Demon Sword

They all rode on without a backward glance. They had not turned, had not looked down, had not seen their quarry in plain view beneath them. Valda, the first two demons, then the two corpses, the maid — all went galloping along the highway and dwindled rapidly into the distance. The sound of hooves faded away into the steady hiss of rain and the rustle of wind in the heather. What did they think they were pursuing?

Finding himself no longer petrified, Toby scrambled to his feet. His companions were coming back into sight, climbing the riverbank. He was plastered all over with mud, and he had scraped himself when he fell. His plaid still lay in the road. He pushed himself to a weary trot toward it, so he could take it to the river and make both it and himself respectable before the others reached him.

CHAPTER TWO

He was shocked to see how exhausted they all were. It had been an arduous day and night would come early. The light was already fading.

Hamish had been set to carrying the sword. Not being tall enough to wear it, he held it over his shoulder. He was canted sideways under its weight, but he had a grin to match its size.

'The spirit!' he yelled. 'It saved us! This is its territory. Thanks to Father Lachlan!'

'Oh, I doubt if I made any difference,' the acolyte said. 'I think the spirit understands the problem much better than I do — but it never hurts to ask.' He adjusted his glasses and beamed benevolently. 'Shira has placed us under its protection. Now we must go and give formal thanks.'

Rory's pale eyes shone improbably bright in the twilight. 'That's certainly one possible explanation.'

'What's the other?' Toby demanded angrily.

'Why ask me? You seem to have contrived another of your astonishing escapes — you tell us.'

'I don't know!' Toby glared around at his companions, all suddenly so quiet that he could hear his heart again: Dum… Dum… Balderdash! Everybody's heart beat! Just because he could hear his heart doing its steady slow thump did not mean that his demon had pulled off another rescue. It had been nothing like as loud as he'd heard it in the dungeon or by the hob's grotto. More like Glen Orchy. And he did not recall hearing it like that when he'd been lying naked in the road.

Whatever had saved him — the spirit of Shira or a personal guardian demon — it certainly had shown no interest in maintaining his self-respect.

'Don't look at me like that!' he yelled, girding on his sword again. 'I don't know any more than you do, any of you! I certainly didn't do anything, if that's what you're wondering. I just fell flat on my face. Will they be back, Father?'

The acolyte shrugged wearily. 'I don't think so. The spirit has shown it can blind the hexer; I am sure she will not dare a direct assault on it. I hope it will enlighten us… Have faith, children! Evil has been balked, that is what matters.'

'You're not hurt?' Meg asked. She looked worried, as well she might. She had not run into Toby's arms to welcome him. Why had he expected her to?

'I deserve to be.' Certainly his pride was hurt. What must she think of him? Great, clumsy oaf — some protector her father had chosen for her! Demons pursued him and he tripped over his own feet.

Rory snorted. 'Let's walk. We need the exercise.'

As they set off, Toby said, 'Father? What's a demon sword?'

The tubby little man peered at him and then at the hilt behind Toby's shoulder. 'A blade that has slain a demon — an incarnate demon, of course. The blow through the husk's heart, you know? The blades are supposed to possess power against demons.' He glanced apologetically at Rory. 'With all due respect… I don't believe in them.'

The rebel shrugged. 'One hears stories. I never met one myself.'

'Oh, I have met them. Men bring them to the sanctuary and ask the tutelary to authenticate them. They always turn out to be perfectly ordinary blades. The whole notion is pernicious!' The acolyte had abandoned his normal calm and become quite fervent. 'This foolish superstition has killed far too many innocent people! A touch of brain fever, a mysterious accident, or just plain spite… someone gets accused of being possessed and is promptly stabbed through the heart so the killer can claim to own a demon sword — which he will sell to you for a price, of course! I see no reason to believe that Master Strangerson's blade is anything out of the ordinary.'

'It's a load of scrap iron,' Rory agreed solemnly.

The little man pushed his eyeglasses up his nose. 'And the whole idea of stabbing demons through the heart is nonsense! It's ridiculous! How can anyone expect them to stand still for that? You take a sword to a demonic creature, and I'll tell you which one of you is going to die!'

'I'd much rather not.' If Rory was amused by the acolyte's ardor, he was keeping an admirably straight face.

'Can't you creep up behind them?' Hamish looked so concerned that he must be planning to take up demon-stabbing as a sport.

'Of course not! The demon could hear you thinking!' Father Lachlan wagged a finger at him. 'I don't suppose there are a dozen genuine demon swords in all the realms of the Golden Horde, or ever have been! So who can know anything about their supposed powers?'

Abashed, Hamish walked on in silence for a moment, then: 'What can you do about demons if you can't impale them?'

'Head to the nearest shrine or sanctuary and pray, of course. Which is exactly what we are doing now.'

So Toby's sword was just a sword, and not even much of one. He was not surprised. He had acquired it after he became hexed, so for it to be hexed as well would require an absurd coincidence. The curious fascination the great bull-sticker held for him was not caused by the sword; it came from some perversion in himself.

Swords didn't kill people; swordsmen did.

CHAPTER THREE

Dark was falling by the time the travelers reached the buildings. They were uninviting — old and gloomy, with stone walls and black slate roofs huddled under dripping trees. Some of the roofs had collapsed. The tiny windows were all dark. The overgrown yard looked as if it had been deserted for years, without dogs or chickens, or any signs of life at all.

'Let me see now,' Father Lachlan said fussily. 'It's been years since I was here, but I doubt if anything's changed. Which one is the keeper's house, do you recall?'

'The one at the end,' Rory said curtly.

'Whose are the rest, sir?' Hamish looked worried, very worried.

Rory just growled.

The acolyte said, 'They are for pilgrims — doesn't look as if we have any company.'

'Understandable!' Rory was glaring around him. 'Who would want to visit a sty like this?'

Father Lachlan made a tactful, soothing noise. 'I shall go and inform the keeper of our arrival. I fear it is too late for us to visit the spirit tonight.' He plodded off through the weeds.

'Let's try this one first!' Rory headed for a cottage with the others at his heels.

Just to get under cover and out of the rain was a huge relief. The prospects were not encouraging otherwise. Only rusty hinges remained to show where the door and shutters had once hung. The interior was dark, but the rebel soon located a lantern with a stub of tallow in it. No other man could possibly have produced dry tinder after such a day, but in seconds he had the lantern lit.

The central hearth had no chimney; rain had been entering through the smoke hole above it, but the roof seemed fairly sound otherwise. Clearly the hut had not been used for months or years, and the last tenants had not cleaned up before they left. The only furniture was a flattened heap of straw that reminded Toby of the