The Years of Longdirk- The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  2

  He might have stormed off and fallen into the bog, or become lost in the woods, had he not come face-to-face with another man heading toward him. They both halted, staring at each other with mutual surprise.

  He was small and plump, of middle years. The top of his head had been shaved, leaving bare scalp surrounded by a black-and-silver tonsure. He wore a heavy wool robe, ostensibly white, although now bedraggled and smeared with grass stains, and he held a cloth-wrapped parcel under one arm. On the extreme end of his pudgy nose perched a pair of glass lenses in a contraption of gold wire that hooked over his ears. Toby had heard of eyeglasses, but never seen any before.

  The newcomer peered up at him over them and demanded urgently, "Was she wearing any jewelry?" His voice was high-pitched and squeaky.

  Toby blinked. "Who?"

  "The Valda woman, of course, the one you think was Valda."

  "Er. No. Well, she had a sort of crown thing on her head at table. It was sparkly, so I suppose—"

  "But no rings? No pendants?"

  "No ... A big gem on the pommel of a dagger?"

  "Ah! What color?"

  With distaste, Toby concluded that the older man was either drunk or mentally deranged, and the only thing to do was humor him. "Yellow."

  The little man shook his head as if that was a wrong answer, then quickly raised a finger to push his glasses higher, although he continued to peer over them instead of through them. "Black crescent emblem? You're sure? Curved left or right?"

  "Urn. No. Hamish saw it."

  "Tell me everything you saw, then."

  "Why?"

  At Toby's back, Rory laughed. "You'll have to take it slowly, Father. Short, simple words. Toby of Fillan— Father Lachlan of Glasgow."

  Toby noted that the robe had a hood and remembered what Hamish had told him. "You're an adept?"

  Father Lachlan twitched angrily and again caught his spectacles before they slipped off. "I prefer to be described as an acolyte, although I am on leave from my office at present. I am also a friar of the Galilean Order. I must hear all about this Valda woman."

  "Why?"

  The little man seemed to find the question incomprehensible. "Because she is dangerous, of course! And evil, if she is who you think she is. Now sit yourself..." He peered around as if looking for a chair. "Right here will do, I suppose." He flopped down on the loam, adjusted his spectacles again, and addressed Toby's sporran. "I must hear everything you saw, everything you heard."

  "Why?"

  Rory laughed again. "He's trying to help you, Baby Beef."

  Toby almost asked, "Why?" again. What reason could a total stranger have to aid him? On the other hand, he had a demon in his heart and had resolved to seek out a sanctuary. Although he distrusted any friend of Rory's on principle, he would have to ask help from somebody. He stared down uncertainly at the shiny bald scalp.

  "You can talk on the way, Father," Rory said. "Are those my shoes?"

  "Oh ... yes, of course."

  Rory helped the little man rise and took the parcel, which comprised a pair of silver-buckled shoes wrapped in thick tartan socks. "You don't need that, Man Mountain!"

  Meg and Hamish had arrived also, and Hamish was solemnly offering Toby his broadsword.

  He said, "Thanks!" and put it on. Then he accepted his bundle also. Meg looked cross, Hamish uncertainly amused.

  "I said, you don't need it!" Rory repeated angrily. "It makes you stand out like Beinn Bhreac-liath. It's liable to get you shot on sight."

  "I am not your man!" Toby snapped. "Go away. We don't need your help to walk to Oban."

  Rory scowled, unconsciously rubbing his chest as if it hurt. "You need someone's help, Longdirk. All right— carry the horrible thing if you want. Now tell Father Lachlan the whole story, everything you can remember, every detail. And don't forget your dreams in the night."

  He waved for Hamish and Meg to accompany him and marched off through the trees in his shoes.

  The acolyte had been ignoring the bickering, looking mostly impatient. He put a hand on Toby's arm to urge him forward. "Come along, my son. Tell me about the woman. Did you have dreams of her in the night—vivid dreams, I mean?"

  "Yes, sir. Very vivid. I... I think she conjured ..." He clenched his fists and said it: "I think I may be possessed."

