by Max Gilbert
He passed the little reliquaries through his fingers like rosary beads, lingering over the one which held a knuckle-bone of Saint Peter. It, and the relics of the other disciples of Christ had been collected over several years at enormous cost. Next to a relic of Christ Himself, those of His disciples were the most powerful, sure and certain protection against the being from outer darkness which the Arab swore he could summon.
There should be eleven relics: one of each true disciple. Even so, ten great saints would surely suffice to keep him safe, and compel the demon's obedience. Providing it was first fed and satiated.
'There may be something in what you say, My Lady.' He turned to de Brasy. 'Get a child from the will. Let no one see you. After tonight,' he added triumphantly, 'nothing will prevail against me!'
Not for the first time de Brasy wondered what was so desirable that Lord Rainard would be willing to traffic with hell for it. It had something to do with letters he wrote to, and received from, France and England. The bitch Julitta's husband, the Earl of Arlen, was in it, and others of King John's lords--de Cressi, de Vesci, FitzWalter and Mowbray among them--even the king of France, Philip Augustus, whose seal de Brasy had seen on some of the letters. If he could read, he would have known all.
Overnight, a cold grey North Sea haar had rolled inland, settling as far west as Selkirk and pouring over the Eildon Hills in a dense gloomy torrent. Here to stay.
About ten miles from Skelrig, Straccan and his companions saw it ahead and gave a collective groan.
'That's all we need,' said Bane.
At Skelrig, the sleepy watchman on the tower roof could not see the ground below at all. Mist clung to his clothes, beaded the iron plates of his hauberk and gathered to drip from his helmet straight down the back of his neck. The uncanny silence that had prevailed since the new lord and his sinister bodyguards had arrived continued, with the place blind now, as well as deaf and dumb.
Fog didn't hinder Hob who knew every inch of the ground for several miles around Skelrig. He crouched inside the low-walled stone stell just outside the bailey gates. No one had gone in or out, and the gates had remained shut since he got there. Even the elves, Hob thought, would surely have the good sense to stay at home on such a night! He had secretly pocketed the broken necklace of charms and amulets which the lady had torn from Lord Robert's dead throat, and wore it, mended with a bit of string, round his neck. This, and the short length of rusty iron bar thrust through his belt, would make any elf think again before giving him trouble. There was a sudden shouting and calling inside the gates: horses, people's voices, the sound of the great bars being lifted. The gates squeaked and jerked and opened. There was the smoky glow of torches. Now! But as Hob tensed to begin his dash he saw the first rider come through the gate. It was Soulis, and the little limp body held before him on the saddle bow, fair hair hanging loose, was Gilla. Dead, Hob thought with sudden anguish but, as he looked, one small hand clenched and unclenched. The cruel lady followed, then the wicked Arab, then that man de Brasy carrying another child. Hob gave a small grunt of dismay. Last came the bad lord's Saracen archers, and the gates squealed and juddered shut behind them.
De Brasy had thought to be safely away by now. He had intended to leave the tower before the others, ostensibly to light the brazier and torches and make the circle ready, but instead riding hell-for-leather to Leith, to catch the tide and the ship bound for Cyprus. A man of means could live well there. The gold he'd stolen from Soulis would set him up in comfort, even in some style. But before he could slip away, Soulis had bidden him ride with them to carry the second sacrifice, the drugged boy he had plucked from the will placating its mother with coins and promises of the brat's good fortune. As the party rode out of the gate the Arab looked over his shoulder at de Brasy and showed his fangs in an unpleasant grin. He was certain the old devil could read his mind. Earlier he'd come upon Al-Hazred muttering with the Saracen archers who had bowed and kissed his hands. When they saw de Brasy, they scowled, one even set hand to the hilt of his curved sword, but the old sorcerer held the man's wrist, shaking his head, his dead-looking eyes fixed on de Brasy.
For the present there was nothing for it but to obey and ride with the master to Nine Stane Rig. However, the haar was so dense they must go slowly, letting the horses feel their way. A blessing, de Brasy thought. He would seize his chance. Hob kept up with them easily.
He watched as the bad people left their horses with the bowmen and climbed the mound, carrying the children. They passed out of his sight into the ring of stones. Shivering, Hob crept round to the far side of the mound, and began to crawl silently up.
Midnight was near. At Skelrig, the men of the garrison and the servants slept after their drugged meal. Some sprawled at the table, others had slid to the floor and lay in the rushes. To be sure none would wake, the Arab had also doctored the-candles, and soporific smoke hung heavy and sickly in the hall.
In the Nine Stane Rig the ritual began.
A few miles away to the south-west, where Sir Blaise kept watch by the night fire, he raised his head and stared into the foggy darkness. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck were prickling, but he heard and saw nothing. Nevertheless, he stood and drew his sword.
Straccan, wrapped in his cloak, sat up. 'What's the matter?'
