“As do we all, madam,” Sean said with a smile and gave her his own flagon as he passed by her into the tent.
He expected to find Martin yet abed, but instead the young Thane was pulling on his boots and was already fully dressed.
“The innkeeper’s wife will not like it, my Thane,” Sean said.
Martin turned to him and he had a grim smile on his face, a face that looked ten years older than Sean knew it to be.
“And when did you ever pay attention to anything you were ordered to do? Do you expect me to lie like an invalid when the Boy-King is so close?”
Sean held up his hand and showed Martin the teeth marks imprinted there—still red and raw looking.
“You are not yourself, Sire.”
Martin winced. “The wolf is strong in the presence of the Boy-King. It comes when it will, and leaves again as suddenly. I am sorry. As you say, I was not myself.”
He laughed again, but this time it was hollow and full of pain.
“I have not been myself since my encounter with the old gray one. But once the Boy-King is sent to the final death, then mayhap I can rest. But I have men to lead, while I still can...Fitz!” he called, and the innkeeper came at a run, still carrying a flagon of ale.
“Sire?”
“Who is in charge? Is the Duke himself here?”
“Yes, Sire. His command post is some two miles to the west. He has called a briefing of officers two hours hence...I will attend.”
“No,” Martin replied. “Sean and I will go.”
Sean was aghast.
“No, Sire. I must be gone. They have too much of a start already. I must be after them...and soon.”
“I had thought to keep you beside me,” Martin said. “For you saw her...we are too late...she, and her unborn child, are already turned.”
“But so was I,” Sean said. “And her father would not give up on me. I will not give up on her, not when I have breath left in me.”
“Sean,” Martin said. It was almost a sob, and Sean heard the need in his friend, the need and the uncertainty.
He put a hand on Martin’s shoulder...
...and they are together in a circle of high stones. A small figure stands before them, and Sean realizes with a start it is Lennan.
“We are all with the wind,” the woodsman says.
“I fly with it, you stand steady in front of it,” pointing at Sean, “And you…” pointing now at Martin, “...fly before it. All three are with the wind. Remember its song, and we will sing it together.”
Sean feels Martin move forward, but already the scene is fading and only the sound of Lennan’s singing remains. He reaches out to Martin...
...and they were in the tent once more, the sound of Lennan’s song ringing in his ears.
“Lennan?” Martin said, and Sean realized they had both been privy to the same sight.
“Yes,” Sean replied. “I carry his song with me. It has sustained me in many a dark place.”
“The song…” Martin said, his gaze far away. “I had forgotten the song.”
“It seems Lennan knew that, even from wherever he is now.”
“I pray, young sirs, what are you talking about?” Fitz said. “Have you both lost your senses?”
Martin shook his head as if to clear it. He seemed stronger somehow, and his eyes were clear and bright.
“I will not forget it again,” he said in a whisper, almost to himself. He ignored Fitz and looked deep in Sean’s eyes.
“Lennan guides you still?”
Sean nodded.
“Then go...seek out Mary Campbell...that is your duty now.” He managed a small smile. “Your Thane orders you.”
“Then I accept your command,” Sean said with an answering smile, already moving to the tent entrance.
“Follow me north, and follow quickly,” he said. “For the end of this mummery is coming soon...I can feel it.”
He didn’t wait for Martin’s reply. He left the tent for a cold morning, one that got colder still while he provisioned himself for a journey.
By the time he left the camp, his gaze set to the North, the first snows of winter had already started to fall.
Chapter 6
NOVEMBER 21, 1745, STIRLING
Martin sat alone in the tent long after Sean had left him, the sound of Lennan’s song still ringing in his ears.
How could I forget, he thought as he felt new strength course through him. He was still full of self-disgust at how the Boy-King had taken hold of his mind, but he would not suffer it to be done again…not now that he had the song once more.
And if it works for me, why can it not work for others?
“Fitz!” he called once more.
The innkeeper arrived at a run, with Megan close behind.
“You should be abed, young sir,” she said.
“Only if you come with me,” he replied.
Fitz chuckled.
“It seems the Thane is quite well.”
“Better than I have been at any time since Derby,” Martin said. “And I’m ready to chase the Boy-King to the ends of the Earth if need be.”
“Mayhap we will get the chance,” Fitz said. “The Duke sent a message...he has no time to hold any more meetings. We have orders to break camp immediately. We are being sent north as an advance party, to harry the dark bastards wherever we find them. The Duke will bring his army on behind us, razing the country as he comes. It seems that the Protector has declared that this land is now English soil, and he will have no Others on it.”
“Then let us get to it,” Martin said. “We should not keep the Boy-King waiting. And send for Harold Hillman…I have a new song for him to learn.”
As they broke camp, Fitz told Martin of what had passed since they were parted at Newcastleton.
“We got back with reinforcements the next morning, but there was nothing in Newcastleton except for the smoking remains of Others. We thought we had lost you forever,” the innkeeper said as he tied the tarpaulin over the cart, making sure that the beer barrel was secure.
“And when the Duke brought his troops north the next day, we joined with him,” Megan continued. “We never expected to see you, or young Grant, again.”
