The Watchers Trilogy: Omnibus Edition

by William Meikle

He took Barnstable’s head in his hands.

  “Do you repent your sins, big man?” he asked.

  Barnstable nodded. Tears streamed from his good eye. With one swift movement Sean broke his neck. The crack was loud in the confines of the cell.

  “Quick. Feed now,” the bloated Other shouted from above. “Before it is too late.”

  “I will not feed!” Sean shouted, and laid Barnstable down on the floor. He pulled the dagger from the ruined eye, wincing at the moist, sucking sounds as it came out. Then he slipped the blade in between the big man’s ribs, making sure the heart was stopped in the full death.

  “Then you will rot until you thirst enough to beg for release,” the bloated Other said. There was the metallic noise of the grate being pulled shut, and Sean was left alone in the dark.

  He sat beside the body, and said the words, then wept, there in the darkness.

  Later Sean noticed that light was filtering into the room. At first he thought it was the sight of the Other helping him, but when he looked up he could see daylight coming in through a grille very high up to his left. Above him to his right, some ten feet off the ground, he could just see the metal grate through which they had entered the cell.

  The room was some ten yards square, and the walls were smooth stone, almost like marble. It was going to be impossible to climb out, although Sean thought that, given a chance, he might be able to jump high enough to reach the lower grate. But it looked like it would be some time before he would be able to try—the Others would not be abroad during the day.

  Barnstable’s body still lay in the middle of the floor, staring sightlessly upwards with the one clear eye. If this was to be a long stay, then Sean needed to move it. He manhandled Barnstable to a corner of the cell and turned the dead face to the wall...the stare had seemed too accusing.

  For most of his life Sean had hated the man, hatred made even worse by the murder of the Thane and the abduction of Mary Campbell. But now he had been inside the man’s mind. He still felt the hate...but not the cold, all consuming rage that had previously filled him. Whatever the Constable’s faults, he had not asked for the thing that had taken his mind, and he had not deserved the squalid death he had been given. He said the words again over the man’s body, but left the dagger in its place...it would be well to be careful in this hellhole and he did not want any chance of the big man coming back.

  He made a circuit of the cell, looking or any possible means of escape. It took him all of two minutes to realize that the only way out was the way he had come in—back up through the grate. He took a running jump at it, and found that he might be able to reach...if the grate was open.

  For the time being, all he could do was wait.

  The first day passed slowly.

  At first he did not feel any hunger. The sun moved slowly across the floor of cell. He held his breath when the rays started to hit Barnstable’s body, but there was no smoke, no fire. The man was truly dead.

  Sean stood and placed his own hand in the rays, but again there was no smoke. The Other in him moved...he felt it in his mind. But Sean was in control. I am the Balance, he repeated to himself. The Other stayed down.

  There was nothing for Sean to do except watch the march of the sun and wait for the night.

  The night came, but the Others did not. Nor did they come on the second. Sean spent the nights keeping the rats from Barnstable’s body and the days trying to find a plan that would allow his escape.

  He had the dagger, a hunting snare and his cloak. He had searched Barnstable...not a task he would like to do twice...but had found nothing that would be of use to him.

  He ran through countless scenarios in his mind, and he even tried to call the woodsman’s sight for help. The sight showed him visions of bloody battle, of an army of the Protector’s soldiers lined up in ranks on an open moor facing thousands of dark Others...but there was no vision to tell him how to free himself from the hellhole.

  By the third night he still had no idea how he was to effect his escape.

  It was full dark before the grate opened above him.

  “Well, my young friend. Do you thirst?” the bloated Other said.

  “Come down and find out.”

  In truth, Sean’s lips were beginning to crack. He had managed to lick some moisture from the cell walls, but it had been bitter and metallic. He knew he was getting weak...he would have to escape soon, or die.

  “He has not turned,” he heard a voice whisper. From the tenor of it he guessed it was the old one with the long hair. “I can hear it in his heart.”

  “No. I am still warm,” Sean said. “Come and see...my blood is sweet.”

  There was a rustling in the corridor above and the bloated Other spoke.

  “Are you mad?” it said to its companion. “You saw how he slew the large one. He is a trained killer, this boy.”

  “But I have a thirst,” the old one said, its voice a whining moan.

  “Then come and quench it,” Sean said. “For I am sick of this waiting. If I do not turn tonight I will end it myself with my dagger. You have had as much sport from me as you are going to get.”

  There was a scrambling in the room above, and a loud slap.

  “No!” the bloated one shouted. “The King wants this one turned...we cannot feed from him!”

  The grate slid shut once more, but Sean had a smile on his lips. He suspected it would be open again before too long.

  He was proved right less than an hour later.

  He heard the old Other muttering, even before the grate was opened.

  “Just a little drink...that is all I need...just a sup. The King need never know.”

  “Come on down, old man,” Sean whispered as the grate was pulled aside. “Come and drink from me, for I am tired of this mummery.”

  “Oh...I will give you rest,” the old one cackled, and dropped down into the room.

  I am the Balance. Sean said, and called on the night-sight.