  The little man shrugged. "That's what we fear, of course. Tell me everything, and we'll see. It's possible, but there are other possibilities." He peered quizzically at Toby and then smiled. "I'm not about to stick a knife in your heart! Even if what you fear is true, there is still hope! But you must give me all the facts. Did you, urn, couple with the woman?"

  "Certainly not!"

  "Even in the dreams?"

  "No."

  "That's good. I'm sure that helps. Now, begin at the beginning."

  Trying to have faith that he was not dealing with a lunatic, Toby began at the beginning, the hob's warning. Father Lachlan displayed a talent for asking penetrating questions and proved to be a concerned and attentive listener, despite his distracted manner. Much to his surprise, Toby found himself telling everything.

  Rory seemed to know where he was going, although the woods were totally bereft of landmarks—it would be difficult to become seriously lost in a gorge like Glen Orchy. He strode on confidently, chatting with Meg and keeping Hamish at hand, so he did not linger and eavesdrop on the conversation proceeding in the rear.

  Toby's tale had progressed only to the laird's dinner when he saw that the others had stopped. Rain had begun to fall, a fine misty rain sifting down from the brooding morass of gray clouds. Meg was arranging her cloak over her head. Hamish and Rory were similarly adjusting their plaids. The waxed wool would resist the rain, at least for a while.

  Toby began to follow suit and at once ran into difficulties with his broadsword. Rory watched his struggles with open scorn. "Throw it away, Longshanks! It's worse than useless!"

  True. But to throw it away now would be to admit that he had been wrong all along. So he wasn't going to.

  Gaining no response, the rebel frowned. This is irrational! Why? Do you think you look romantic with it? Do you expect Miss Campbell to swoon when she looks at you? Even you can't swagger with a thing that size."

  Still Toby did not reply. He did not know why he was keeping the sword. He hoped he was motivated only by pride and mulish stubbornness, not by demonic possession, but the great weapon still gave him the same seductive thrill he had felt when he first handled it in Annie's cottage. He wanted to part the air with it, hear it whistle. A fast blow, and torrents of blood . . . When the others moved off again, he followed with the broadsword back in place over his plaid, its straps threatening to rub holes in his shoulder.

  Father Lachlan had pulled up the hood of his robe, but it forced him to crane his neck to look up at Toby, so he soon let it fall back again. He was fascinated by Toby's account of having seen himself from the outside. "That must have been a strange experience! Were you looking at yourself from one direction, or from all around?"

  Toby thought about it. "From all around, I think. I could see the signs painted on my chest and the marks the manacles had made on my back, too."

  "At the same time?"

  "Um... Think so. I'm not sure."

  "Remarkable, though! What color was the light? ..." He caught his spectacles just before they fell off.

  The trees were thinning out, giving way to settled countryside, with crofts, and cattle, and dry-stone pens. The glen itself was widening into a strath and starting to look familiar. The hills to the left were still cloud-capped, but the precipitous slope on the right must be Beinn Donachain. Soon the travelers would reach the Glen Lochy road, with Dalmally no more than a couple of miles ahead.

  This was the heart of Campbell country. Were the weather better, Ben Cruachan itself would be visible from here, as Hamish had annoyed Rory by mentioning. "Cruachan!" was the war cry of the Campbells, and Rory had shouted it to attract Jeral's attentio
n when they escaped from the bog. Therefore Rory was certainly no MacDonald and not from Glencoe.

  So who was he? Why would he go to such trouble to assist three young fugitives who had absolutely no claim on him? Toby would dearly like to know what his real motives were. His only failure so far had been with the wisp, and that could be blamed on Toby's resident demon.

  He told himself to stop being a sourpuss and just be grateful for the unearned and unexpected help. Trouble was, he was not good at gratitude; he lacked experience.

  3

  Drizzle grew to downpour. Toby completed the story of his adventures and then described his loathsome dreams also. The rising wind threw rain to cool the flush on his face and snatched the hateful words from his mouth. Father Lachlan listened in silence, nodding and pursing his lips, but otherwise showing no reaction until the story was ended.

  Then he sighed. "That's all? You don't remember the name she was calling you?"

