By Sylvian Hamilton

by Max Gilbert

  The smith gave them an uneasy glance. 'It's a bad road, noble Sirs,' he said.

  'Gets rough, does it?'

  'Rough, aye, but that's not what I meant. It's a bad road for travellers. You gentlemen should go back towards Crawgard, and north from there to Hawick, and then turn east.'

  'But it's much shorter this way,' said Miles.

  'It's dangerous, Lords,' the smith said.

  'Bandits?'

  'Some say so, but none's ever been caught. People just vanish. It could be wolves, of course, but...' He crossed himself and kissed the little brass crucifix that hung round his thick neck on a plaited cord. 'We call it the devil's road,' he said.

  'You think the devil snatches travellers?' Straccan asked.

  The man lowered his voice. 'There's an ogre,' he said.

  There was a thoughtful silence. Then Bane said. 'Seen it, have you? This ogre?'

  'No, Sir, and please God I never do. But it's there, and it eats people. Well, I've said my piece. Do as you please, but don't say I didn't warn you!'

  The family numbered thirty creatures; eight males, twelve females and ten juveniles from infants to about ten years of age. At fifty, Sawney was an old man, but unlike other folk he had never gone hungry. There was always meat of a sort to fill his belly, so instead of being half-starved and feeble like most outlaws, he was a powerful brute, heavy and surprisingly, dangerously fast. His was the blind savagery of the boar, bowling down prey with a grunting irresistible charge. All flesh was his family's prey, but their choicest delicacy was human.

  For years they had waylaid, slain and devoured travellers. They fell on solitary walkers, or pairs if they looked unlikely to put up much of a fight, with the ferocity of a wolf pack, and even ambushed and dragged down riders. Although all folk carried weapons of some sort--dagger, sword, axe, club--none of the family was ever badly hurt. So swift, so shocking were their attacks that victims often stood staring in disbelief, too amazed even to run until too late. But if they ran, oh when they ran, that was sport indeed! The reeking baying pack was inescapable, attacking as they did on their own ground, the steep rough paths and desolate boggy places they knew so well.

  They would hurl rocks and trip-sticks to bring their quarry down, batter the skulls in with stones, drag the bodies a little way off into the dense gorse and bracken and often tear the warm quivering flesh from the bones there and then.

  Their lair had never been found. The brave few who sought it were never seen again. In that wild empty land the family had flourished for twenty years, since Sawney and his woman Kate, running from justice in Carlisle with the hue and cry after them, had stumbled on their refuge and denned there ever since. She bore a child each year, of which some lived and grew; brothers and sisters incestuously mated, and so they multiplied.

  De Brasy had come upon an injured female in a boar trap a few years ago, and for amusement kept it alive, fed it and perversely made some sort of pet of the thing. He had tamed it to muzzle and collar and kept it chained and obedient for fear of the whip. Eventually, he could almost trust it--never quite--but in its halting barely recognisable speech it told him about the family and led him to the lair. With gifts of food, especially sugar for which they had a desperate greed, he persuaded them to his will. He found them useful. More than one of his enemies--he had many ended up in the family's larder, and several of his creditors, of whom there were even more, went the same way. They had watched several days with feral patience, and these were the men; these were the horses they must look for, the white-foot bay and the grey.

  The path ran beside the river for miles, and then climbed above a rocky gorge, narrowing at a bend with a nasty drop on the right and a wall of rock on the left. Out of a cleft above the riders sprang three of the males, hanging on Zingiber's neck, stabbing and hacking to bring the stallion down. Straccan tore the axe from his saddle bow and struck at the filthy hands that grabbed him. A severed hand fell like a loathsome great spider, the male screaming and waving his spouting arm as he toppled into the gorge. The other two drew back as Zingiber fell bleeding to his knees. Straccan leapt clear as the horse rolled in agony, and with sword in his right hand and axe in his left, flung himself after the two retreating males.

  Behind him on the path, Bane had time to draw his sword and spur forward, leaping Zingiber's body and thrashing legs. He caught up with Straccan where the path widened, curving away from the gorge between thickets of rowan in dense gorse and bracken broken by rocky outcrops. From this shelter, in a pincer movement, flinging stones with deadly accuracy, came a dozen more of Sawney's tribe.

  Straccan was forced back against the rock, facing half a dozen of the creatures. His axe and sword kept them off but several stones struck him, one opening a gash above his left eye from which the blood blinded him while a blow over the ear made him dizzy and sick.

  Bane kept his horse turning, turning, its hooves jabbing at the attackers, while he slashed left and right with his sword, but a fresh shower of missiles brought him toppling from the saddle, and with howls of triumph the creatures rushed at him. The grey neighed and galloped back the way they had come, leaping Zingiber's lifeless body, hooves clattering on the rocky path, round the curve, out of sight.

  Three of Straccan's attackers turned to join the pack swarming over Bane, and the other three hesitated, glancing at their kindred. Straccan dropped his axe, tugged the horn from his belt and blew long and hard.

