Demon Sword tyol-1

by Ken Hood

Her face was shadowed, but her voice was bitter as sloe berries. "Married off over the hills or wandered away. Don't you understand? You've been the shame of the glen all these years. Did no one ever tell you? Did you never hear of the Taming? Oh, they tamed us, I can tell you, tamed us well! All the strong young men had gone and few returned, but there were still men here. They had things between their legs, anyway, so they claimed to be men. But they didn't burn the castle when the Sassenachs took the women. After a month or so, when the English had tired of the six, they offered to exchange them. No grandmothers, they said, but we younger ones could take their place, spell them off. Do you suppose we lined up at the gates?"

  He could only shake his head, his throat knotting painfully.

  "You're very right!" Annie grew louder. "We didn't. Of course I had three wee ones to care for, so I couldn't go, could I now? We all had some excuse. Children. Husbands and fathers who locked us up. Who was going to be first to volunteer to be a harlot? Who wanted to satisfy a squad of Sassenachs every night? All those widows… but we all had excuses. Men and women both, we had our excuses. And this way there could only be six Sassenach bastards, no more. That was important. No more than six. Well, six there were of you, and every day since you were born, Toby Strangerson, the sight of you has been a cut across the eyes for us, a reminder of our shame, a reminder that we were too cowardly to help our own! So leave the glen. Take your rotten half-brother with you — I wish you would. When you've all gone, then perhaps we can start to forget."

  She marched out the door with her buckets, firing a final shot: "I want no thanks from you." Then she had gone.

  Toby rose. He had lost his appetite; he wanted no more of her hospitality on those terms. Providing a meal and some clothes was certainly easier than whoring for Sassenachs all winter.

  It helped, though. He need feel no guilt for accepting help.

  So much for the Campbells' friendship.

  So much for their famous courage.

  CHAPTER TWO

  He was almost out the door when he decided that there could be no harm in looking at the sword. He went through to the other room. Annie had not picked a very good hiding place — he could see right away that there was something under the pallet. It would certainly not be very comfortable to sleep on. He knelt down and reached for it.

  It was a two-handed broadsword, double-edged and almost as long as he was. It seemed both old and of poor quality, probably made right here in the glen. The guard was a simple crosspiece, and there was a weight on the pommel for balance. In the hands of a strong man it would have had value against a knight too much armored to move nimbly, but knights did not fight like that anymore. Nowadays the gentry stood behind the guns and directed the cannon. Even on a rainy day, when firearms were unreliable, a shield and short claymore or a musket with a bayonet would be a safer weapon. The blade was well nicked by use, but had been sharpened and greased recently, probably that very morning. The scabbard was a crude thing of wood and leather that looked ready to fall apart.

  He had no use for a sword like that! It was heavier than a sack of oats. It would attract attention to him, and he was not much over a mile from the Sassenachs at Bridge of Orchy. Common sense told him to put it back where he had found it and leave without it, but the feel of the worn leather binding on the hilt and the sense of power as he hefted its weight sent shivers all through him and filled him with a hateful, irresistible longing. A blade like that would make him a man to reckon with — a big man with a big sword.

  He slipped the strap over his shoulder. If he found it too heavy, he could always throw it away in the bog, yes? He slung his bundle over his other shoulder and walked out into the dusk.

  There was no road where he was going. Beinn Inverveigh on his right and Beinn Bhreacliath on his left were masses of darkness against a stormy sky. Glen Orchy closed in around him, narrow and eerie. The moon would be up soon, but meanwhile he stumbled on the rough ground, stubbing his toes. He passed four or five cottages at a distance and twice dogs barked, but no one came to the doorways to wave. Now he knew what the Campbells thought of his departure—good riddance!

  The feeling was mutual.

  Going to see the world. Going to seek his fortune.

  With a sword! Why did he covet that great blade so strongly? Was it Toby Strangerson who felt that way, or the demon? In a few minutes he would meet up with his companions. Then perhaps a thunder of diabolic heartbeat and his arms would take over, the sword would whistle through the air, slicing heads clean off. He ought to throw the horrible thing in a patch of bracken and go on without it.

  He didn't — or couldn't.