  "No, sir. I think it was a woman's name ... but I'm not sure. It was only a dream, not real."

  "Never mind, then. Can you remember anything you've left out? Anything at all you didn't mention because it didn't seem important?"

  "No, sir—Father. I think I've told you everything."

  He was astonished that he had so easily confided his troubles to a total stranger and even more surprised that he should feel such a sense of relief at having done so. Now he waited anxiously to hear what the acolyte concluded, but Father Lachlan just plodded on, staring blankly at the watery landscape, biting his lip. The movement repeatedly caused his eyeglasses to slide down his nose, and he would push them back up again with one finger.

  At last Toby could stand it no longer. "I wondered if the hob helped me escape."

  "Something did," the acolyte muttered absently. "But what? And escape from what?"

  "Am I possessed?"

  "Mm?" Father Lachlan looked up as if surprised. Then he smiled faintly and reached overhead to pat Toby's shoulder. "I don't know, my son, but you do! If you had a demon, you would know it, because you would be caged up in a tiny corner of your mind, unable to do anything but watch. A demon enjoys tormenting its host by letting him see what horrors his body is performing. I don't think that is what you are experiencing—is it?"

  "No, but that's how it began, and then—"

  "Demons do not go away of their own accord!"

  "Not even ..." Toby wished he was better at explaining things. "I thought it might be like owning a horse. Sometimes the owner rides the horse, other times he lets it run in the pasture."

  Father Lachlan chuckled and shook his head. "Never heard of a demon dismounting, not even for a minute! Demons enjoy tormenting their hosts as much as hurting other people. Granted, possession can be hard for outsiders to detect if the demon is wily, but the victim knows the truth. Sometimes possession is completely obvious, of course. Those two you think you killed in the dungeon, for example—were they men or demons? Well, the test in their case is whether they are truly dead, or if their bodies are still walking around."

  More than the lashing rain made Toby shiver. "That's really possible?"

  "Oh, yes. Only for a few days, then the flesh decays too far to sustain even a demon. But that's not a test we are about to apply to you!"

  Others might not be so well-intentioned. How could a man prove that he was not possessed without dying? Father Lachlan's opinion would be comforting, if Toby had any reason at all to believe he was telling the truth.

  "Do you not have powers to find out?"

  The little man blinked at him. "Powers? My son, I have no powers!"

  "None?"

  "None at all! I have some knowledge of matters spiritual and demonic. I obey the precepts of my order, and I serve the Glasgow tutelary, which has on occasion granted my petitions, so it would seem to approve of my efforts, but—"

  "Efforts to do what?" Toby said angrily.

  "To aid others. This is my vocation—to help others."

  "Help how?"

  "As an acolyte, by interceding with the tutelary on their behalf. As a friar, by giving comfort, by spreading the philosophy and ethics of the great founder of my order."

  "You even help strangers?"

  "Why not?" Father Lachlan smiled gently. "Anyone will help his friends and family! You are troubled and I am honestly trying to be of assistance. Why do you suppose I have been asking so many questions, my son? Just out of nosiness?"

  Toby shuffled his feet in the grass. "I'm sorry. I never met an acolyte before. I thought ... I wondered if you were just one of Rory's men."

  "Whose? Oh, Rory! Yes, Rory. Well, I support the cause, of course—whatever else I am, I am also a true Scotsman! But I would still help you if you were an Englishman. Even if you were King Nevil himself, I . . . " The little man fell silent, as if struck by a novel idea. He chewed his lip, repeatedly adjusted his eyeglasses, and made no sound except for the wild flapping of his gown.

  Toby considered picking him up and shaking him like a riddle—perhaps an answer or two would fall out. There was an interruption, then, as they reached a wide and boggy burn. The other three were already across, heading over the pasture toward a group of three cottages. Toby jumped over it and turned to hold out a hand for his companion, but Father Lachlan hitched up his robe and made a surprisingly agile leap. Toby snatched the spectacles out of the air and returned them to him.

  "Thank you," the acolyte said calmly, replacing them on the end of his nose.

