Martin could smell the Others. They were like a bone that had been buried for too long, or a dog that had been rolling in a cowpat on a wet day. Among them somewhere was the smell he was trying to reach...the odor of the betrayer Rollo.
He pushed himself through the milling throng of Others as they tried to reach him with their fangs and their weapons. He was too fast for them, and they died the final death as he passed. He knew that the smith was behind him, and at least one other of his men, but Rollo was close now, and he howled once more as he pushed harder against the heaving mass of Others.
Suddenly they opened up in front of him, leaving a circle of clear space around him. Toby, and one of his men, pushed through to stand beside him.
The smith was panting heavily, and the man with him was holding a hand to a bleeding gash at his neck.
Rollo walked into the circle. He had a smoking hole at his breast, but seemed to be in no pain.
He looked at Martin and laughed.
“This is what frightens us? Look at him…” he waved a hand over the crowd, as if inviting them to share a joke. “He is little more than an animal. He...”
Martin snarled and threw himself at Rollo. He didn’t make it that far...a bundle of hair and teeth leapt at him, and Martin rolled on the ground, trying to keep Fang’s teeth away from his throat.
Something came into the circle, a gray shadow that was as fast as an Other. Martin felt the weight of Fang lift away from him as the wolf caught it by the throat.
Once more the Others were in chaos. Another gray wolf leapt high into the mob, and Martin threw himself among them beside it. He howled...and his gray brothers howled with him.
But the killing could not last. The press of the Others was just too heavy. The smith’s man fell, badly bitten, only to be totally drained. Then one of the gray brothers barked in pain and went silent.
Martin fought harder. The fangs of the Others tried to bite but the leather of his coat held, although it was ripped and torn in places. He punched a stake into yet another heart, but it caught between the ribs of the Other as it fell. At almost the same time, Rollo caught him by the arm and pulled the other stake from his hand.
The second gray shadow fell, badly bitten, and Rollo killed it by stepping, hard, on its rib cage. The sound of its bones snapping was loud even above the noise of battle.
Martin tried to pull against Rollo’s hold on him, but the Other was too strong. Rollo threw a punch at Martin’s head that he didn’t have time to avoid. The wound in his skull flared in white- hot pain and Martin’s senses left him.
...he is flying in the air, soaring like an eagle over the smoking remains of a great castle. Mind- slaves of the Boy-King are steadily working their way through the debris, slowly, as if searching for something. Suddenly one of them bends and lifts a piece of burnt wood to one side. Beneath it he finds the golden chalice...battered and charred, but still with gold showing through. The slave bends and lifts something that is the size of a large apple. It is black, charred and still smoking. But among the burnt flesh a blood-red eye blinks.
The mind-slave lifts its head to the sky and howls in joy...
...and Martin found himself being lifted off the ground.
“Bring the other one!” he heard Rollo shout. “The Boy-King only wants the Wolf, but this one is also big and healthy...he will make good sport.”
Martin felt the wolf hairs run along his arm. He wanted to tear and rip, gouge and bite. But his vision was blurred, and his body was not responding to commands. He was thrown over Rollo’s shoulder and his head bounced against the Other’s back, sending him reeling once more.
...he is once more in a high place, but this is not anywhere in the north. The sun is high in the sky, a blazing yellow orb that bounces bright off the sand of a great expanse of desert. A man, hairy and with a brow that hangs heavy over deep-set eyes, crawls along a dune on his hands and knees. His lips are cracked and weeping, and his skin is raised in large blisters, some of which have burst and are oozing pus.
Suddenly the dune gives way beneath him and he falls, screaming, into a deep, dark cave. His fall is broken by something soft that gives beneath him and the smell in the air is suddenly rank and foul.
A desert lion, days, maybe as much as a week, dead, lies beneath him, its body half submerged in a stagnant pool of dark, almost black liquid. The foul liquor steams and bubbles, but it is cool to the touch. The man drinks gratefully...and something black and vile whispers and laughs in the cave, something that is everywhere yet nowhere. Fire dances in the recesses of the cave, a fire that is red, but cold...
...Martin came up out of oblivion. He was in a tight cave, with four mind-slaves guarding the entrance. There was no sign of the smith, and even if Martin could have taken four men, he was still incapable of getting his body to obey his commands. Wolf hairs continued to rise along his arm and he raised his head to howl, but even that simple act was enough to bring the blackness back again.
...the man has drunk his fill from the stagnant pool, and is amazed to see the burns on his hands and arms begin to heal. He smiles, and fangs burst bloodily from his gums. The thing in the dark with him laughs loud and there is a hissing, as if a serpent is there with him.
“You will carry my power back out into the world,” the thing says. “It is too long since I was abroad. I need to see what my creation has wrought. You shall be my emissary...the first king of a new kind. And together we will rule this world. Who knows...in time we may even rule the sky.”
When night falls the Other, now no longer a man, crawls up out of the hole and runs smoothly across the desert, leaving only the merest indentation in the sand. The thing with him cackles again, and the Other smiles. He has a great thirst, but he will quench it soon...there is a great drum beating in the night, a beacon to guide him in the dark to a place where there are many waiting who will learn the joy of the blood...