  He wondered why, during his two episodes of possession, he had heard his own heartbeat drowning out all other sounds. He was not normally conscious of his heart, although obviously it had been pumping away since his birth and would continue until the exact moment of his death. An immortal might find that constant thumping very strange, or even annoying. It was almost as if he had been forced to listen to what the demon heard. The cure for possession was a blade through the heart.

  He heard a shout behind him and turned.

  "Toby! Toby!" Hamish came staggering over the moor, slim and stooped under a pack almost as large as himself. "You keep your promises, Toby!" The boy's dark-tanned face was an excited gleam of eyes and teeth. He was panting with exertion or excitement.

  No monster heartbeat; no sinister glow brightening the twilight… the sword stayed in its scabbard. Toby breathed again.

  "I'll keep the one about the gallows, too." They fell into step, Toby shortening his stride. "I take it you're looking forward to this?"

  "Oh, yes!" The kid gasped his agreement. "This is a real adventure, going off over the hills with you, Toby! Friends in adversity? We're outlaws together, aren't we! Mates?" He looked up hopefully.

  As a friend, little Hamish would be less use than the broadsword. Hamish didn't want a friend, anyway; he wanted a hero. The sort of friend Toby needed was…

  He didn't. Some men were strong enough to manage by themselves, so they had no need of friends. He was one of those men. He'd gotten along well with Hamish's brother Eric, but even they had never been close — no boy had wanted to be seen consorting with the bastard very often. Toby Strangerson had been a loner all his life, and he would stay that way.

  Mustn't upset the kid, though. "Friends," he agreed.

  With a sigh of relief, Hamish heaved his monstrous pack higher on his shoulders. "You worried about the bogy?"

  "Not as long as you're with me."

  Hamish chuckled with jittery glee, not realizing that Toby was serious. If the Campbells wanted to dispose of him by feeding him to the bogy, they would not have sent Hamish along.

  "Where're you going, Toby?"

  "I promised I'd see Meg as far as Oban. And you?"

  "Pa says I must go and stay with Cousin Murray."

  "Who's Cousin Murray?"

  "Murray Campbell of Glen Shira. I'm to stay with him until Pa sends word that it's safe to come home. He sounds old and cranky, but Pa says he should have books. Pa met him once, years ago. Where are you going after Oban, though?"

  "Try to get a boat there, I suppose." Toby tried to shrug, but the sword wouldn't let him and Hamish wouldn't see anyway. "After that, I don't know. Travel the world."

  "You're not going to join the Black Feathers?" The boy sounded both shocked and disappointed.

  Not if he could help it, Toby wasn't. The rebellion had been dragging on for years and showed no signs of success. The first thing he needed was an exorcism, and a town like Oban must have a sanctuary — but would the demon let itself be exorcised? If he tried to go there, would his feet obey him? Would his tongue explain the problem?

  "The Sassenachs will be putting a price on your head, Pa says. How much do you think they'll… Not that anyone will take their silver, of course," Hamish added hastily, "but—"

  "But it would be nice to know what I'm worth, you mean?"

&n
bsp; "Pa says it might be as much as ten marks!" He sounded quite impressed that a friend of his would command a price that high. It was certainly more than the five shillings the steward had offered yesterday.

  The moon was rising at their backs. The wind had fallen strangely silent. Glen Orchy was ominously still. Toby listened for the music he had been told to head for, but all he could hear was a trickle of the burn and Hamish's endless prattle…

  "What?"

  "Cousin Murray's the keeper," Hamish repeated.

  "Keeper of a shrine? A holy man, then? An acolyte?"

  "Sort of. A shrine isn't a sanctuary."

  "But it has a tutelary?"

  "Just a spirit." Hamish heaved his pack higher on his shoulders. He chuckled. "More than a hob."

  The night was already cold. The ground was squashy underfoot. Not a breath of air moved, yet there was a sound… right at the limit of hearing, a lute was playing a plaintive melody. That was the sign they had been told to listen for, where they would meet with Meg Tanner and their unnamed guide. He veered toward it. If Vik was there with her, Toby would let his demon try out the sword. He shivered at his own black humor.

