Demon Sword

Demon Sword by Ken Hood

PART ONE A Day in the Life

CHAPTER ONE

'Hey, bastard!'

The voice rang out in challenge from somewhere at Toby Strangerson's back. He did not look around. A defensive reflex made his right leg twitch, but he overruled it and brought his foot down firmly on the dirt. Without breaking stride, he continued his hurried walk along the road.

'I'm talking to you, bastard!'

It sounded like Vik Tanner. Women gossiping at their doors turned to see who was shouting, men stooped in their gardens straightened. Two youths up ahead were already looking this way, already grinning, standing with their feet apart and arms folded. So there was a rumble planned and they were in on it.

Having no choice, Toby kept on walking, wondering how many of them there would be. Didn't matter — there would be enough to do whatever they wanted to do. Then he recalled the warning Granny Nan had given him at dawn and his scalp prickled. This trouble had been prophesied.

'Oh, bastard? Can't you hear me, bastard?'

No question, that was Fat Vik Tanner yelling. The pair up ahead at the potter's house were Neal Bywood and Willie Bain, which meant Bryce Burnside and Rae Butcher would be involved as well, and perhaps two or three more he could call to mind with no effort. There were few young men left in the glen now.

The early morning wind was cruel, yet he was sweating. Granny Nan had kept nattering at him and getting in his way while he was doing the morning chores. So he'd had to run all the way to the castle, then right away Steward Bryce had sent him off back to Tyndrum. Again he had run most of the way, because he was expected to run when he was on the laird's business. Between the running and the weight of his plaid, he was sweating.

So what could a man do about it — explain? I'm sweating because I've been running, so please don't think I'm afraid of being maimed.

'Bastard? Are you deaf, bastard?'

The wind didn't mask the hateful taunts. The normal sounds of the village seemed to die away as people stopped work to listen — the click of the women's looms, metallic clinking from the smithy, the crack of a mason's hammer. Geese honked. A dog barked in the distance, shrill children chanted lessons in the schoolhouse, and a deep rumble of millstones told of flour being ground. Farther away yet, soldiers drilled outside the castle to a steady drumbeat.

'Bastard, I'm talking to you, bastard.'

The voice was closer. Toby could hear stones rattle as his tormentors closed in behind him. They would time their approach to catch up with him as he reached Neal and Willie, closing the noose.

The street was part mud, part rock, part weeds — an uneven trail winding through the village. Vegetable patches were enclosed by low stone walls, and everything else was road or rock or pasture, where dogs sniffed, poultry foraged, tethered cows grazed. Tyndrum was less than a score of cottages straggled along the banks of the river: walls of rough fieldstone, roofs of sod, window slits closed by shutters. No one could tell where the village ended, for the cottages just spread out farther apart along the glen and up the hills until they blended into the scenery. There was nowhere to hide, and nowhere to run.

'Traitor! If you won't answer to bastard, bastard, will you answer to traitor?'

Vik was only a few paces back now, yelling so all Strath Fillan could hear. Toby was not afraid of Fat Vik. He was afraid of Vik plus four or five others. Granny Nan's warning echoed round and round in his head. She often acted strange these days, but this morning she had been stranger than ever.

She had come to him while he was milking Bossie. 'Do not get into a fight!' She had repeated it over and over. 'Evil comes to the glen. Terrible things will happen if you get into a fight today.' Even as he'd fed the chickens and fetched water and chopped wood and done all the other usual morning chores, she'd been hobbling along behind him, waving her cane and talking about evil coming to the glen and how he must stay out of fights. Whatever she thought the hob had said, it had upset her greatly. She'd still been on about it when he ran off to report for work at the castle.

He hadn't paid much heed, for the idea of a fight today had seemed absurd. Next week at the Glen Games, yes. Then he would have to defend his title, if any man wanted to contest it. He had been thinking of an honest match, of course, man to man, which was not what Vik had in mind.

'Traitor, traitor! I'm talking to you, traitor. Sassenach bastard! Turn around, bastard!'

Snappy Fan Glenlochy stood at her door, yattering to big, blowzy Olga Potter. They had turned to stare disapprovingly at the drama, and he was going to pass right by them.

Without slowing his stride, Toby doffed his bonnet to the women. 'Fine morning to you, ladies!'

They turned their backs and resumed their talk. His fast-moving feet took him past them and on toward Neal and Willie like a leaf in a stream.

'Fine mornings don't have bastards in them!' Vik crowed. 'They don't have traitors in them. You're a Sassenach-loving traitor!'

It was a lie, but Toby Strangerson would dearly welcome a glimpse of an English uniform right now. He was within sight of the miller's house. He could see the cart outside, already loaded. That was where he was headed. He wasn't going to make it.

Neal and Willie unfolded their arms and sauntered across to block his path. Half the population of Tyndrum must be watching.

Terrible things will happen if you get into a fight today.

Fighting — not boxing. He was bareknuckle champion of the glen, but boxing was not what was planned. Terrible things sounded more like gouged eyes than just broken bones. He'd thought Granny Nan was having one of her strange turns when she'd started in about fighting this morning. He'd thought the hob didn't speak to her when she was strange, but perhaps this time she'd been normal until she learned whatever it had told her. Pity the hob hadn't explained how a man could avoid a fight when others insisted on it.

The pretense was over. There was no use trying a smile and a cheery greeting to Neal and Willie — not with the expressions they wore or the way they stood across his path. Toby marched straight at them and then made a quick feint to the right. They jumped to block him and he spun around in a swirl of plaid to confront Vik Tanner. As expected, he had Bryce and Rae with him, but he'd also brought Neal's brother, Colin. That was a sickening shock.

If it was just to be fists, Toby would take on any two of them and probably enjoy himself. All together they could certainly beat him, although he would do some damage. But it would not be only fists. There would be holding, and no time out when a man went down. There would be feet. There might even be blades, although the Sassenachs hanged any Highlander they caught wearing as much as a dirk.

Trash! Fat Vik was very nearly as tall as he was. His arms were thick and furry, but the meat on them was flab, not muscle. He looked dangerous on the outside and had nothing inside. Bryce and Rae were born followers, and still just gangly kids. Today they were two of six and could afford their excited, nervy smiles.

But Crazy Colin… Colin was older; twenty or more. Colin was wrong in the head, the one who killed sheep at full moon. Even as a child, he'd been odd. He had gone off to the war two years ago, and when he came back from Parline Field with the other survivors, he'd had even fewer wits than before. Now he was leering at Toby, eyes and mouth twitching eerily. He had both hands behind his back. If Vik had given Crazy Colin a knife, then