...and Martin woke once more to the sound of a drum pounding. He had no conception of how much time might have passed, but they were no longer in the cave and he felt stronger…his head no longer felt like it might split.
Rollo still carried him over his shoulder, but by turning his head Martin was able to see that it was night once more. They were walking across a flat plain, following a drumbeat. Across the plain in the middle distance a high black castle sat on a rocky outcrop.
The dark army poured into the castle through a pair of huge iron gates. It was not long before Rollo led the band of Others through the gates, and Martin heard them clang shut behind them with a dreadful finality.
Chapter 4
NOVEMBER 20, 1745, STIRLING
Martin woke to sunlight falling on his face.
Waking was a slow thing...a gray dim light that only slowly got brighter and more focused.
“Ah...you are back in the land of the living, then?” a voice he recognized said.
He blinked, and looked up into the face of Toby, the smith.
Martin only had a vague memory of how he’d got there. The night before he’d been unceremoniously dumped into a black space, and the jar to his already wounded head had sent him once more into blackness.
“Where…” Martin started to say. His throat was too dry and he had to swallow hard and try again. “Where are we?”
“They say it is a place called Stirling sir,” the smith said. “We are held in the cells beneath a castle. I have been in filthier places, but few that smelled worse.”
Martin tried to sit up. At first the room spun, as if he had drunk too much ale. He was forced to close his eyes as a wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him. He forced himself to breathe, deep and steady, and his stomach steadied. Finally he was able to look around.
The cell was large, nearly a hundred feet on each side. It was full of close-packed bodies, more than a hundred men, most of who wore the red tunics of the Protector’s army. There were a handful of women amongst the crowd, but no old people, and, mercifully, no children.
; The smith had been right about the smell. In his youth Martin had built many a dung-heap, but never one that smelled as rank as this. He guessed that many of the prisoners had been here for some time...and that many had stayed so long that they had died here.
On three sides the walls were stone, gray and slimy with condensation. On the fourth side there were heavy iron bars, and beyond that a group of mind-slaves.
There were at least ten of them, three of whom wore the red tunics. Martin searched the faces, wondering if he might know any of the men, but they were all unfamiliar, and for that at least he was thankful.
The mind-slaves stood, staring blindly into space. The only sign they were alive was the slow rise and fall of their chests as they breathed.
Suddenly the import of what the smith had said filtered through to his mind.
“We are in Stirling?” He remembered what he had seen of Cumberland’s maps. “That is three days hard march from the spot where we fought in Newcastleton. I have been out that long?”
Toby nodded.
“Be thankful that you missed the journey,” he said. “The Others are not fussy about their personal hygiene. And having to listen to the betrayer Rollo boast about how he would now sit at his King’s right hand was more than I could take...it seems that the Boy-King has put a price on your head, and Rollo is going to collect it.”
All Martin could remember was a vague recollection of a dream, something about Others and desert, but even that was fading fast.
“What happened? The last thing I really remember is the shadows attacking us in yon courtyard.”
Toby leaned over and whispered in Martin’s ear.
“You killed many, sir,” he said. “And the wolves came to your aid.”
In truth, when prompted, Martin did remember fragments. In his mind a great gray wolf howled and bit and ran among the Others. He fought to recollect more, but his head throbbed with red, almost blinding, pain and he found it hard to concentrate.
“And the rest of our band?” he asked.
The smith shook his head.
“There is no sign of any of the men we sent off with Fitz. For that we must be grateful...and hopeful. Mayhap they reached the safety of Milecastle. But of the group who were with us in the churchyard, we alone were spared,” he said. “Spared?” someone said beside them. Martin turned to look into the face of an army officer. The man looked tired, his eyes dark pits of shadow, his hands trembling. There was a gray pallor to his skin, and his tongue looked almost black where it poked between the yellow ruin of his teeth.
“You will not feel like you have been spared when they send you out to the arena,” the man said, and his fear showed in his eyes.
Martin pushed himself full upright, grateful that, this time at least, his legs did not betray him.
“Arena? They make their prisoners fight?”
“Aye,” the officer said. “We’ve been kept alive to be used as sport for the black bastards. They took ten of us out last night. Your man here heard it.”
The smith nodded.
“It’s true, sir. Ten were taken out, then it sounded like there was a riot going on...and none of the men came back.”
“They were sent out to fight,” the officer said. “Each man is given a stake and sent out against a single Other. If the man wins, he is given a choice...fight again or be turned. There are no other options...none ever comes back to the cells.”
“They’ll get no sport from me,” Martin said.
One of the mind-slaves laughed hollowly.
“Then you will die, my young wolf,” it said. Martin recognized the tone of the voice...the Boy- King was speaking through this man.
“I refuse to give you the pleasure,” Martin said.
The slave laughed again.
“But you do anyway,” it said. “And I suspect the wolf-cub wants its sport, even if you do not know it yet.” “Then come here in person,” Martin said. “Then you will see what the wolf thinks.”
“Do not be in such a hurry,” the slave said. “Your turn will come soon enough.”