  He was being unfair. He had been entrusted with two youngsters' lives, and he wasn't trustworthy any longer. He could not even rely on himself, so why expect them to? He ought to warn Hamish…

  But he had not killed the boy on sight. He had not harmed those pompous village elders in the night, nor old Annie. So far his private demon had behaved itself when in well-behaved company. It had acted only when he was in danger — a curiously helpful and nonaggressive demon! If he told Hamish about it, Hamish would flee. He would run back and tell the whole glen. Then every man's hand would be against Toby Strangerson, not just the Sassenachs'. Did all traitors rationalize their betrayals so easily?

  "What sort of work will you look for, Toby?"

  "Needlework."

  "You mean swords?"

  "I mean needles. Embroidery."

  "Eric used to say you had no sense of humor."

  "That's not true! He did not say that!"

  "He did," Hamish muttered, "but I think only when he'd just done something especially stupid that you hadn't joined in. I know he said you were the last man to take to a party and the first one to want in a tight spot."

  Thinking that would make a fair epitaph, Toby said, "Ah! Listen!"

  In the darkness ahead a woman was singing "The Flower of the Hill," with the lute weaving rainbows of music around her voice. It was a strangely moving sound in this lonely, haunted glen.

  Wee Hamish Campbell was a walking library. Toby Strangerson was a muscle-bound dolt…

  "You know, this must sound funny. I mean, I was raised by a witchwife, but I don't really know the difference between an adept and an acolyte, or a keeper of a shrine. Granny Nan never spoke of such things."

  "Don't suppose she knew. I mean, I'm not trying to—"

  "Granny Nan never read a book in her life."

  "And reading is all I have ever done!" Hamish's laugh was a nervous twitter of sparrows. "An adept is someone who has studied the occult. I suppose acolytes are adepts, too, but usually 'adept' is used in the bad sense, like the black arts. A witchwife like Granny Nan wouldn't know any ritual or gramarye. She just kept the hob happy. Self-taught. A natural."

  Like Toby Strangerson swinging a broadsword, as opposed to a trained fencer like Captain Tailor. "You mean a spirit is a hob, but bigger, sort of?"

  "Sort of." Sounding uneasy, Hamish dropped his voice. "A hob's an elemental — mischievous, unpredictable. The books say that a spirit is… bigger, I suppose. Benevolent. A tutelary has a sanctuary, with acolytes and worshipers making offerings. A shrine is in between, with a keeper or two. People make pilgrimages to shrines, though, if the spirit is well thought of."

  Toby sounded them in his mind: hobs, spirits, tutelaries. Witchwives, keepers, acolytes. Grotto, shrine, sanctuary. Elementals, adepts. Demons, hexers… were these all just words in the night? Could they ever mean anything to an ignorant country lad?

  "And demons?"

  "They're bad!"

  "I know that. Are they much the same, though? Bad spirits?"

  Still the woman and her lute sang of sorrow and loneliness in the night. She had a gorgeous clear voice. Toby had never dreamed that his guide would turn out to be a woman.

  Hamish had been thinking, anxious to impress his big friend, flattered by his attention. "There's differences. An acolyte worships and tends a tutelary, just like a witchwife and her hob — serves it. Hexers compel demons and use gramarye to force them to do their bidding. Any spirit is local, whether it's a tutelary or just a hob. Demons are not attached to one place. Well, sometimes they are. Mostly demons are attached to things."

  "Or people?" Toby said.

  "Sometimes people, yes — husks, they're called, or creatures. More often jewels, though. I read in a book that hexers imprison demons in jewels."

  That explained Lady Valda's dagger.

  "Thanks, Littledirk. You know something?"

  "What?" Hamish asked warily.

  "You've taught me as much in the last minute as your Pa did in five years of schooling."

  Hamish chuckled, much pleased. "More, I expect, from the way he still talks about you."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Two people sat on a boulder in the moonlight. The small one, with her hair dangling in two long braids below her bonnet and bare feet showing under the pleats of her dress, was easily recognizable as Meg.

  The second was a youngish man of no great height but notably wide shoulders. He had a clean-shaven face with a high, angular nose. The sword at his belt was a basket-handled short claymore, nothing like Toby's cumbersome broadsword. He wore a tartan shirt under his plaid; he had on hose and shoes. He stood up, still holding his lute.