  Almost at once came the ringing of hooves on rock again, and here was Sir Miles coming full tilt up the path, straight at the pack worrying Bane. Mace whirling, he scattered them, and Larktwist, coming up behind leading the mule and Bane's runaway horse, jumped down and dragged Bane out of the road on to the grass at the side.

  Straccan brought down two with his sword, sickened when he saw that one was female. One more fell to Miles's mace, and the rest dashed into the cover of the rowans and tall bracken, and were gone as if they'd never been, leaving their stench, and their dead. 'This one's alive,' said Larktwist, rolling a body over with his foot. Miles dismounted, took straps from his saddlebag and bound the creature's hands and feet.

  From some distance ahead and still out of sight, came the sound of another horn, tan-tan-ta-ra-tan, and soon a rider came in sight, wearing an old-fashioned plate hauberk and steel cap, on a big dusty black gelding.

  'Who's that?' Straccan gasped, bending to retrieve his axe and almost falling as sick dizziness surged over him.

  'Haven't the faintest,' Miles panted.

  Larktwist rummaged in the packs for the first-aid kit and bound a rough dressing round Straccan's head. Bane, however, was unconscious and breathing stertorously, almost snoring.

  'I don't like the look of this,' Larktwist said. 'He's in a bad way.'

  As the newcomer--an old man, and a knight by his bearing and gear--drew nearer, Straccan knelt by Bane, whose eyes were closed and whose face looked shrunken and collapsed. 'Hawkan,' he said. 'Hawkan, can you hear me?'

  'He can't,' said Larktwist.

  The rider slowed to a trot as he came close, then to a walk, and halted.

  'Is he badly hurt?' the old man asked.

  'Yes,' Straccan said. 'We were set upon by--I don't know what they were--savages! There were women too. I killed one.'

  Struggling against vertigo, he bent over Bane touching his face gently. 'Hawkan, they've gone.'

  The old man dismounted. 'I am Blaise d'Etranger,' he said.

  'They won't come back now; we are too many, and armed. Let us carry your companion. A little way ahead there is a place where we can tend him, and you can rest.'

  Sir Miles cut two rowan saplings and crossed them at one end, using a blanket to make a travois. They wrapped Bane like a baby, fastened him into the travois so he could not be dislodged, and fixed the contrivance to his horse, which Straccan now must ride. The captive they hauled upright and gagged, loosing its feet so it could walk but fastening its strapped hands to Miles's saddle, so it must trot alongside the horse
.

  As they rode slowly, led by the newcomer, Straccan pushed forward to ride beside the old man. He was tall and very thin, with fierce hawkish features in which the marks of old suffering were plain. From under his steel cap long white locks fell on to his shoulders. His white beard was neatly braided and great moustaches hid his mouth. A heavy two-handed sword hung under his mantle, and strapped to his saddle was an odd sort of staff, forked and iron-clad at one end, pointed and iron-tipped at the other. A nasty weapon, the Scottish gaveloc, and one that Straccan had never seen.

  'You are Sir Richard Straccan,' the old man said.

  'You know me, Sir? Yet I don't remember you, and I am sure I would.'

  'Sir William Hoby sent me a letter. He said you were seeking Rainard de Soulis, the Lord of Crawgard.'

  'He has stolen my daughter,' said Straccan. 'I've been to Crawgard. All I found were a disabled tourney champion, a madwoman and some foul old Arab. Soulis isn't there. We are going to his demesne, Soulistoun, to seek him.'

  'He's at Dunfermline with the king,' said Sir Blaise. 'Or was when I left Coldinghame. But he'll leave there soon, for Skelrig.'

  'Skelrig?'

  'Aye. There's a man there, a knight in his service, who is sick, so I heard.'

  'Robert de Beauris?'

  'Yes. You know him?'

  'I've had some dealings with him. But until now, I didn't know he was Soulis's man. Sir Blaise, it was good of my friend William to write to you, and gracious of you to come seeking me; but why?'

  'William is an old friend of mine, too. He told me your errand. He thought I might be of help.'

  They had come about a mile from the ambush; the road went downhill again and levelled, meeting the river and running alongside. There was an ancient beehive stone hut, an abandoned hermitage, on a small spit of rock that stuck out into the river. A heron, disturbed by their coming, laboured heavily away dropping its fish. An otter splashed in after it, disappearing in a swirl of silver bubbles to emerge at the opposite bank, where it vanished into the reeds with its booty.

  They carried Bane into the hut, which was cold but blessedly dry, and while Miles cut bracken to make a bed, Larktwist got a fire going and heated water to bathe the blood off Bane and Straccan. Blaise wordlessly produced needle and sinew and competently stitched the flap of skin that had been torn loose over Straccan's eye. It was quite numb, and Straccan felt nothing. 'Thank you,' he said. He lifted Bane's unresponsive hand. It was cold.

  'Will he die?' Miles asked.

  'It's in God's hands,' said Blaise.

  'Can we do nothing for him?'

  'Only pray, and keep him warm.'

  Later, as they sat round the fire eating supper, the old knight produced Sir William Hoby's letter and showed it to Straccan.