  The Other was making no pretence at stealth...it was coming straight for him. Moving fast, using the woodsman’s speed and accuracy, Sean swung his hunting snare over its head before it had time to react. Still holding one end, he snapped his wrist, hard and fast.

  The snare cut through the flesh as if it was a piece of cheese. The Other’s head rolled on the stone floor, the shock in its eyes fading as it realized it was already full dead. Sean kicked the still standing body, tumbling it to the floor.

  He jumped up and caught the edge of the grate, then pulled himself up and out of the pit. Before starting up the corridor he slid the heavy metal cover back into place.

  I am the Balance, he muttered to himself. The corridor ahead looked bright as day, although it was full night, and no torches were lit. Sean kept the snare in his left hand as he decided on a course of action.

  He knew he was deep in the Palace. He was in the realm of the Others, in one of their strongholds...it was nighttime, and he was armed only with a snare designed for coneys. But he was free, from the pit, from his hatred of the Constable Barnstable, and from his fear of the Other within him. He smiled as he headed upwards through the building.

  Eventually he found himself standing outside the large doors that led into the Great Hall. There were voices on the other side—three Others, one of whom was the fat bloated one.

  Sean had a thin smile on his lips once more as he pushed the doors open and stepped into the room.

  The great serpent on the floor seemed to writhe and squirm as Sean stepped onto the mosaic, and fangs slid from Sean’s gums. But Sean mentally ordered them away, and when he ran his tongue over his teeth, they were normal incisors once more.

  The bloated Other initially looked shocked, then laughed when he saw that Sean carried only the thin wire of the snare.

  “Well, young sir,” it said, “do you mean to talk us to death?”

  I am the Balance. Sean said, and called on the woodsman’s skills.

  The Other who wore a dog collar was closes
t. Sean feinted with his left hand towards its heart, and instinctively it dropped its arms to protect itself. Sean had the snare over its head before it could lift its arms again. He leaped upwards and somersaulted over the Other’s head, tugging the snare as he went. The head rolled on the floor even before Sean had tumbled and rolled back into an upright position. The filthy Other made a rush at him, trailing brown slime behind it. Sean let it come, and dropped to his knees as it closed, punching it hard in the belly. As it stumbled he slipped the noose of the snare around its left foot, rolling away and tugging hard in the same movement. The Other fell to the ground, its foot rolling some two yards from its body. It whimpered once and was still trying to stand when Sean dropped the noose around its neck and pulled tight, taking the head off cleanly.

  He wiped the snare clean on his vest and looked around.

  The bloated Other stood near the door. It was applauding, slapping its palms together with glee.

  “Oh, he will be pleased to have you,” it said. “Rarely have I seen such an efficient killer.”

  “I am no killer,” Sean said. “An Other is lower than any animal...sending them to the final death is a mercy.”

  “No killer? Come boy...you know better than that...”

  ...and the sight returns.

  Three bedraggled bodies, their clothes ragged and torn, lie underneath a hawthorn bush. Large white maggots crawl in and out of holes...in their faces, in their arms and in their bare torsos. The black sockets where their eyes used to be stare accusingly upwards...

  Three Warden’s men lie on a bare patch of ground. Ravens have found them, and one has an eye in its beak. The bird caws, and clacks shut the beak...the eyeball bursts moistly...

  William Barnstable looks up, tears blinding his one good eye, just as Sean twists, hard, and breaks the big man’s neck...

  “They were all justifiable,” Sean said.

  The bloated Other laughed. It had moved closer to Sean, but not yet within range of the snare.

  “Justifiable? Am I not justified in following my nature and feeding? Is the Boy-King not justified in seeking the throne of his fathers?”

  Sean measured up the distance between them...he was still too far away.

  “I will leave you now,” the Other said. “No doubt we shall meet again...the Boy-King has plans for you. Just remember to tell him that John of Falkirk kept his Palace for his return.”

  Sean jumped forward, but the Other was already far off down the corridor.

  Its laughter echoed through the rooms as Sean chased behind it. But no matter how fast he ran, he was unable to catch it.

  Chapter 3

  NOVEMBER 15, 1745, MILECASTLE

  The journey from Far Sawrey passed without incident. It took Megan several hours to persuade Fitz to leave the inn behind...the man had been prepared to stay there and rebuild the still-smoking ruin.

  “We cannot rebuild while Rollo, and the Boy-King, are still in the land,” she said. “I for one want revenge on the black bastards...they’ve taken our boy, our friend, and our livelihood. Are you grown so soft that all you want to do is hide your head in this inn?”

  Those were the words that stung Fitz out of his melancholy mood. There was still a sadness in his eyes that had not been there before, but it had been joined by something new...a steely determination.

  There was no sign of Others on the trek north...nor was there any sign of human activity. The only sign of the war was a broken cart by the side of the road, its axle broken and its contents— mainly clothing—left behind in its owner’s haste to flee.

  When they came to the field where Martin and Menzies had first noticed the disturbed earth Martin lowered his head...the memory of the old doctor was just too strong, and he did not want his men to see his tears.

  The Hillman brothers kept up a steady flow of chatter all day. As if to prove that he too had some musical talent, Edward started to sing, “There was a young lady from Brest,” but his singing voice was so bad that the men shouted him down, demanding that his brother gave them a song.