“Aye,” Fitz said. “So I was surprised to see Sean carry you out of yon hellhole. You haven’t told how that happened, Sire.”
Martin shook his head.
“It can wait until we have ale and pies and a hot fire,” he said. “For now, let us gather what men we have, for if I know the Duke, he will be moving out soon, and it wouldn’t do for him to catch us on the road.”
By the time Martin led his troops out of Stirling the snow was falling heavily. Only an hour had passed since Sean had departed, chasing the Other’s army, but already the rough track had gone from view under the white blanket.
“Harold…strike up the tune,” Martin said, and as the lad began to sing, Martin felt his heart lift.
How could I have forgotten the woodsman’s song? he thought.
But now that I have taught it to young Hillman, it will always be there.
Indeed, it seemed to be working its magic on the troop…Martin had never seen a band so happy to be heading to war.
“’Tis a fine air,” Fitz said beside him. “Indeed, it lightens a dark place like no other song I’ve heard.”
“It does more than that,” Martin replied. “I believe it is all that stands between myself and damnation.”
It was only half an hour before they found evidence they were on the right trail. Three bodies lay directly in their path…Others, their pale bodies partially melted and eaten away.
“Looks like these were caught by young Edward’s rain in the castle,” Fitz said as he knelt beside them.
“Aye, but that wasn’t what killed them. One of our band goes before us,” Martin replied, pointing out the stakes that stood proud from each breast. “Our Captain of the Watch has been doing his duty.”
Over the course of the day they found fi
ve more bodies, each staked in the heart. The last was almost totally snow-covered, only the dark of the stake showing above a white mound. The snowfall had become so thick that visibility was down to ten yards. To make matters worse, they seemed to be traveling in a valley that tunneled all the falling snow straight at them. Martin’s leather coat was already encrusted with an inch or more of half-frozen slush, and his face felt stiff and numb.
“We must hole up, sir!” Fitz shouted from his left. This is folly…we’ll find nothing but a gully to fall into!”
Martin signed, but knew his quartermaster was right. He peered through the white, as if willing it to part and show him the way.
“Form a circle,” he said. “Carts and horses to the outside…And see if we can get some fires going. It could be a long night.”
It was only as he tried to dismount that Martin realized how near he was to total exhaustion. He nearly fell as his knees gave way beneath him, and it was only Fitz’s strong arm that kept him from toppling.
“Nothing that some strong ale won’t cure,” Fitz said, loud enough for the nearest troopers to hear. He led Martin to the largest cart and helped him sit on the tailgate. Harold Hillman appeared under Megan’s watchful eye as preparations were made for the night’s camp.
Soon two large fires roared in the center of their makeshift encampment and everyone except those unlucky enough to draw first sentry duty was huddled around the flames. The falling snow hissed and spat, but for now the fire was winning.
Martin was slowly beginning to feel stronger, although the second flagon of ale threatened to go to his head.
“We made good time today, Fitz,” he said.
The older man wiped some foam from his lips as he replied, “Aye sir, but if this snow keeps up its likely we shall see Christmas on this very spot.”
“No…” Martin said. “The end will come sooner than that…don’t ask me how I know…but I can feel it. Besides it looked like we took care of more than half of them in Stirling alone. Mayhap we have him on the run.”
Fitz looked grave, and he took a long pull of his beer before replying.
“His army is not as small as you think, Sire,” he said. “There is news to which you are not yet privy. Let me get another beer for us both…’Tis a short tale but a sad one.”
Martin stared into the fire while waiting for Fitz to return. None of his men spoke to him, and the Hillman boys were both somewhere on the opposite side of the small camp.
They’re scared of me.
The thought struck him forcibly…he had seen that look in men’s eye before.
I’m turning into my father.
He laughed out loud, and Fitz gave him a quizzical look as he handed Martin a new flagon. Martin motioned for the man to sit.
“Tell me your news,” he said. “And you’d better make it quick. One more beer and I’m apt to lapse into sleep.”
“It must have happened while we were in Milecastle,” Fitz began. “Even possibly while we were carousing at your homecoming revels.
“Cumberland sent Old Barclay to the east, with nigh on three thousand men. He gave orders that the force should push north as fast as they were able. I believe he was hoping to catch the Boy- King on the run…but Barclay was the one who was caught.”
Fitz stared deep into the fire, and there were tears in his eyes as he continued.
“It happened in Berwick. An old soldier like Barclay couldn’t resist billeting his troops in the castle and barracks. Unfortunately the Boy-King…or one of his lieutenants…knew it.
“In the dead of night, Others poured through in three places thought to be the prison, the cellars and the river gate. You can imagine the carnage. It is said that old Barclay was the last to go down, and that the Others lay full dead in a heap around him. But he did fall…and by the morning the Boy-King had nigh on three thousand new recruits…twice more than the number he lost last night in Stirling.”
Fitz took another long draw on his beer and toasted the fire. “To Barclay. A fine soldier, and a good friend.”
Many of the company, Martin included, joined in the reply. “But how do you know?” Martin said, “…if they were all killed?”
