Her eyes flared in green fire as she spun away from him and he watched, bemused, as she moved on to a large thickset redcoat. Within five seconds she was sitting on the man’s lap and nibbling at his ear.
“I’ll never understand women, Toby,” Martin said.
“You don’t have to understand them,” the smith replied. “Just keep well away from them.”
Everyone in earshot laughed, and for a moment at least they were able to forget where they were.
Toby told the story of their adventures, taking them from Derby to the ambush where they had almost trapped the Boy-King. The men in the cell cheered, but the mind-slaves did not even flinch...and cheers did not open iron doors.
“Toby. I want a search done of this cell...every inch of it. If as much as a rat can get in or out I want to know about it,” Martin said.
Toby saluted.
“And get some strong men to test the strength of the doors, particularly around the hinges.”
But the search was to no avail. And the iron bars proved too strong. Despite their obvious age they squealed when pressed, but held firm against all their efforts.
“The only way out is through the door,” Toby said.
“Aye,” Turner replied. “And I suspect ten more of us will be leaving that way soon enough.” The officer was proved right just after nightfall. A band of Others arrived and took ten men away. Turner was one of them. He left with a straight back, but there was terror deep down in his eyes.
The screams started only minutes later. It sounded like the whole dark army was out there, tormenting the men who had been taken.
In the cell some of the men began to weep, and others among them were becoming noticeably nervous.
“We are in a dark place, Toby,” Martin said.
“Aye, sir,” the big smith said. “But yet we are still alive. And for that I am thankful.”
Toby burst into song, at the top of his voice, loud enough to drown the screaming.
There was a young lady from Brest
Who could balance ten men on her chest
You could cover a city
With each of her titties And hide a small hill in her vest
The rest of the men in the cell took up the song. When it was finished Toby broke into “The Men of the Watch” and “The Old Protector’s Victory”.
All the Protector’s men sang along, and when Toby had finished another took up with a new song, and another followed after that.
“Fine songs,” Jean Munro said sarcastically when they were done. “I’ll wager the Boy-King is quaking in his boots. Mayhap if you get called out next you can sing them into submission.”
The night was long, and none of the ten who had been taken out came back.
In the morning Martin called the room to silence.
“Truly we are in the dark,” he said. “Mayhap our Lord decrees that we are to die here. I ask you only that you do not yield. Let us show these bastards how real men die.”
“You show them!” Jean Munro shouted. “For myself, I want to live...and I will live!”
Late in the afternoon they were again fed bread and water. We will not last long if this is all they will give us, Martin thought.
As the sun began to go down the men started to get nervous once more, and this time Toby was not able to lift their spirits. They had nothing to do but wait for the Others to come, each man hoping that he would not be one of the ten called.
The sun had just fallen when the waiting was over. A small band of Others came into the cell. Martin, Toby and eight men were pulled out into the small room beyond.
“Let me come too,” Jean Munro called out. “I cannot stay here any longer.”
“Why not,” an Other said. “She should provide some sport.”
“Aye,” another Other said, looking Jean Munro up and down. “For about ten seconds maybe.”
The woman joined their group. Martin saw a sly smile on her lips as they were led out from the cells and up a long corridor.
Noise built all around, echoing off the rough stone walls. At the end of the corridor a red light flickered, and it was there that was the source of the noise…a roar that increased to an ear-bursting crescendo as they were dragged out into hell itself. The whole forecourt of the castle had been turned into a vast arena. Others lined three sides of a quadrangle, four or five deep. Some were dressed in fine, expensive clothing, in a grotesque parody of the tourneys of old, and yet others were already placing wagers on which of the ten would survive the longest.
High torches set at intervals around the esplanade lit the night in a red, fiery glow and sent black shadows dancing over the leering faces of the mob. The Others were already shouting and screaming, a cacophony over which Martin could also hear the beating of a great drum and the wailing of their bagpipes.
