Demon Sword

you'll empty my larder and burn up all my firewood to dry yourselves? I'm an old man to be chopping firewood while young ne'er-do-wells take whatever they fancy without thought of payment…'

The angrier he grew, the wider became Rory's smile.

'Firewood shall be no problem, Father.' He waved a languid hand in Toby's direction. 'The boy there will chop all you need. Food, yes, we shall be happy to take advantage of your renowned Glen Shira hospitality, and money we do have — this time.' He jingled his pouch. 'We shall amply replace what we eat. Now, I am trying to introduce you to your kinsman, Master Hamish Campbell of Tyndrum.'

The fearsome old man rounded on Hamish, who backed away a pace and said, 'Cousin?' in a thin whisper.

'Kinsman?' the keeper barked. 'Not close! Neal Teacher's youngest? Very distant kin! What're you doing running with these rebel dogs, boy?'

Hamish shot an agonized glance at Rory, then at Toby. 'I had to leave the glen for a while… Father.'

'Fleeing from demons?'

'Er… Well, no. From the Sassenachs, sir.'

'Ha!' Murray Keeper glared triumphantly at Rory. 'Now we draw closer to the truth?'

'I am always truthful, Father! Last but most certainly not least…' Rory held out a hand to Meg.

As she stepped forward to the lantern, the old man recoiled with a startled cry. 'A woman!' His expression of horror suggested that this was the worst news yet.

'Correct! And none other than the famous Lady Esther, youngest daughter of the Lord Provost of Lossiemouth, whose fabled beauty is the toast of Scotland. She takes after him, as you can see. My lady, may I present Murray Campbell, keeper of the Shira shrine? Do not be daunted by his rough exterior, for it conceals a natural shyness and… Oh, he's gone! Hurrying off to prepare a feast for you, I expect.'

CHAPTER FOUR

With Rory barking orders, the pilgrims located another habitable cottage and set fires in both to warm them. They swept the floors and plugged the windows with makeshift basketwork shutters of ferns and branches. Rory repeatedly denounced the hermit as a slatternly miser; Father Lachlan's efforts to defend him were notably half-hearted. The only furnishings they could find were a few rotted heaps of ferns, which nobody fancied. Rory himself went off to confront the old man; angry shouts echoed through the glade. He returned with a tight jaw and a threadbare blanket for Meg.

Leaving her to manage as best she could, the men resorted to the other cottage to toast themselves and wring out their plaids. No matter that the blaze Rory had built would have roasted a team of oxen, those bulky wool garments would never be dry that night.

Toby smeared Granny Nan's salve on his various scrapes. His back, Rory informed him acidly, was one enormous bruise from the broadsword's bouncing. He could have guessed that.

Four bare men knelt around the fire, smelling strongly of wet. In the golden firelight, Father Lachlan was soft and pleated, Hamish lean as a board. Rory was all taut muscle, but the reddish hair on his chest failed to conceal a purple bruise there. He scowled when he saw Toby admiring it. Rain beat down on the trees and dripped steadily into a lake of mud in one corner. Someone yawned. Then they all did.

'Don't go to sleep yet,' Rory said. 'Aren't you hungry?'

Hamish brightened. 'The keeper will feed us?'

'He said he would. I showed him gold and he twitched like a dowser's twig.' Rory sighed and glanced sideways at Father Lachlan. 'Don't judge all holy men by Murray, lads. Father Lachlan is more typical.'

The acolyte sighed. 'But no more worthy. He has dedicated his life to serving the spirit. Loneliness is a burden.'

'He was probably nuttier than a squirrel's hole when he started!' Rory heaved himself upright. 'What harm does a keeper like that do to an immortal? What twisted ways of thinking does he teach it? What dubious ethics? Tell me that!'

'The spirit has known scores of keepers and will know plenty more.'

Rory did not pursue the argument. 'Let's get dressed. Then we'll collect Lady Esther and go see what our host has prepared.'

The others rose also and began to drape themselves in wet plaids, all moving stiffly.

'One bright spot in the gloom,' he continued cheerfully, 'is that Master Hamish will not be bored this winter. The Reverend Murray has never been known to give anybody anything before, but I am sure he will give his willing and industrious cousin more than enough work to keep him busy till the heather blooms. His wages —'

'I'm not staying here!' Hamish howled.

'Those were your father's orders, were they not?'

'Yes, but—'

'Must obey one's parents!' Rory said sternly. 'So mine are always telling me, anyway. Here you are, here you stay.'

Father Lachlan chuckled. 'You're not afraid of hard work, are you? Joking apart, my son, Master Rory is right. Our mission is fraught with considerable risk. You will be safer remaining here.'

Hamish turned a stare of abject horror on Toby.

Zits! Toby had given his word to the tanner, but not to the teacher. The boy was not his concern, and the men were undoubtedly right — this was no outing for juveniles. On the other hand, he had made some glib promises to Hamish himself. He had not meant them to be taken seriously, but he had said the words. Now Hamish was going to throw them back in his face. Hamish was going to appeal to friendship.

Where was honor? Where was friendship? A true friend would grit his teeth and tell the kid to be sensible about this… Hamish was not his friend, anyway. He had no friends. He didn't need friends, right? He certainly didn't need Hamish, and Hamish did not need him and his troubles, whatever the kid thought at the moment.

But a man must stand by his word, and the expression on the lad's face would make a demon weep.

'Father?' Toby said. 'How many books does the keeper own?'

The acolyte looked at him in bewilderment. 'I don't recall seeing any. Why?'

'In that case we may have a serious problem! If Master Campbell is deprived of books for more than two days, he starts having fits. He twitches. He foams at the mouth.'

'That's too bad!' Rory snapped. 'He can just foam.'

'Really? When you were fifteen, Master Glencoe, if someone had told you that a stalwart young Highlander like yourself must stay out of danger by settling in here to work as an unpaid lackey for a deranged miser — how would you have reacted?'

Rory frowned, looked at Hamish, then Father Lachlan, Toby. 'I'd have cut out his guts and strangled him with them! Why do you ask?' The familiar silver twinkle was back in his eyes, but for once he was smiling with Toby and not at him, seeming almost likable.

Toby smiled back. 'Just curious. Why don't we go and see what's for dinner?'

Hamish beamed relief and gratitude at his hero.

The keeper's idea of a meal turned out to be scraps of stale bread, raw onions, and one boiled egg per customer. He distributed the salt himself in tiny pinches. Rory restrained his tongue, but he threw the whole log pile on the hearth and handed out a second round of onions from the net of them that hung from the rafters. Had there been anything else edible in sight, he might have pirated that, too, but there wasn't. The hermit glared murder at him.

His cottage was no larger than Granny Nan's, more sparsely furnished, and a great deal dirtier. The host sat on his own tottery chair, Meg on the straw mattress, and the others spread themselves around the open hearth. The only light came from the fire; books were conspicuously absent. The little room was thick with smoke. Toby's eyelids grew impossibly heavy. Meg sank back on the pallet and went to sleep.

The keeper clearly detested Rory, probably with good reason, and yet seemed wary of him. He was respectful to Father Lachlan, ignored the youths, and never once glanced in Meg's direction. As the urgent crunch