The Watchers Trilogy: Omnibus Edition

by William Meikle

  The Other began to writhe suggestively against him, and its tongue rasped against the skin of Martin’s right hand.

  “I can feel your heart, little boy,” the Other said. Martin grabbed it round the neck and began to squeeze, but the Other took hold of his wrists and started to pull his hands away, opening a path to his exposed neck. Martin tried to push back, but he was as weak as a newborn, and the Other laughed as it lowered its fangs to his skin.

  “It’s nice to see I’m not the only one with woman problems,” a familiar voice said, just as the Other was pulled violently away.

  A sudden splash of blood from the Other’s ruined nose caught Martin across the eyes and he was temporarily blinded. When he rubbed the slick redness away he saw Sean Grant and the Other rolling on the stone floor of the room.

  They were like a pair of rabid dogs, and Martin could scarcely discern who was who, let alone who might be winning, until there came a loud crack of bones breaking, and Sean Grant stood away from the still body of the Other.

  “You shouldn’t mess with wildcats, my Thane,” Sean said. “That’s my job.” He looked back to the body, and gasped, turning his head so that his friend would not see, but he was too late...Martin stepped back in puzzlement as the fangs slid bloodily from Sean Grant’s gums.

  Once more Martin raised his arms in front of him.

  “You are turned. You are Other,” he said, but Sean shook his head.

  “No, my Thane. Not Other, but no longer man-and-only-man. I have our friend Lennan to thank for that.”

  Martin remembered his encounter with Gwynneth back in the church of Newcastleton and nodded his head as understanding came.

  “Aye. I have seen it. It seems we both carry the woodsmen’s legacy within us.”

  Now it was Sean’s turn to look puzzled, but Martin lowered his hands and stepped forward.

  They embraced quickly.

  “We will have time for stories later,” Martin said. “First, we have to get out of here.”

  “Aye,” Sean said. “For Mary Campbell is somewhere in this castle, and we must find her before the Boy-King does any more deviltry.”

  “There are also more than fifty true men-and-only-men in the cells below,” Martin said. “If we can free them, we will have more chance of escape ourselves.” “There is more hope than you know,” Sean said, just as the boom of cannon reverberated in the room. “It seems that the Protector has brought the war north.”

  The scene in the castle esplanade was one of chaos and nightmare. Hordes of crazed Others and their mind-slaves screamed and ranted as cannon shot rained from beyond the wall, and, even as Martin and Sean emerged into the open, a fine spray began to fall, a rain that caused the Others to shriek as blue flame started to burn among them.

  Martin gave a grim smile.

  “It seems that Master Hillman is near,” he said. “For surely only he could have thought of this.”

  He pointed upwards, to where the sky was full of large kites. Water bottles hung from harnesses slung beneath, and it was from these that the silver and garlic water was falling. Martin was pleased to see that the concoction seemed to have no effect on Sean.

  It was however bringing a new form of hell to Stirling Castle.

  “Come, man,” Martin said. “We must find Mary Campbell before this turns into a rout and she is lost in the confusion.”

  “Oh, I can find her,” Sean said. “It is as if I am a compass and she is a magnet…I am drawn to her.”

  Martin fell in behind Sean as he pushed his way though the shrieking throng. A tall Other made a grab at Martin, but Sean spun on him, showing newly exposed fangs and hissing loudly.

  “This one belongs to the King...would you sup at his table before him?”

  The Other backed off, and the crowd parted before them as a wind got up, the kites soared overhead, and the deadly rain fell ever more heavily. Small fires burned all across the esplanade, and the smoldering bodies of Others were beginning to fall and melt at their feet.

  “Hurry!” Sean shouted over his shoulder, making for the nearest doorway. “I fear we are too late. The ceremony has started.”

  Sean led them through a series of hallways, stopping only to snap a tall wooden candlestick in two and pass one half to Martin.

  “Not much of a weapon,” he said.

  “Enough for these bastards,” Martin replied, and they smiled grimly at each other.