Directly opposite them, across the esplanade, there was a high platform, about a hundred yards away. The Boy-King sat in a tall, wing-backed chair, his guards all around him. He was laughing, in good humor. On a small seat by his left hand side Mary Campbell sat, stiff-backed, staring straight ahead. The Boy-King stroked her hair absently with his hand.
The tall figure by his right hand side was instantly recognizable...Rollo had indeed won his place in the personal guard. The traitor stood there as if he was there by right—indeed, as if he had always been there.
I’ll see you staked and burned, Martin vowed. And I’ll do it myself…for Menzies, if nothing else.
Out on the quadrangle a tall Other stood. This must be one of the Vikings Jean Munro told him about. It was big, almost a head taller than Martin, and it stood, legs apart, arms hanging loosely by its side. Long blond hair hung in twin braids down its naked back, and its muscles stood out proud under the thin, pale skin. Its eyes blazed red in the torchlight, and there was a feral grin on its face, as if it was anticipating what was to come. Yellow fangs slid in and out over its bottom lip, and there was blood in its mouth as it licked its lips and studied the ten prisoners, like a cat watching a sparrow.
The Boy-King stood, and a silence fell over the quadrangle. Although it was the first time Martin had gotten a close look at him, the Other looked just like he had in the woodsman’s visions. He was thin, almost skeletal, and his skin was so pale as to be nearly white. He wore face powder and paint in the French manner, spots of rouge on his cheeks giving him a rough semblance of man-and-only-man. His clothes were fine purple velvet, with frills of lace at neck and wrists.
“If he tried to walk through Newcastle dressed like that, he’d have been lynched,” Toby said.
“Aye,” Martin replied. “He does like to preen and pose, does he not. Mayhap his narcissism will be his undoing someday.”
As if to echo Martin’s words the Other smoothed out his clothing before he started to speak. His words carried clear and loud over the esplanade. “We give you a chance!” he shouted, addressing Martin and his fellow prisoners. “Which is more than you have ever given us.”
The mob howled and stamped their feet. The ground of the esplanade shook and the torches threw dancing shadows across the faces of the screaming horde. The Boy King shouted above the cacophony.
“Fight, win, and you can choose...to either fight again, or join us. Lose, and you will be bled dry.”
The mob howled even louder. A chant went up, low at first, then rising into a crescendo in time with the beating of the great drum;
“BLOOD! BLOOD BLOOD!”
The noise echoed around the walls until it seemed the very stone was vibrating in time. The Boy-King raised his hand for silence.
“I think I will save my wolf for last...he will give the best sport. But who will be the first? Who wants to test their skill against my northern friend?”
Before any of the men could move Jean Munro stepped forward.
“I am first. This one…” she said, pointing at the Viking Other, “...sacked my town. I want revenge.”
The Boy-King laughed.
“He will have you
bled before you have moved, lass,” he said.
“Give me a stake and I’ll prove you wrong.”
One of the Others threw a stake at her feet. She lifted it, saluted Martin, and went out to meet the Viking.
The Other didn’t stand a chance.
It came forward, like a wrestler expecting to grapple with his opponent. Jean Munro rolled in a fast tumble that brought her inside its reach. Before it could grab her she had staked it and was turning in triumph as her opponent fell, full dead, to the ground.
The crowd went wild, and the Boy-King applauded.
“I knew not that we had an Amazon in our midst,” he said.
Although he did not shout, his voice carried across the quadrangle. “What is it to be? Another fight, or the turning?”
She looked straight at Martin as she spoke.
“I choose the turning...I would serve my King.”
“I’m sure I can find a use for you,” the Boy-King said dryly, and the dark horde erupted in cruel laughter. Jean Munro climbed up on the platform, where the Boy-King gave her to Rollo. There was a thin smile on her lips as she was bled, a smile that stayed even when she fell into a swoon and was carried away.
“Next,” the Boy-King called.
