun.
The bodies had gone from the yard, and the stains of blood and brain had been cleared. Martin guessed that the innkeeper—or his wife—had already been busy while he had slept.
A man in military uniform was feeding a horse in the courtyard outside. They had obviously travelled far, as both man and beast were covered in coarse dirt.
“Tell him what you told me,” Menzies said to him.
The horseman looked down his nose at the doctor.
“I shouldn’t even have told you, old man,” he said. “My message is for the Commander of Carlisle or, failing that, the Thane of Milecastle. It is not for bandying around the courtyard of an inn.”
“That’ll be Captain Menzies to a whippersnapper like you,” the doctor replied.
“And I believe you have found one of the recipients of your message,” Martin said. “For I am the Thane of Milecastle.”
“Aye. And I am the Boy-King,” the horseman said, and spat in the dirt at Martin’s feet. “You’re nothing but a boy.”
Martin’s left arm shot out and grabbed the man by the throat.
“Mayhap I was, just a few short days ago. But too many good men have died for Milecastle these past few days for me to let you insult me and their memory.”
He was angry now, and tightened his grip at the man’s throat, leaving him just enough room to breathe.
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