  “Are you fit enough for a fight, my Thane?” Sean said, and Martin laughed.

  “As fit as I deserve to be,” he said. “I’ve already sent many to the final death this night...a few more should be little trouble.”

  In truth Martin felt weak and tired, but he was in the company of his closest friend, trying to save the daughter of a man he was indebted to, and with a chance of meeting the Boy-King face-to- face. He would find the strength from somewhere.

  “We’re here,” Sean whispered as they came to a heavy oak door.

  The air around them seemed to get suddenly colder, and Martin felt a stab of icy fear before reaching out to help Sean push the door open. The scene that met them would be etched in Martin’s mind for the rest of his days.

  Two large black candles that burned with a blood-red flame provided the only light and the smoke from the heavy tallow rose thick and black to hang in a rolling cloud above their heads. Four Others stood at the corners of a large table, across which was draped the limp body of Mary Campbell.

  Her eyes were wide open, but they stared, sightless, at the ceiling. Her naked body was smeared with thick, congealing blood, and the taste of copper stuck at the back of Martin’s throat.

  Even as the pair of them burst into the room, the Boy-King took something red and dripping from the golden chalice before him and raised the bloody mass over the girl’s mouth.

  “Let the life of Baphomet be the life eternal, and let the blood go on, in line never ending, till the ends of time.”

  A slow stream of blood and gore dripped between Mary Campbell’s open lips. Martin gasped in disgust as she licked her lips, and gasped again as he saw the fangs that emerged to hang on her lower lip.

  The Boy-King turned towards them. His eyes blazed with a light even brighter than that of the candles, and his cheeks, although yet pale, looked strangely flushed, as if he had recently fed.

  “Ah, the young suitor and my wolf cub,” he said. “Come to take the girl away from all this evil.”

  He laughed, a cruel thing, and the three Others joined in.

  “But I’m afraid there will be no last-minute rescue. Baphomet has seen to that. The deed is done.”

  He pointed at the prone girl, and Martin was dismayed to see her eyes change color until they blazed deepest red.

  “No!” Sean shouted, and jumped forward, his stake raised, aimed straight at the Boy-King’s heart.

  The Other didn’t flinch. In fact, the corners of his mouth rose in a wide grin that showed his fangs.

  “Protect me, my cub,” his voice said in Martin’s head, and, without thinking, Martin reached out and grabbed Sean as he passed, pulling them both to the floor.

  At first Sean thought he’d been tripped from behind, and was about to shout a warning to Martin when he realized that it was Martin himself who had attacked him.

  They rolled on the floor together, a bundle of flailing arms and teeth. Sean felt Martin’s teeth try to bite through the leather of his boots, and had to kick out hard to prevent his attacker from climbing further up his legs.

  The Boy-King stood over them and laughed out loud.

  “The biter and the bitten...which will prevail? I wish I could tarry and see the result, but I fear we must leave this place. It seems Cumberland has come knocking, and I am not quite ready to receive him.”

  He took the gold chalice in his arms, dropping the bloody mass he held into it.

  “Once more the King of Kings has brought forth a blood-heir. But there is no time to rejoice. Not yet.”

  He motioned at the th
ree Others, and the tallest one lifted Mary Campbell across its shoulder as if she weighed no more than a child.

  “Adieu, my young friends,” the Boy-King said. “I will no doubt see one of you again, and I look forward to finding out which of you is the stronger. I do believe the victor will prove to be an able companion to me once I have taken the throne.”

  Sean was vaguely aware of the Others leaving the room, and he just managed to catch a glimpse of Mary Campbell’s hair as it swung behind the Other who carried her...it was already beginning to turn red from the roots.

  Sean struggled, attempting to follow them, but he had his hands full trying to keep Martin from tearing his throat out.

  The thing he fought bore little resemblance to his friend. It snarled and salivated, teeth bared, and it fought…not with the cool precision of an Officer of the Watch, but with the naked frenzy of a rabid dog.