And so it went. One of the soldiers gave three Others the true death before he was killed and bled, but the rest fell, one by one, to a tall, lean Highlander. Soon there was only Toby and Martin left.
“It seems it is my time to die,” Toby said. Before Martin could stop him, the smith stepped forward to meet the Other.
A stake was thrown at the smith’s feet, but he ignored it.
“I need no weapon to deal with a black bastard like this,” he said. The Other smiled, showing his fangs, and met Toby in the center of the arena.
The crowd cheered as the Highlander struck at the man’s neck, but Toby was waiting for it. He grabbed it in a bear hug and the noise of its back breaking as he squeezed echoed around the arena. Toby dropped the Other to the ground and stepped on its neck, crunching its windpipe beneath his heel.
“Is that the best you’ve got?” the smith said. He lifted the stake and thrust it, hard, between the Other’s ribs. The creature gave out a soft sigh, and fell in on itself like a burst bladder.
A soft moan ran around the arena. Martin felt like cheering as the smith lifted the deflated body and threw it into the throng. “Suck on that, you bastards,” he said.
The Boy-King smiled.
“Are you working up a thirst yet?” he asked. “Would you like to be turned?”
“Never,” Toby said. “Send on another. If I have to take you one by one, then so be it...I have all night and I’m not going anywhere.”
Martin moved to step forward, but three Others grabbed him. He felt the wolf hairs rise on his arm, but forced them down...he would not give the Boy-King the satisfaction.
The Boy-King laughed.
“We too have all night,” he said. “But I do not think it will take that long.” He motioned with his hand, and a stocky Highlander jumped from the dais into the arena. The crowd erupted in a loud cheer.
“I meant to keep the Douglas for later...one wolf against another,” the Boy-King said.
“Dinna fash yersel’, man,” the Highlander said. “I’ll only be a wee while wi’ this barbarian.”
“Barbarian?” the smith said. “Have you looked at yourself?”
In truth, Martin knew he was looking at a figure of some power. The Douglas exuded it, and it showed in the swagger of his walk. His long pleated hair swung down his back, reaching almost to his waist. He wore only a kilt of heavy, dark tartan and above the waist he was naked. His torso, though pale, was heavily knotted in muscle, and old pink scars covered all of the exposed flesh.
“This is the Douglas’ arena,” the Boy-King said. “He has been fighting here for more than four hundred years. In all that time he has never been beaten.”
“Then let us have to it,” the smith said. “It is long gone time you had a new champion.”
The Douglas smiled as he came forward. He walked straight into the smith’s bear hug, and actually laughed as the grip tightened around him. “I’ve wrestled old Artus himself,” he said. “And he had thrice your strength.”
He began to return the hug, and beads of sweat rose on Toby’s brow.
“Yield, man,” the Douglas said. “Yield and we’ll turn ye...ye will make a fine guard.”
“Never,” the smith hissed, and renewed his efforts to squeeze the life from the Other.
The Douglas laughed, a deep bellow, and squeezed back in return. Martin winced as one of Toby’s ribs cracked, and bubbles of blood appeared at his lips.
“Again I ask ye,” the Douglas said. “Will ye yield?”
Toby spat a bloody gob in the Other’s face.
It was the last thing he ever did. The Douglas put his head under Toby’s chin and, with one squeeze, drove the man’s ribcage inwards and through his lungs. Toby imploded in a spray of blood and the Other laughed as it fed.
The crowd stamped its feet and chanted in rhythm...Douglas, Douglas, Douglas.
“Are you quenched, man?” the Boy-King said when the Other lifted its head from Toby’s lifeless body. “I have a cub for you to break in for me.”
“Aye,” the Douglas said, wiping blood and tissue from his face. “Bring him on.” He tossed Toby’s body into the crowd where it was torn to bloody pieces in seconds in a frenzy of bloodlust.
Martin had no time to mourn as he was pushed out into the arena and the crowd howled even louder.
“Do you want the stake?” the Boy-King said.