'Something's happening,' the old man said. 'Can't you feel it? Sense it?'
Straccan threw his cloak aside and got up. 'I don't know,' he said after a minute. 'It's like being on watch and knowing the enemy is out there somewhere, only you can't see him or hear him. But he's there, and at any minute he'll be at your throat.'
'Rouse the others,' said Blaise. 'We must go on.'
'We'll lose the way,' Straccan said, nevertheless prodding the others with his toe.
'I don't think so,' Blaise murmured. 'I feel the pull of it. Like a lodestone.'
They rode slowly, unable to see more than a few feet ahead. The haar was denser now, and cold wet droplets clung to their hair and clothes, and slicked the horses' sides.
As he crawled up the hill, Hob heard a shrill far-off piping, which seemed to come from the darkness above; a thin dismal wail that had nothing of music in it. Hob loved music, and this dirge set his teeth on edge; it seemed to get inside his skull. Shaking his head, he crept to the man-high base of the fallen King Stane and peered round the edge. He could hear chanting, words he couldn't understand. His thin body shook with the hard hammering of his heart.
There was no fog in the Nine Stane Rig. Lit by the reddish light of a brazier and by candles and torches stuck in the ground, the Arab stood with his back to the unsuspected watcher, his skinny arms raised to the night sky; it was his sing-song voice Hob had heard. At his feet was a heap of small bodies--decapitated doves, lambs with their throats slit--and before him a stone trough which steamed. There was a coppery-sweet smell of blood. The bad lord and the cruel lady were bending over something on the ground which squirmed and cried like a hurt animal.
Hob couldn't see Gilla or de Brasy. Where were they?
The bad lord lifted the thing on the ground and passed it to the Arab. Hob nearly bit his tongue through as he saw the limp legs and lolling head, the small naked body slick with dark blood from cuts that laced the skin from brow to toes. Not Gilla. A boy.
The Arab laid the boy in the trough. Hob began to cry, swiping at his tears with both fists. He desperately wanted to run away, to run and never stop, but the wee girl must be in there and he couldn't leave her.
The Arab raised his arms again, and so did the lady and the bad lord. Within the circle, frost glittered on the grass and the stones. >From nowhere, a small cold wind rose, lifting the lady's hair as she stood, swaying. Hob smelled ice.
Outside the circle, the fog wreathed and swirled. Inside, the air seemed to quiver and a black pit opened in the sky. Those in the ring felt a sensation of intense downward pressure, which hurt their ears. A thin snow began to fall, tinged red by the torchlight. Something was there.
/> It shifted shape constantly, at first impossibly huge, cloud-vast, then contracting to cow-size, to man-size, a black shadow in darkness, its shape only suggested by the stars it blotted out. Now and then there was a faint glint like the edge of steel, and a dry rustling sound like snakes.
The brazier's glow dimmed, the torches dwindled to small red eyes, the candle flames went blue, and shrank, and went out, and a cold luminescence began to pulse from the stones. The Arab's wailing rose to a howl, his hands wove shapes in the air. There was de Brasy; he moved now from the other side of the great stone into Hob's line of sight, carrying the little girl in his arms. The bad lord, his pale face triumphant, clutched at the necklace he wore and turned, looking, Hob thought, straight at him.
'Sssh,' said Straccan. 'Listen.'
They stopped and listened. Nothing. Then ... yes, the distant chink of shod hoof on stone. Gently they eased swords from scabbards, making no sound. There! A rattle of pebbles, and, quite clearly, the harsh blowing of a horse ridden hard. Now they could all hear the regular fall of hoofs on turf and the jingle of harness. The rider was some way above them, coming downhill. Straccan and Miles moved up the slope, waiting. The fog muffled then magnified sounds, so they could not tell how close the rider was until suddenly he was upon them, his mount rearing with a squeal as Miles snatched its reins. Straccan seized the rider's leg and dragged him in a heavy tumble to the ground.
It was a very fine black stallion.
The rider was very fair.
Miles was upon him instantly, rolling him over, pinning him down. The fair man snatched the young knight's own dagger from its sheath and slashed, a stroke that would have disembowelled Miles but for a swift kick from Straccan which sent the knife spinning off into the fog. The rider fought like a wolverine, with fists and feet and teeth, until Straccan kicked him so hard in one knee that they all heard the bone crack. De Brasy screamed, then gasped as Straccan dropped with both knees on to his unguarded belly, winding him and setting a dagger at his throat.
'Where's my daughter?' he snarled.
'Who ... are ... you?' de Brasy gasped, trying to pull away from the business end of the blade.
'You know me, you hellspawn scum. I'm Straccan.' With a jerk of the point he sent blood flowing over de Brasy's leather hauberk. 'Is she at Skelrig?'
'No!'
'Liar!' Straccan switched the knife to his right hand and thrust it right through de Brasy's left forearm, pinning him to the ground.