  Sean had an opening where he could have taken his attacker by the neck and snapped it, but he held his hand...he could not kill his Thane, even in this debased state. But by delaying his strike he gave Martin an opening of his own, and had to bring his arm up in front of him to stop teeth tearing at his cheek.

  He forced Martin’s head back and managed to roll over, pinning Martin with the weight of his body.

  “My Thane!” he shouted, then had to hit Martin hard in the face to prevent himself being bitten.

  “Martin!” he called. “It is me! We should fight Others, not ourselves.”

  But there was no recognition in his Thane’s eyes as he lunged upwards, knocking Sean off balance and bringing a scream from Sean as he was bitten, deep, in his left hand. Unbidden, fangs came from his bloody gums, and it was all he could do to stop himself from feeding.

  He threw himself sideways, away from Martin, and managed to get the table between them as the snarling creature came forward once more.

  The smell of blood was even stronger now, and Sean felt the Other move inside him. It would be so easy to give it rein, to let the bloodlust take him...indeed, he felt the joy in it ready to take hold in his mind.

  But that would make me no different from my poor Thane, he thought. I have a duty...to myself.

  “I am the Balance,” he said out loud.

  Martin growled at him, but Sean kept moving around the table, keeping it between them. “Remember the fisher wife?” Sean said, circling. “Remember the night on the wall when Campbell’s light came from the North?”

  Martin leaped on top of the table and seemed to be readying himself to spring.

  “This is not who you are. Remember Barnstable,” Sean said, and thought there might be hope, for deep down in Martin’s eyes, there was a spark of what might be humanity.

  “Remember your father,” Sean said, and a single tear ran down Martin’s cheek.

  Martin raised his head towards the ceiling and let out a howl that echoed around the room and rang in Sean’s ears.

  “Sean?” he said, and it was almost a sob. “Help me.”

  He stretched out a hand before he fell, insensible, on the table.

  Sean looked down at the prone form, then towards the door.

  Mary Campbell insensible in the hands of the Others, my Thane insensible in front of me. I have a duty to my Thane...and a duty to Mary Campbell. And I cannot fulfill one without neglect of the other.

  He sighed loudly.

  One is here, the other is not. And I have a duty to my friend. That must make my mind up for me...for now, at least.

  He lifted Martin in his arms and made for the door.

  The castle esplanade was a scene from hell. Everything was lit in dim blue sparkling flame that burned in small patches everywhere he looked. Others were fleeing in all directions, but wherever they ran, the silver and garlic got them. Partially melted Others tried to drag their still burning bodies away, but the kites seemed to cover the sky, and there was no escape.

  Sean scanned the bodies littering the area, hoping that the Boy-King may have been caught in the falling death, but he knew it was not so. Mary Campbell was already outside the castle, and was heading north...he sensed it.

  And even as he thought it, the Boy-King once more spoke in his mind.

  “Ah, the suitor won. Tell me,” the Other’s voice said as it crawled in his head, “…did you feel the blood rise? Does it still quicken in you? Enjoy your warmth, little one, for you will soon…”

  “Run, run while you can!” Sean sent back, interrupting him. “For know this...wherever you go, I will hunt you down.”

  And with that, he closed his mind against the Boy King. I am the Balance he thought. As if from a far distance he heard singing, a woodsman’s song, and the Boy-King was excluded from his mind, like a candle being snuffed out. Sean imagined he heard a howl of anger, and allowed himself a grim smile.

  The garlic rain from above was slackening now, but it had done its job well, for there was scarcely an Other left standing in the castle forecourt. He picked a way through the foul mess, and was heading for the main gate of the castle when a small figure jumped into his path.

  “Put him down, you foul bastard,” a youth proclaimed, and pointed a small tube in Sean’s direction. Sean was suddenly sprayed with a mixture of silver and garlic.

  He spluttered as the garlic got into his nose and stung his eyes, and he stumbled, almost dropping Martin.

  “How do you like that, then?” he heard, and was hit with another spray of the garlic. “Die, you bastard!” the youth shouted, then stepped back as Sean shook off the liquid. The boy looked so shocked that Sean burst into a loud laugh.

