By Sylvian Hamilton (29 page)

'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.'