The man howled like a dog. 'Murderer,' said Straccan. 'Where is she?'
'Dead!'
Straccan gave a great sob of grief and despair.
De Brasy had handed out a good deal of pain in his time, but hadn't been on the receiving end for years. He was shuddering with shock. Leaning over him, Blaise saw the pupils of his staring eyes were mere dots. He gripped the man's chin, turning his head until the vacant gaze held his own.
'Who is at Skelrig tower?'
'Just servants and men-at-arms.' De Brasy hiccuped. 'The others are at the stones.'
'What stones?'
'The circle, the Nine Stane Rig. Let me go! I'll pay. I've gold-- Aah!' Straccan tugged his knife out of de Brasy's arm. 'Get up.'
De Brasy tried to stand but could put no weight on his damaged leg. He groaned and fell back.
'Let me tickle him a bit with my dagger.' Bane drew the knife from its sheath and fingered it hopefully as de Brasy moaned, clutching at his knee.
'Hurts, does it? Good,' said Straccan. 'We'll tie you on your horse. You will take us to this stone circle.'
'No! I beg you! Let me go!'
'Help us, and we might,' said Blaise.
De Brasy was babbling, shrill with panic. 'It's not my fault! It was real after all, it was terrible! I didn't want to be there! I took his money. I had to get away!'
'What was real?' Blaise asked.
'The Arab's devil! I never believed in it, but there was something there. I couldn't really see, I didn't want to ... but something ... Oh Christ, just for an instant ...'
'Go on.'
“It had hold of the girl till they were ready for her.' Straccan tensed as de Brasy went on. 'The master called me to bring her to him. I tried ... but, oh God, I couldn't, with that thing at his back.
I dropped the brat and threw my knife at the Arab. Got him, too. He screeched and fell. The bowmen came running.' His voice broke on a sob. 'The master rushed at me ... He was all right, God rot him! He had those relics to protect him. I tried to snatch them but they broke and I ran. Julitta started screaming. Perhaps the demon got her, I hope it did! Let me go! You promised!'
'I made no promise.' Blaise grasped de Brasy's bloody collar and hauled him upright. His legs folded and he hung for a moment, like something dead, in the tall old knight's grip. Then, faster than seemed possible, he pulled Blaise's dagger just as he had Miles's, and struck at him. Blaise jerked back as the blade slit his coat, but as de Brasy lurched awkwardly towards his horse the hilt of a knife sprouted from his back between the shoulder blades, petals of blood like a great flower blooming around it as he fell among the horses' shifting feet.
Bending over him, Straccan wrenched his dagger free, wiped it on the dead man's coat and stuck it back in the sheath at his belt. Bane and Larktwist bent to lift the body. 'Hamstring that,' said Blaise curtly, 'and cut its head off.'
Miles opened his mouth to protest, but Blaise said, 'Rainard de Soulis is skilled in devilry. He could put a lich to use.'
'Oh Christ,' said Miles, looking sick.
They packed the body over the black stallion's saddle. Bane, efficiently checking the saddlebags, found two small heavy linen sacks which chinked richly as he tossed them to Straccan.
Chapter 34
At the foot of the hill they found two horses and the ground much trampled. Dismounting they left Larktwist to hold the animals. The stones bulked tall and pale out of the fog as they climbed the hill. Reaching the ring they saw that there had been torches lit, on spikes stuck in the ground, but only one still burned. Straccan seized it and held it up.
From an overturned brazier a fan of spilled charcoals spread across the turf, still sending up coils of smoke which hung in layers in the circle. Right in the centre of the ring was a stone trough, half-full of jelling blood. Huddled against one of the great stones was Lord Rainard, an arrow in his shoulder. The woman lay near the fallen King Stane, looking dead. There was no sign of the Arab or the archers. There was a thick reek of blood, and a stupefying sick-sweet perfume which Blaise recognised as hashish.
'Lord Christ! Gilla!' With a great cry, Straccan knelt by a small broken body flung down like rubbish upon a heap of bloody feathers and carcasses. His shaking hands turned the body over. It was a boy, five or six years old.
'She's not here,' said Blaise.
Straccan knelt by the body. 'Lord Jesus, into your care, receive this soul ..." His voice broke.
The woman moaned and moved slightly. Blaise stooped over her, drawing aside the long hair, wet with blood, that covered her face.
Straccan came to look, stumbling as he trod on something in the grass: it looked like a cage, trampled, crushed, silvery-grey. He stared at the woman's face. 'Jiilitta,' he said, his face twisted with revulsion.
Blaise's fingers had found a great lump above Julitta's ear. 'She'll live,' he said. 'It looks as if someone struck her down.' He held up an iron bar. 'With this.'
'De Brasy?' said Miles.
'I don't think so. She was screaming, he said, when he fled.'