  “A good try, boy, but an Officer of the Watch does not die as easily as an Other.”

  “Grant? Is that you?” a voice asked to his right. “Surely this is not the same boy who left my inn with my best boots and sword?”

  Sean turned to see Fitz at his side.

  “Aye, it is me. Well met again, innkeeper, although we are both a long way from home.”

  “We are that. But I am no less pleased to see you for all that. And the Thane? Is he...?”

  “He lives,” Sean said. “But he is sore afflicted and is in need of doctoring.”

  “Then come,” Fitz said. “It looks like the battle is already over, and young Hillman here has saved us a sore fight.”

  The youth blushed. He carried a water sack on his back and a bellows, like that of a bagpipe, under his arm from which he directed a stream of water through the small pipe, hosing the steaming remains of Others at their feet.

  “It was a simple idea,” he mumbled. “All I needed was the kites, and it was Megan who made them and…”

  “Aye, a simple idea,” Fitz said. “Like the inspiration for yon sack you carry...so simple that everyone else was too intelligent to think of it.”

  He ruffled the boy’s hair.

  “Come. Megan will be looking for you.”

  “The smith?” the boy asked. “He was with the Thane. Have you seen him?”

  “A big fellow, built like a bull?” Sean said, and the boy nodded.

  “He fell in the arena,” Sean said, and sudden tears sprung in the boy’s eyes. “But he died like a true man rather than become an Other, and he did not give them an easy time.”

  The boy turned away and wiped his eyes, but when he turned back there was only a grim determination showing.

  “Martin told me that there are more Protectors men down in the cells…” Sean began. The innkeeper interrupted him.

  “Aye. They were the lucky ones. We got them out.”

  “Then come,” Sean said. “My thane grows heavy.”

  The three of them went down through the great gate. All around them soldiers were hosing down the remains of Others, each using a water sack fitted in similar manner to that used by the boy. Vast pyres were being built of the mind-slaves killed by the cannon shot.

  “We did not get them all,” Fitz said. “Nor even the half of them. But we have given the Boy- King a sore beating.”

  “Mayhap,” S
ean said bitterly. “But I couldn’t stop him begetting his heir.”

  “Shhh,” Fitz said, putting a finger to his lips. “It seems we have many tales to tell each other, we two. But rumors will spread too fast this night. It would be best to keep them for the comfort of our tent.”

  Sean nodded grimly.

  “Aye. And maybe old Menzies has a cure for what ails my Thane.”

  Fitz looked at Sean, and seemed about to say something, then thought better of it.

  He clasped Sean on the shoulder.

  “Come. I can have a flagon of ale and one of Megan’s pies in your hands in less than five minutes. Then we’ll see what can be done for our young Thane.”

  “The old doctor is dead?” Sean said.

  He was standing at the entrance of a large tent. Inside Megan was applying a cold compress to Martin’s head, while Fitz and himself stood and tried not to think about how helpless they were.

  “Aye. He died an officer’s death,” Fitz replied. “And your Thane avenged him...a bit too strenuously for the liking of some.”

  Sean heard the sharp tone in the man’s voice.

  “Hush,” Megan called out to them. “I have a sick man here.”

  Fitz drew Sean out of the tent and over to a heavily laden cart where he drew back a tarpaulin and uncovered a beer barrel.

  “If we are to tell stories we’ll need something to loosen our tongues.”

  He drew two flagons from the barrel and sat Sean down on the tailgate of the wagon before beginning to speak.

  “It started, for me at least, when your Thane and old Sawney turned up at the door of the inn...”

  They swapped tales for an hour, while the Hillman boys fetched and carried for Megan. Sean was surprised to see that the sun was coming up by the time Megan came over and joined them. She took Fitz’s ale and downed it in one gulp.

  “The fever is passed,” she said. “But it is a shame to see such a young man go through so much pain.”

  She turned to Sean.

  “He asks for you,” she said. “But do not tire him further. He needs to rest.”