  'Why is he so concerned?' Straccan asked. 'He has sent me his nephew, Miles, God bless him, and now you.'

  'When Soulis's name came up, he was concerned; and so am I.'

  'You know him?'

  'I've met him, in Outremer. He lived there some years, first as crusader, later as a pilgrim. Tell me, Sir Richard, have you heard of a black pilgrimage?'

  'No. What is it?'

  'It is for an evil end. Soulis made his pilgrimage far into the southern waste. He was gone two years and reckoned dead. But no, out he came after all, and with great treasure. It was whispered that he had found the lost City of Pillars.'

  Miles said, 'Sir, what is the City of Pillars?'

  The old knight was silent so long that Miles thought his question had not been heard, but he did not like to ask again. Then Sir Blaise said, 'The City of Pillars, fabled Irem, was lost in the waste for a thousand years. But Soulis went in search of it, and found it. That's where your old Arab came from.'

  'You know him, then?' Straccan said, surprised.

  'I've heard of him.' The man spoke softly, as if to himself.

  'Abdul Al-Hazred, of the Tribe of Ad. All those ancient tribes of desert dwellers are long dead, like the Romans who once dwelt in these parts. Irem was lost and buried in the sands for a thousand years. Yet it seems Soulis found it, and came away not only with much gold, but brought Al-Hazred out.'

  Miles looked puzzled. 'How had the old man lived in such a place?'

  'God knows! There is neither meat there, nor anything that grows. There must be forgotten wells, but water alone cannot keep a man alive for long. Perhaps the wandering desert folk supplied him, although most of them would shun the place. They say it is magic, ensorcelled, and only demons dwell there now.'

  The rhythm of Bane's breathing changed. It hitched, and caught, and after that was barely perceptible. Straccan wiped the grey face tenderly. Sir Blaise, watching him, said, 'If we could get him to Jedburgh ...'

  'Is there a chirurgeon there?'

  'A monk-physician, at the abbey. But it is a long way to carry your servant.'

  'My friend,' said Straccan. Despite the fire and the warm evening, he was shivering. He grieved for Bane, who was surely dying, and guiltily suppressed the fear that the days it might take would be days lost in his search for Gilla. Once, after a siege, he had seen a man stumble away from his wife's violated corpse, and beat his own head against the wall until he fell senseless and bleeding. Now, in his agony for Gilla and despair for Bane, he understood why. He mourned too for Zingiber; Zingiber who was only a beast and soulless, but his companion for eleven years. He sat staring into the fire, and then, blinded by it, into the gathering night outside the hut, where horses and mule were tethered. Now that the numbness had worn off, the wound above his eye felt as if it had been sewn with red-hot wire. Yet despite his fears, his nausea and the pain, he eventually slept.

  Miles stood watch until an hour or so before the dawn, when he shook Larktwist awake to relieve him.

  'How's Bane?'

  'Still breathing.'

  'God save him.'

  'Amen!'

  Straccan woke a little after dawn and found Sir Blaise sitting beside Bane. Bane's face was skull-like, damp and grey, the sunken eyes ringed in bruised circles. 'He is cold,' the old knight said, chafing the dead-feeling hands, trying to warm them. 'I have put another blanket over him, and made up the fire.'

  'Who are you?' Straccan asked. 'How can you help me?'

  'Yes,' said Miles, who had woken when the fire was mended, 'and how do you know about what's-his-name, the Arab, and the lost city, and all that?'

  Sir Blaise sighed, 'I am the Lord of Sauchiehill. My domain lies north of here. I am an old man, as you see, so I have put my holding in good hands, and live in retirement near the priory at Coldinghame. Prior Aernald and I were squires together, years ago. He lets me live in one of the priory's houses, for friendship's sake. Once, long ago, I was a knight of the Order of the Temple of Solomon, in Jerusalem.'

  'A Templar!' Miles breathed reverently.

  "In Outremer,' Blaise continued, 'I learned the legends of the desert. I spoke with the wise men of Arabia and learned much of their lore. I also learned some of their ancient languages, only to be found in old books. In short, I made a study of Saracenic magic. This was forbidden by the Church, and I was punished and disciplined for it. I "lost the Order"; do you know what that means? I was cast out, no longer a knight of the Temple, and I spent six years in a Church prison until they judged me repentant and broken to their will.' There was a shocked silence. After a while, Miles said hesitantly, 'Wasn't that heresy?'

  'So they called it,' Sir Blaise said. 'I call it knowledge. But I have told you the truth, and it's for you to decide. If you prefer to manage without any help from me, I understand. Heresy's a fearful word. I am bound to tell you this; it is a duty laid on me by Prior Aernald that I may offer my help, but must tell my history.' Straccan had taken the bronze cylinder out of his pocket and was turning it in his hands. This was the thing he had given to the Countess of Arlen, and which she had said would go to the king. It had no business being at Crawgard, but she was the sister of the Lord of Skelrig, where Soulis was going ... Th
ey were all connected.