Demon Sword

control me better!'

Father Lachlan frowned anxiously. 'I still do not believe you are possessed, my son. You cannot be a hexer, for you do not use the rituals of gramarye and you have no demonic creatures at your command. I admit that I do not understand. You seem to fit none of the rules at all! I have studied the lore of demonology for a lifetime, but if an immortal could not fathom you, then how can I hope to? Now we have won time to get you to Glasgow. The tutelary is very benevolent, very wise. I am sure it will help you.'

Toby turned away. Did he even want to be helped? He had enjoyed that brief blaze of omnipotence.

'Master!' Hamish shouted. Even under the mud, his face showed alarm. 'The river's stopped flowing!'

Rory glanced at the channel, silent pools in a nightmare of boulders. Then he looked at the barrier upstream. 'Well, of course it has! Tiny Tim, there, has given Scotland a new loch! Loch Strangerson, the bastard loch?'

'But, sir! That's just mud! This happened somewhere down in the Borders a few years ago, didn't it? A slide? Then, when the river runs over the top, or when it just builds up behind…'

'Spirits save us!' Father Lachlan said. 'The boy's right! Near Roxburgh somewhere. If that dam bursts, there's going to be a flood!'

Rory stiffened, then turned to look down the rainy glen. 'Cairndow! Demons! We must warn them! We must get them out of there! Come on!' He started to run.

CHAPTER THREE

Iain lowered the sail and Rae held the tiller as the boat drifted in to the jetty. Iain was a towhead, old Rae was dark as a Castilian, but they would both be Campbells. The pelting rain had turned the surface of the loch to mist, so that it was hard to tell where the sea ended and the air began. Water swilled around in the bottom of the boat, glittering with fish scales.

The passengers sat along the sides. Father Lachlan looked old and tired, although that might be just by way of contrast with Hamish, who had not stopped jabbering questions at the two sailors since they left Cairndow. Toby faced them, with Meg beside him, not quite close enough to be asking for an arm around her. He should have put an arm around her anyway, and all the way across the loch had been cursing himself as a coward for not doing so. But he was very conscious of Rory on her other side, and those deadly, silver eyes. He could throw their owner overboard if he wanted, but that would do no good — the arrogant louse could probably swim like a shark. To strangle him first would require fighting three Campbells at the same time, and probably Hamish as well.

Hamish was very impressed, even awed. He had confirmed from someone in Cairndow that Rory MacDonald was really Gregor Campbell, the master of Argyll. That ranked him just below the sun, and so far above Toby Strangerson that it was amazing they could even see each other. So what if he was? He sat down to shit like anyone else, didn't he?

They had sounded the alarm in the hamlet. The inhabitants had fled away from the river, carrying possessions, driving livestock. The master had commandeered a boat for the trip down to Inverary and met no argument. He had ordered his companions into it, never doubting that they would obey. They had obeyed. Only the sight of Meg, huddled and shivering, explained to Toby why he had come, but in truth he had had no alternative. He was totally at Rory's mercy now. Gregor's mercy. What mercy?

Inverary Castle loomed out of the rain, far larger and grander than Lochy, towering over a sprawl of buildings, cottages, animal paddocks, orchards, and vegetable gardens, a sizable village. One of the corner towers was framed in scaffolding, being repaired or still under construction. The Sassenachs would have spread the word. How big a garrison would they have placed in a fortress this size? Their warrant would be known here in Inverary.

Toby leaned around Meg. Rory stared back with dislike, raising a pale eyebrow.

Toby said, 'Didn't you tell us that the earl of Argyll was a traitor who licked English boots?'

The helmsman overheard and gasped in horror.

Rory chuckled — doubtless for the eavesdropper's benefit — but there was murder in the silver eyes. He removed his bonnet, took the black feather from it, and placed it in his sporran. Then he put his bonnet on again. 'One has to remain in character.'

'And the Sassenachs want to hang me!'

The master's mouth twisted in a familiar sneer. 'Who can blame them? Getting nervous, are you? Well, you have no cause to worry. Just because Lord Robert is such a notorious boot-licker, the English haven't posted a garrison on him. No fusiliers here! He's in Edinburgh, as you know. His mother, Lady Lora, is a most formidable lady, and a rabid patriot. And then there's me.' He wasn't sure if his disguise had been penetrated. Getting no reaction, he smiled benevolently and added: 'Nobody hangs one of my men without my permission.'

'I am not your man!'

The boat jostled against stone steps. Rory shrugged. 'Then I offer you hospitality as my guest, as I offer my home to your charming companion. Nobody hangs my guests, either. Not even me — it's bad manners. Miss Campbell?'

He handed Meg ashore, then offered help to Father Lachlan, who shot Toby a disapproving and warning frown.

Toby and Hamish were left to manage by themselves, following up a paved road to the castle, bent against the driving rain. The few people they met on the way all recognized their leader. Bonnets came off. Men bowed, women curtseyed.

Hamish walked at first in worried silence, clutching his muddy bundle. Then he muttered, 'Toby, you'd better take care! He's the Campbell's son! He's the heir to Argyll — that's what 'master' means!'

'I know that! And I would still like to ram his teeth down his throat!'

'Toby!' Hamish's voice rose to a batlike squeak. 'He'll have you beaten! Or branded! He can throw you in a dungeon.'

'That's no way to treat guests, either. And he wouldn't dare now!' That hurt more than anything — nobody would dare threaten the hexer who could haul down mountains. Inhuman! Leper! 'You know what he wants of me, don't you?' Getting no reply except an unhappy nod, he said, 'Well? He thinks I'm an adept. He wants me to hex the bloody Sassenachs for him!'

And what did he want of Meg?

Hamish mumbled, 'Maybe.'

'What else, then?'

'Earl Robert's one of King Nevil's strongest supporters in Scotland. What's his son doing running with rebels? And do we know that he is a rebel at all just because he wears a feather in his cap? Or is he trying to find Fergan and betray him?'

Toby thought about it as they hurried to the barbican. 'You worry about that,' he concluded. 'I don't care either way.'

By then, Hamish had forgotten the problem and was gaping up at the towers and battlements. 'This is one of the strongest castles in Scotland. It's never been taken.'

No Scottish lord had cannon to blast a way into a citadel like this, so of course the earl would be on the side of the English. And strongholds made good prisons. Toby saw the arch with its daunting portcullis like a giant mouth about to swallow him whole. He was an outlaw, with every man's hand against him. His only possessions were the sodden clothes on his back, a few coins, and a pretty stone in his sporran. It was too late to run, though, and he had nowhere to go.

'You suppose a great castle like this would have a library?' Hamish muttered.

More to the point, would it have a gallows?

The archway cut off the rain at last. Two guards stood in their path, but they were Highlanders in plaids and leathers, shoes and steel helmets; they held pikes and wore swords. They jumped to attention and saluted — which was a surprising courtesy to offer a band of mud-plastered vagrants — but they seemed more interested in