Demon Sword

were racing across the sky, but he could see a pair of eagles soaring. There were always eagles over Castle Lochy.

He headed off to the kitchens. It was too early for lunch, but Helga could usually find a snack for a growing boy. Still wolfing down a freshly baked bap liberally spread with goose fat, he located the steward crouched in his little office. The old man was poring over accounts, a litter of papers covering the table. He looked up with a familiar sour expression on his dried-apple face.

'Need another job, Master Crief,' Toby said with his mouth full.

'What's this I hear about you getting into a fight?'

Toby swallowed. 'I didn't, sir. Just got baited about… about a girl, sir. It was nothing. No fisticuffs.'

The dirk-sharp eyes studied him for a moment. They did not reveal what their owner thought of that version of events. Iain had been blabbing, obviously.

'One of them was Crazy Colin?'

'Er, yes sir. He was there.' Had the miller noticed the addlehead's knife?

Fortunately the steward did not ask about knives. He twisted his bony mouth in a grimace. 'I wouldn't feed that one to pigs.' For a man who never left the castle, Bryce of Crief was always uncannily well informed about events in the glen.

Bryce of Crief — Bryce Campbell had probably lived in Fillan for twice a normal lifetime, but he was still Bryce of Crief. A man was identified by his clan, of course, but then by his birthplace. When he was in his birthplace he was identified by his residence, or his occupation, or his father. If he had no clan, if his father wasn't known, he was called something like Strangerson.

'How is Granny Nan?'

Old Bryce was remarkably chatty today.

'She has good days and bad days, sir.' She spends hours collecting pretty stones.

Crief nodded, but his expression still gave away nothing. 'Look after her well, lad. Has she ever mentioned… a successor?'

'No, sir.'

'I don't know who we'll get to keep the hob happy when she's gone.'

Toby took another bite of greasy bap and mumbled, 'No, sir.'

'An unhappy hob could make lots of trouble in the glen.'

'Yes, sir.'

The old man leaned forward and bared a few yellow pegs of teeth in a sly and withered smile. 'Who's going to take you on at the games, mm? Anyone crazy enough?'

He meant boxing, of course. Boxing had more glamour than weight lifting or caber tossing. Moreover, there was money to be made on boxing, bets to be laid, and that probably explained why the steward was wasting valuable time chattering with the odd-job boy.

'Dougal Peat's promised to go a few rounds with me, sir, if nobody else will. We'll put on a show for the crowd is all.'

What the smith's son had said was, 'We'll just bleed a little for 'em, right?' but what he had meant was, 'You won't make me suffer too long, will you?' Dougal was enough of his father's son that he was incapable of faking; he would fight till he was fairly dropped.

'No chance of his father coming out of retirement?'

Toby shook his head sadly. 'He could still beat me if he did.' He had watched the blacksmith box — and win — at every games as far back as he could remember, but the year he had turned fourteen and been allowed to fight with the men, he had failed to make the finals. That had been the year Eric retired, so they'd never met in the ring. Somehow, Toby could not feel he was really champion, when he had never fought the smith.

'The Sassenach…' Toby corrected himself quickly. 'Some of the soldiers, sir. Some of the captain's men, were talking about a challenge match in wrestling, Castle versus Glen, sir.'

The steward scowled. 'The laird forbade it! It might lead to trouble.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Besides, our lads know nothing about wrestling.' The sharp eyes stabbed at him. 'You tried wrestling with any of them?'

'No, sir.'

'Those English have all kinds of sneaky holds and throws. Now, if they were to offer a challenge in boxing, I might be able to talk the laird into it — but they won't!' The steward shrugged, dismissing such frivolous topics. He leaned back and regarded Toby with a snaky intensity. 'Just between the two of us?'

The odd-job boy blinked in astonishment. 'Yes, sir?'

'If you lose in the boxing, I've got five shillings for you.' The old man pulled back his lips in a skull-like leer.

Five shillings? That must be about a year's wages! But cheat? Toby could not do that! Half the glen would put a farthing or two on the boxing, and they would all come to watch the sport. They would expect a display of courage, not dishonesty. It was unthinkable. Never!

Yet for a man of his lowly station to refuse an order from the steward was equally unthinkable. He would be out on his neck in a minute, and lucky if he weren't beaten first. Faced with this impossible dilemma, Toby just stared at the old man. His throat, as it so often did, closed up completely and made not a sound.

The smile faded like a sunset into dark. 'Think about it,' the steward said coldly. 'Come and see me later. Meanwhile, Himself wants the dungeon cleaned out. He thinks the rats are coming from there. I'll send someone to help you after lunch.'

'Er?' Toby dragged his wits back to business. 'I don't know where the dungeon is, sir.'

'Off the guardroom. You'll need a lantern. Just one, mind, because there's no air down there. Move all the old straw outside the walls and burn it. And take a dog or two with you.' The steward dismissed him by looking down at his papers.

Toby said, 'Yes, sir,' and hurried away. Cheat? Cheat so that the old bag of bones could clean up on the betting?

CHAPTER FOUR

He borrowed a lantern from the cooks, found a shovel, rounded up Spots and Nipper, and headed to the guardroom by the gate. He had never been inside it before, and the first thing he saw when he entered the gloomy place was a wall rack full of muskets. There were benches and a table, a couple of chests, a few cluttered shelves, but no guards. That seemed excessively careless, considering how much King Fergan's rebels would like to get their hands on those guns. They were chained, but Toby thought he could break them loose if he wanted to — besides, there were dozens of keys hanging near the window.

He walked forward and jumped as a big man appeared in a shadowed doorway — except it was a mirror. A full-length mirror! He had never seen such a thing in his life before. It must be there so the Sassenachs could inspect themselves before going out on parade. He glanced around the room again to make sure he was alone, then took a hard look at his reflection. His face was too boyish to be so far from the floor. He rubbed his chin, wondering yet again if he should let his beard grow in. He adjusted the hang of his plaid. He was certainly more man than Fat Vik. He took yet another glance around, moved back so he could not be observed through the door, then crooked an arm to see the muscle. His reflection grinned at the result and he scowled at its vanity.

At the far side of the room, a gate of thick iron bars led to darkness. It was unlocked and creaked loudly. Nipper rushed ahead down the stairs, with Spots following more circumspectly, nose busy, tail wagging. Narrow and treacherous, the staircase curved sharply into the ground, so the dungeon must underlie the guardroom. He pulled the gate shut behind him in case the dogs tried to defect. Then he started down. After about a dozen steps, he set a foot into something soft and squashy.

He waited there until his eyes adjusted. He was in a long narrow cellar, cold and creepy, stinking of rot. Most of it seemed to be carved out of the rock of the mountain. The ceiling was masonry — arched and short on