Martin swore loudly, but the slave had the empty stare back again.
“He is gone, sir,” Toby said.
“Aye. But I suspect he is here, in the castle…for otherwise how could he know that we are here? And if he is here, we may yet get another chance at him. Keep alert, Toby. I’ll have need of your strength.”
“Aye, sir. But you should rest awhile, for you are almost weak as a babe.”
“I’ll rest when the bastard is sent to his final death,” Martin said grimly. “And not before.”
“Aye, sir,” Toby replied. “But while we are in this cell, it might be a long wait.”
“Why do you call this lad sir?” the officer said.
It was Martin who replied.
“I am the Thane of Milecastle, and commander of the northern militia of the Lord Protector’s army.”
The officer looked at the smith, who nodded.
“Then you are the senior officer here,” the man said. “I am John Turner, sergeant of Nottingham, and I am your man.”
He saluted, and most of the other men in the cell stood and did the same.
“Well, Toby,” Martin said. “It looks like we have a new command.”
The day passed slowly. Water and bread was provided to feed them, but Martin did not feel hungry. His mind was full of images...Menzies on the pyre in Derby, Gwynneth and her strange tattooed body, the sight of the forest of hands as the dark army came up out of the ground, the Boy- King fleeing away from the graveyard, and the gray wolves coming to his aid against Rollo.
Then there was his vision from the journey here...the strange, almost animal-like barbarian being turned in the cave. He had a feeling that the vision had shown him something important, and he knew that the details were getting more vague the longer he put off thinking about them, but it would have to wait...his first priority was to get out of this cell.
“Will you eat something, sir?” a voice said, bringing him up out of his reverie. A woman stood over him. She was tall, with long hair the color of coals in a cooling fire. Her eyes were a light, pale green and when she spoke it was with a dancing lilt that reminded him of Duncan Campbell. She was offering him a chunk of bread. “You are not an Englishwoman,” Martin said.
“No. I am Jean Munro, lately of Stromness on the island of Orkney, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“And how came you here?” he asked.
“’Tis a long story, sir.”
“It looks like we have time aplenty. Come. Sit and talk. Tell me your story...it will take our minds off our captivity.”
“Watch that one, sir,” a voice called out of the crowd. “She’s a wildcat, and she’ll have your balls for a necklace.”
The woman blushed and her whole face went red. Martin saw the anger flare in her eyes, and her hand moved to her waist, as if looking for a sheathed weapon.
Martin laughed.
“They say I am a wolf,” he said. “Let us talk together, cat and dog.”
She sat beside him and he watched her as she told her tale. Most of the activity in the cell stopped as everyone went quiet and listened, but she didn’t seem to notice...her eyes were unfocused as she replayed the story in her mind.
I was in the old cathedral in Kirkwall when they came,” she began. “There were three hundred of us at prayer. We thought we would be safe in the Lord’s house. But the Viking bastards have no religion worth mentioning when they’re alive...even less when they are turned.”
“Viking?” Martin said. “I thought they were vanquished centuries ago.”
“As did we,” Jean Munro said. “Their ancestors and ours mixed their bloodlines generations ago...and there had been peace for many centuries. We even dismantled the brochs and used their stones for building houses and byres. We were unprepared.
“As you said...we thought they were vanquished. But they had merely been sleeping, and they came when the Boy-King ca
lled, promising death and blood. They came out of their sleep in the far North, where the sun is low and it is dark for six months at a time. They are like wolves in the night…tall and strong, their fair hair hanging in long pleats down their backs, their blue eyes cold as ice in the moonlight. Their bodies, even in death, ripple with muscle.”
The woman broke off. There was something in her eyes that Martin didn’t recognize. It was a mixture of fear, disgust, but, more than that, a strange far-away stare that spoke of attraction and desire.
“They came in their longboats just after the sun went down. It was a Sunday night, and many on the island were at prayer. They burned our churches with the people in them...they were not interested in feeding, only in plunder. Those of us in the cathedral did our best to barricade ourselves in, but we had grown soft. We were no match for such as these with their hard bodies and their lust for our hot blood. They battered down the door and took us, even as we called on our Lord for salvation. But the Lord did not hear…or he chose not to listen.
“We had no chance. They overwhelmed us in minutes. I was knocked senseless, and when I came to I was on their dragon boat. And five days later I was here, in this cell.”
The story had ended too quickly, too abruptly. He hadn’t been told everything, and there was something new in the woman’s eyes that Martin didn’t recognize...it looked like the devious cunning of a cornered animal. He made to stand and move away, but the woman grabbed him around the waist in a hug.
“No, please, hold me, sir,” she said, and sobbed theatrically in his ear. “’Tis long since I have had a man to comfort me.”
“I told you!” a voice shouted. “She’ll have your manhood on a platter soon enough, sir.”
Martin pushed the woman away to arm’s length.
“In truth, you are comely,” Martin said. “But I have Others to kill, and a duty to perform. I’m afraid your charms would be wasted on me.”
She laughed.
“My charms seem to be wasted on all here. Mayhap I’d have better luck out in the arena.”
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