  As there was no one else present, the singer must have been Meg Tanner. Toby was surprised, yet not sure why — so strong a voice from so small a person, perhaps.

  "Campbells are the most notorious liars in all Scotland," the man announced cheerfully. "They said you were big."

  "I'm not?"

  "Understatement can be carried to deceptive extremes. Still, you are the chivalrous chevalier who saved the damsel and slaughtered the unsavory Sassenach, so I will shake your hand."

  Toby left his fists at his sides, not sure what to make of this stranger in the night. His voice was an odd mixture of Highland burr and English drawl. The fancy words indicated that he was not an ignorant peasant — and implied that Toby was.

  "Sir, I'll shake your hand when I know who you are."

  "Names can be dangerous. I have several." The stranger chuckled and glanced at Meg as if sharing a joke, meanwhile removing his bonnet to scratch at a head of sandy hair braided at the back into a stubby pigtail. The move was slickly done, for when he replaced the bonnet and adjusted it, whatever emblem he had been wearing on it had disappeared. "How about 'Rory'? Rory MacDonald of Glencoe. Will that satisfy you, Toby Strangerson?"

  It had better. There was nothing uncommon about sporting an emblem to show whose man you were, but Toby had a niggling half-recollection that in Rory's case it had been a silver badge. A silver badge meant either a chief or heir to a chief.

  Toby accepted the handclasp. Of course, what Rory MacDonald wore in a deserted glen at night and what Rory MacDonald dared to wear in daylight might not be peas from the same pod. His palm was smooth, but there was no frailty in his grip. He studied Toby's face for a moment with steady pale eyes, then turned to his companion. "What by the demons of Delia have you got there, boy? Been looting the castle, have you?"

  Hamish had lowered his burden to the ground with grunts of relief. "Food, sir, mostly. Clothes. Ma thought—"

  "Mothers always do. You'll sink out of sight with that load. A true Highlander carries one day's rations and nothing more, so throw all the rest away." He aimed an arrogant finger at the broadsword. "And you, Strangerson? What foul monstrosities are you plan
ning to slaughter with that thing?"

  "Lutists."

  MacDonald stared at Toby for several seconds before making a small noise that might indicate amusement or just surprise. "Well, I suppose you can handle the weight. We'll be wading, remember."

  Toby had concluded that he did not like Rory MacDonald of Glencoe. He turned to Meg, who was standing beside him — quite close beside him, eyes downcast. "Hello, Meg."

  She looked up eagerly. "Toby?"

  "I loved your singing. I didn't know you could sing like that."

  "Did you ever ask me?"

  "No… You're all right?"

  "Thanks to you." She seemed to be waiting for something more.

  He waited also, puzzled.

  She bit her lip and turned away. "I did not have a chance to thank you properly, Master Strangerson, for your dauntless gallantry. It was very brave of you to rescue me like that."

  Toby said, "Any man would have done the same."

  Rory and Hamish were on their knees together, hauling objects out of Hamish's bundle. "Books? Why in the world do you need…"

  Meg tossed her head without looking around. "Your courage is exceeded only by your modesty and does you great honor, sir. I was indeed fortunate that you were at hand to succor me in my moment of peril."

  She must have got that out of a book, or else she had been infected by that Rory man's flowery way of talking. In Strath Fillan, words were short and meant what they said.

  "Considering how stupid you were to be there by yourself, you certainly were fortunate."

  She whirled around, braids dancing. "Stupid? I came to warn you of danger!" Her breath was a pearly mist in the frosty moonlight.

  Toby laid his sword and pack on the ground and knelt to inspect the supplies Annie had added to it. Despite his superior airs, the Rory man made sense when he said that carrying unnecessary weight would be folly. Yet nothing in Toby's collection seemed superfluous. He could carry it all without tiring. He decided to leave the bundle as it was.

  Meg's bare feet were still there, one of them tapping angrily on the stony ground. She was riled because he had called her stupid. So she was! Her folly had caused the deaths of Granny Nan and four men. It had led to Toby being possessed by a demon and driven from his home — even if he did not much mind the last bit. Still, he could hardly upset the kid by telling her all that. He looked up and smiled at her.