“Aye,” Martin replied, taking off his long leather coat. “For although I do not have my friend’s strength, I have twice his speed. Say goodbye to your champion...he is in sore trouble.”
The Boy-King laughed again.
“My wolf eats cubs like you,” he said.
“I am no wolf,” Martin said.
“So you say. But the Douglas will show you otherwise.”
Rollo threw a stake at Martin’s feet.
“Who is next after the champion?” Martin asked him. “Please say it will be you...we have many scores to settle, you and I.”
“I am ready,” Rollo said with a smile. “But the Douglas will see to you first.”
Martin walked forward to meet the Douglas, and the level of noise rose even higher.
The Other waited for him in the center of the quadrangle. Blood spattered his upper chest and across the lower half of his face.
“Yer pal was sweet,” it said. “But he didnae have much in him. I still have a drouth.”
Martin said nothing. He circled the Other slowly. He knew that he could not allow himself to get in close...the Douglas was too strong.
The crowd screamed its displeasure.
“Come, laddie,” the Other said. “Are ye here tae fight or tae dance?”
Still Martin circled. The Other watched him closely, its eyes flickering from the stake to Martin’s face and back again.
“Dae ye mean tae make me dizzy? Or are...”
Martin threw the stake straight at the Other’s heart, but the Douglas was too fast and swatted it away just before it touched his skin. The stake landed nearly thirty feet away, and Martin would have to get past the Other to retrieve it.
The Douglas jeered as Martin turned and ran across the quadrangle away from him.
“This is yer cub? He has a yellow streak up his back.”
The crowd howled in laughter...until they saw Martin’s intent.
Martin grabbed hold of one of the tall torches that lit the arena and began to swing on it. If he could get the pole out of the ground he would effectively have a lance...a weapon against any Other.
He got the pole swinging and was beginning to believe he might succeed, but he wasn’t given enough time. The Douglas was almost on him and Martin had to retreat again.
“Come, laddie,” the Douglas said. “Just a wee hug...that’s all I as
k.”
Something landed with a soft thud at Martin’s feet, and he chanced a look down. Someone had given him a weapon...a coney snare.
By the time he had bent and lifted it, the Other was right on top of him. Martin was grabbed in a bear hug. His arms were pinned at his side, and the Other smiled as it squeezed. “I have you now,” the Douglas said.
Martin head-butted the Other just above the nose, gaining him a momentary respite where he was able to get his arms free.
“No. I have you,” Martin said, and slipped the snare over the Other’s head, pulling it tight around its neck.
There was a sudden frenzy about the Douglas now. He began to squeeze tighter, and Martin felt the bones of his back begin to pop.
Martin knew he had only this one chance. He pulled on the noose and saw the wire dig deep into the flesh of the Other’s neck. Something gave in his ribs, then Martin screamed in triumph as the Douglas’ grip began to ease.
He crossed the handles of the snare and gave one final pull...and the Douglas’ head rolled from his shoulders. Martin kicked the body over and lifted the head by the long hair plaits.
“This is how I treat Others,” he said. He spat in the dead face and tossed the head into the suddenly quiet crowd.
The Boy-King stood and applauded. He did not seem concerned at the loss of his champion.
“You are feisty, my cub,” he said. “And you have won the right to choose. What is it to be...the fight or the blood?”
Martin stood square in the center of the quadrangle, the snare dangling from his right hand.
“Send on your best,” he said. “The Thane of Milecastle will not bend the knee.”
“Ah, but the Wolf might, for he is of the night, like ourselves.”
“There is no Wolf. There is only man.”
The Other laughed again. “We both know better than that. But let us see if we can bring the beast forth to vouch for itself.”
He waved his hand and two Highland Others jumped from the platform.
They were too cock-sure. They came at him separately...and Martin took them quickly and efficiently. Both were finally dead before they even knew the snare had caught them.
The Watchers Trilogy: Omnibus Edition Page 55