  "Rory knows who lives here?" Toby demanded. He could see no living thing except shaggy cattle, but a dog was barking. He realized that unexpected visitors could no more hope to pass unobserved through Strath of Orchy than through Strath Fillan. Someone would challenge.

  "He knows just about everyone!" Father Lachlan said cheerfully, resuming the journey. "Where were we? Oh, yes. The most reliable evidence of possession is superhuman power, of course."

  Despair! "Then I am possessed!"

  "Why do you say so?"

  "I twisted iron bars like string! I broke men's necks, I—"

  "Mmph! Your feats of physical strength do not impress me."

  'They impressed me!"

  "Oh, no. In emergencies, people can often display astonishing strength. You are probably far more powerful than you realize. Your ability to see in the dark is more worrisome."

  "Only sometimes! And what of the way I rode the horse, Falcon? And finding my way out of the bog?"

  "Yes, yes, yes!" Father Lachlan said in his squeaky, fussy voice. "You have displayed some superhuman abilities, but possession is not the only possible explanation of those. Lady Valda may just have put a hex upon you. I can think of a hundred things it might be. ... She may have planned to send you out as an assassin, for example, to hunt down King Fergan and slay him. Or King Nevil, for that matter. She seems to have selected you for your size and strength. Having chosen a doughty vessel for her perfidy, she may have granted you some demonic abilities to aid you in your task." He beamed encouragingly at Toby.

  "Do you believe that?"

  He sighed. "Not much. But it is possible; and I don't believe you have a demon! If you do, then it is the most subtle, sophisticated demon I ever heard of. It is making you seem and sound like a very likable young man. You rescued your friends and, ah, Rory, from the bogy."

  Toby could not recall anyone ever describing him as likable before. He wasn't sure he approved. "I had to rescue myself and they were tied to me."

  "Paw! You could have snapped those ropes like darning wool, couldn't you?"

  "I suppose so." He had twisted iron bars.

  "No, you rescued three mortals you could have left to drown, and that simple little altruism would be beyond almost any demon, no matter what the stakes. You must remember," Father Lachlan told him sternly, "that demons are motivated only by hate. Originally, they were just primitive earth spirits, elementals. Such entities have enormous powers, but very little inclination to use them. A village hob, like the one you knew, h
as acquired a rudimentary concept of morality, but completely undomesticated elementals have none at all—good and evil come from mortals. Hexers know ways to enslave elementals, ripping them from their natural haunts and imprisoning them in objects, usually gems. By gramarye, the adept compels the demon to do his bidding."

  "Could he not do good with the demon instead of evil?"

  Father Lachlan adjusted his eyeglasses. "Perhaps some of them have such designs initially, but remember that they begin with an act of great cruelty. I don't suppose pain is an adequate description of whatever a demon feels, but to tear it away from its natural locale is itself a form of rape. How can such a person have good intentions? How can the demon itself be well-disposed toward mortals after that, or while it is caged and deprived of its freedom? Lady Valda was reputed always to wear three great gems: a ruby, a sapphire, and an emerald. She was therefore assumed to own three demons. From what you tell me, I suspect that she has since gained two more and transferred four of them into the hooded bodies you saw, demonic creatures."

  And the yellow gem on the dagger was the fifth? "Then she tried to do the same to me? But why?"

  "Perhaps that was what she was trying." The acolyte pulled a face. "As to why . . . who knows how such a mind works? It depends on what she plans, I suppose. To invoke the powers of a bottled demon takes time. It involves ritual—conjuring—gramarye. You witnessed her at work, so you know the sort of rites she must use. An incarnate demon is more easily biddable. Its powers are not as great, but it can act faster, obey simple orders. It is more dangerous in a sense, and more demonic. If it felt pain before, now it must also learn fear, because it has become to some extent mortal." He shook his head and hastily caught his spectacles. "The result can only be evil, my son, never good. A demon is always driven by hatred."

  Toby would enjoy taking Rory down a peg, and he was convinced that Fat Vik deserved a thorough thrashing, but only that. He had no desire to murder anyone. He could spare no tears for Colin and very few for Godwin Forrester—but he still could not believe he was driven by hatred.