“Not all, sir,” Fitz said. He drank from his flagon, but it was nearly empty.
“Take mine,” Martin said. “I’m dead on my feet. But I will not sleep until you finish the story.”
Fitz took Martin’s flagon, but only stared into the pot as he continued.
“We were preparing to leave Milecastle to search for yourself and the smith when Thomas Barr staggered up to the gate…it is from him we have the story.”
“He survived, then?” Martin asked. “Aye,” Fitz said and spat into the fire. “But not for long…he was sorely bitten. I offered to do it, but it was his father who made sure he was put to a final rest. And after it was done, old Barr took himself off to the wall. His body was found just as we were leaving…he had looked out over the wall one last time, then near blew his own head off with a musket.”
Martin woke to a cold, clear morning. Last night’s snow glittered like tiny gems in the morning sun, and a brisk wind blew down the valley in which they had set up camp, shifting the snow into soft drifts that coated the landscape in a shapeless blanket.
He broke his fast with a lump of bread and some hard cheese, washed down with ale…only half a flagon…his head told him that he had taken too much last night.
The troops were already breaking camp by the time Martin finished the ale.
“A fine day for traveling,” Megan shouted wryly.
Martin smiled as he shouted back.
“If it is too cold for milady, there is a warm bed back in Milecastle waiting for you.”
“Only if milord comes with me,” she called back.
Some of the men, new to the troop, were bemused to see Fitz laughing as loudly as any of the men.
“Come, young Hillman. Sing me my traveling tune,” Martin said. Once more the boy took up the Woodsman’s song, and once more it worked its magic as the troop headed out, northwards, in search of prey.
Sean Grant spent the night in a high cave overlooking a long, deep glen.
Yesterday he had been able to follow the Other’s trail north even going as far as catching up with some stragglers from the horde. But they had been unable to tell him anything more than he already knew.
He is going north…he has something he must do…and Mary Campbell is of vital importance to his plans.
He had pushed his mount hard, but when the snow got too heavy he’d been forced to seek refuge. Somehow he’d known exactly where shelter would be.
He had slept little. The cave was barely large enough for himself and the horse, and long before morning the hot animal smell was becoming overwhelming.
The view as the sun came up more than made up for any discomfort he’d been feeling. The whole length of the glen lay deep in snow with only the trees at the bottom of the valley showing as dark sentinels. Overhead the sky was a pale, duck-egg blue, without a single cloud, and high above a pair of buzzards soared, warming themselves for the day’s hunt.
My soul is empty Sean whispered soundlessly. And without warning, the sight once more filled his mind.
He is in a castle, in a room of rough-hewn walls with only a single window almost impossibly high above him. A massive fireplace stands cold and empty, and in front of it, naked on a large wolfskin, lays the Boy-King and his bride.
Mary Campbell, her hair now impossibly blood red, turns to the Other and smiles broadly, her fangs sliding bloodily over her lower lip. She is hugely pregnant, her belly swollen and her skin stretched so tight that the child can be seen struggling beneath it.
The Boy-King strokes her belly, and, leaning over, bites her, hard, around the nipple, drawing blood. They both smile as he bends once more and begins to suckle.
“No!” Sean shouted.
The Boy-King looks up, smiling still.
“Ah, the young lover,” he says. “Do y
ou still covet my bride?”
He runs a white hand down to between the woman’s thighs, and she opens her legs to receive it.
“Does she stir your blood?” the Other says, bending once more to suckle. When he lifts his head his lips are smeared red. “Or is it her blood that stirs you?”
Sean felt the fangs slide in his gums, and suddenly he became aware of the hot pounding of his horse’s heart.
“Join me, and one day, my young lover, all this will be yours,” the Boy-King says, and laughs, a cold thing with no mirth it.
Mary Campbell smiles as she runs a cold hand over her breasts.
Sean sat in the mouth of the cave, sweating despite the bitter cold. The beat of the horse’s heart pounded through him like a great drum, and the vision in his mind of Mary Campbell’s naked form inflamed him further until he could take it no more.
The horse tried to shy away from him, but he caught it hard in a strong grip, feeling the course hair against his lips as he bit deep into its neck.
The Boy-King laughs again, and his eyes flare, blood red as the child inside his bride kicks excitedly.
Hot blood coursed in Sean’s mouth, and a fever grew inside him, but even as he made to swallow, new sights took root in his mind…of Duncan Campbell lying on the floor of the chapel in Edinburgh Castle, of Lennan’s drained body on the altar stone in his people’s village, of the friends he had lost…Menzies, the old Thane, and finally, of Mary Campbell herself, on the night he had first seen her, the night he had pledged his life to her safety. He flung himself away from the animal, retching, and spilling a bloody trail on the ground at his feet.
The horse bolted…off and away down the hill, but Sean barely noticed. He sat down on the cold cave floor and cried bitterly…while in his head the Boy-King’s laughter rang and echoed.
It was a long time before Sean became aware of where he was. The sun was high in the sky and a deep cold had made its way into his bones, so that when he finally stood and stretched he felt brittle, like fresh ice.
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