Demon Sword

hand on his sweaty hair. The shutter rattled gently in the wind. Slowly his heart found peace.

Once she murmured, 'A good fight. You're a good man.'

He did not feel like a good man. He felt like a lost boy.

How small she was!

When he had his breath back: 'I can't find Bossie.'

'Sold her to Bryce Twotrees. Sold the fowls.'

He looked up in dismay. A twig flared on the hearth. He saw the wrinkles of extreme age, the silver hair loose to her shoulders, the sad, wise eyes, the withered sadness of a smile. She was in her wits, apparently. He was the confused one…

'Why—'

'You must leave now.'

'But—'

'Follow the others,' she murmured. 'So many leaving! Where do they all go? What happens to all the men? They leave the glen and they never return. The hob is worried.'

The hob was worried? How could a hob worry? And how could a solitary, friendless fugitive ever hope to escape in a bleak land like this — a man without a clan? But he mustn't distress her by mentioning that problem. He started to speak, she shook her head and he fell silent. He did not understand, but he often did not understand — even now, after a lifetime. She was not acting strange in the way she did so often now. Not crazy. Odd, yes, but a witchwife would always be odd. She had seen his confusion and was amused.

'I made up a bundle for you. I put some money in it.'

'But—'

'Shush!' Her voice strengthened. 'You must hurry. You have far to go, but I can't see where. Here, I have this for you. Take it with you, keep it safe.'

He felt for her bony fingers, found something hard, about the size of the top joint of his thumb. It was cold, although she must have been clutching it. Her hand was cold, too. Firelight twinkled. It was one of her pretty stones.

He mumbled thanks and dropped it in his sporran.

'A just fight,' she repeated. 'Good man. I promised your mother. I've kept my promise.'

'What promise?'

'Have to make your own name in the world. Your father didn't give you his… Go now, boy. Good spirits preserve you, Toby! Hurry.'

'I can't just leave you here like this.'

'Hurry. I'll be taken care of. He'll be here soon.'

'Who will?' He peered closer, saw tears glinting in her eyes. Granny Nan? Never before had he seen her weep, even when she'd delivered stillborn babies.

'You must go before he comes. They'll be after you! Go now!'

'You're leaving, too? Who's going to look after the hob?'

She chuckled. 'I found someone! If the hob's happy, then you needn't worry, my little Toby, now need you?'

'But… listen! They'll be looking for me tonight. If I can hide out for a few days — maybe wait until there's fog, or rain, or no moon… Would the hob let me—'

'No! No! You mustn't!' She hissed and cocked her head. Then she pushed at his head. 'Go! Go!'

He heard it now, a sound of hooves, many hooves.

Granny Nan wailed. 'Too late!' she said. 'Too late!'

The English had come. The time for being a lost boy was over; now he must be a man. He heaved himself to his feet, aching in every bone and shocked at how much he had stiffened up. He was too tired to run more. He had had time to say good-bye, so it had been worth it, but he could run no more. He bent and kissed her, trying to mumble something of what he felt, but the words wouldn't come. She kept insisting he go, becoming fretful.

Thinking this was the last time he would ever stoop under the lintel, he walked over to the door. Shivering in the cold air, he latched it behind him.

From the thunder and shaking of the earth, there must be at least ten horsemen coming. They ought to know better! Sergeant Farmer had marched a squad past the copse once with drums beating, and half the men had been stricken with cramps, rolling on the ground and screaming. Where the hob was concerned, any loud noise was dangerous.

Perhaps Toby ought to feel honored that they had sent so many, but he was too weary to feel anything at all. To run and be hunted down like an animal… no. He walked out into clear moonlight and stood with his hands raised to show he held no weapon. He had killed one of their own, and they would not be gentle.

They streamed in around both sides of the cottage as if they were charging a Burgundian artillery post. He half expected them to ride him down, but they encircled him, and when they halted, he stood within a cordon of angry eyes, steaming horses, jingling harnesses. Hands pointed wheel locks at him, and swords. He held his hands up and his head down. He said nothing — what was there to say?

They shackled his hands behind him and put chains on his ankles. They laid him facedown across a horse, like a hunter's trophy, and roped him there. They were not gentle, but they did not abuse him as much as he expected. It was the first time Toby Strangerson had ever been on a real horse. He watched the great hooves beat the road below him until he became too nauseated to concentrate. At least he was headed to a clean cell; he had cleaned it out himself. He hoped they would give him straw, but he thought that tonight he could sleep without it.

CHAPTER THREE

Hamish would call him a cynic, but Toby was genuinely surprised to arrive back at the castle alive. He had not been shot while trying to escape from the horse's back, nor had he accidentally smashed his skull on a gatepost in passing. Dizzy and sick from his head-down journey, he was even more surprised to be unloaded at the door of the big house. He had assumed he would be thrown down the dungeon stairs and left there until dawn, which was the traditional time for hangings. He gathered that the laird was going to hear his case right away.

He clinked and clattered up steps into a part of the building he had never seen before. Soldiers with lanterns went ahead, others followed behind. Luxuries he had only heard tell of loomed out of the darkness and then vanished again: paintings on the walls, tapestries, and fine furniture. He glimpsed wonders and could not linger to admire them. He heard sounds of music overhead and recognized the new reel the laird's piper had been rehearsing for days.

Then he had to climb a long flight of stairs with the lantern shadows leaping and dancing all around. Cynically he waited for an ankle to be jerked from under him, but perhaps his captors were reluctant to get blood on the treads. They had to wait a long time in a corridor before being allowed to proceed. He wriggled his toes on the smooth planks and listened to the music and sniffed the fragrance of beeswax candles, so different from the stinking tallow the villagers used when they must have light after sundown. Little things like that seemed important, as if he must store up memories to take with him.

He wondered why he had been brought up here at this time of night, disturbing the gentry's revels. Why not just leave him in the cell until morning, to be tried and hanged at a more convenient time?

His guards moved, making way, and a stooped old man shuffled through, tapping his cane. Surprised, Toby looked down into the eyes of Steward Bryce. They no longer made him think of dirks. They looked blurred and infinitely weary; Bryce Campbell of Crief seemed to have aged years since Toby had seen him in the afternoon.

His voice was a dry croak. 'A baron's court can hang a man caught red-handed in manslaughter.'

'Sir? I don't—'

'But murder is withheld. It's one of the four pleas of the crown. Murder goes to the justiciar's court.' The steward smiled gruesomely, then turned himself around with care, and hobbled away again, back into the