  Edward took it in good humor, and Harold sang The Lay of the Thane again, then Greensleeves followed by a riding song about a fifteenth century raid into the Other’s territory. The day passed merrily enough...until they came to Carlisle.

  Even from a distance the stench was almost overpowering. No smoke rose from the chimneys, no noise reached them, and only the wind moved among the silent streets and houses. Martin remembered the black shadows that had flowed through the narrow alleys like a river, and the hairs tingled on his wounded arm as he mentally relived the battle and the slaughter that had so recently taken place. He shivered, though the sun shone on his face, and he turned his horse’s head towards Milecastle, urging his men to follow.

  Some of the men made the sign of the evil eye towards the town, but they knew better than to enter. The carrion eaters had dominion there now, and Martin had no desire to see what damage they had wrought on the bodies of the woman and children the Others had left there.

  They gave the town a wide berth...it was obvious that the place was quite dead. A flock of carrion crows squawked noisily overhead as they skirted the city walls, then went back to their feasting.

  “We cannot leave like this,” Edward Hillman said, the horror showing bright and clear in his eyes. “There are people there, Christian folk who deserve to have the words said.”

  “Aye,” Martin replied. “Mayhap you are right. But we are few, and they are many. We have not got the time.”

  “We should torch the place,” Toby said, and Martin nodded.

  “We will. After the Boy-King is driven off these islands forever, we will burn everything he has touched...there must be no chance of his kind ever getting a foothold again.” The weather began to close in, and Martin knew that winter was not too far away. In some years the first snow would already be on the ground by now, and the biting cold of the rain as it started to spatter on their faces foretold of the short, damp days to come.

  “Come, minstrel,” Toby said to Harold Hillman. “Sing us something to remind us of summer.”

  The man with the squeezebox began to play a fast tune that marched the trotting of a horse, and soon young Harold’s high, pure voice cut through the rain.

  Among the greenwood

  Walked a tall maiden fair

  The sun shone like gold

  In her long flaxen hair

  And the wee folk laughed

  As they took her away

  To the cave at the foot of the hill

  They plied her with wine

  And with sweetmeats so rare

  They danced her around

  With her feet in the air

  And the wee folk laughed

  As they caroused the whole day

  In the cave at the foot of the hill

  They all knew this one and the band was all soon singing along, although the song ran to over twenty-five verses. Martin noted with a smile that Harold sang the polite version…there was no mention of fornication with the fairy king in this one. Maybe he would ask the lad for the tavern version later.

  Despite the song Fitz was still morose, and Martin sensed a deep anger in the man, as if violence was only a heartbeat away.

  He tried to talk to the innkeeper, but only got a grunt in reply.

  “Leave him be,” Megan said. “Even when we were at sea, all he wanted to do was to buy and manage an inn. He’s spent the last ten years and more nurturing the best ale in the north.”

  “Aye,” Fitz said, and spat on the ground. “And now it is gone...nothing remains but ashes and dust.”

  Martin was about to speak, but Megan shook her head, and they traveled in silence.

  Martin found himself riding alongside the cart driven by old Barr.

  “A man needs to be left alone with his sorrow,” the old man said, and spat another wad of tobacco at his feet. “Now a woman...she needs to talk about it, preferably with other women. But leave a man alone and the blac
k mood will pass sooner.

  “There’s another lesson for you.”

  Sudden tears sprang to Martin’s eyes when Milecastle finally came into sight. He was surprised by how much emotion he still had left in him...he thought it might all have been burned out of him in his rage back in Derby. But the sight of his home made his heart lurch. He would never again be the boy he had been only short weeks before, but his heart would always remember.

  He half expected to see his father standing on the walkway above the main gate, and old Menzies beside him, a flagon of ale in one hand and a pipe in the other. There were hot tears in his eyes that threatened to mist over his vision, but he brushed them away angrily. He was Thane, and his people needed to be led. He straightened his back and sat upright in the saddle as he led his men up the road to the castle.

  The church bell rang to proclaim their coming, and Nat Cooper was at the gate to welcome them. He wore the uniform of Constable. His boots and belt were highly polished and the uniform, although not as black as it could have been, was sharp and clean. Cooper was obviously not a man to let his standards slip.

  The big man had a broad smile on his face as Martin rode up to the gate.

  “Well met, my Thane,” he said, then his smile faded as he saw the new scars on Martin’s head. “But I see you have been in yet another grievous fight.”

  “You should see his opponent,” old Barr said, and chuckled until Megan stopped him with a glaring stare.

  Martin saw Cooper look along the line for Menzies.

  “No,” he said, “the Doctor is not with us. He gave his life for the Protector by stopping a breach in the walls of Derby.”

  Cooper removed his hat.

  “For that I am sad, for I wanted to thank him for mending my leg...but you must tell me the story of it later. The town welcomes you home, my Lord. I shall prepare the Great Hall...”

  “No,” Martin said. “The Thane of Milecastle will not sit on the throne of Hadrian until the Boy-King is vanquished. We will billet the men in the inn and at the barracks of the Watch. And we will hold our counsel in the inn.”