Demon Sword

Kennedy took another gulp and wiped his mouth on his arm. 'Aye. That's what they say. I don't have this from him, you understand. It's just chatter.'

Toby nodded.

'When the Horde conquered England,' the king's man explained, sounding like Hamish beginning a lecture, 'it was one of those times when the Sassenachs had conquered Scotland, or thought they had. So the English king did homage to the Khan's man for Scotland, too. There's hardly ever been a Tartar set foot in Scotland. Set hoof, would you say?' He chuckled and took another swig.

He wasn't making history sound any more worthwhile than Neal Campbell had, back in Tyndrum, but now Toby was the king's man, it seemed as if it should.

'So, laddie, the English have taxed us men and gold for all these years to send tribute to the Horde. But, if the Khan was to recognize Scotland as an independent satrapy, why then we would be free of the Sassenach, wouldn't we?'

Toby wasn't very smart, but he was sober. He could see no great advantage in exchanging one overlord for another. From what he had heard, the English king had been thumping the Tartars' vassals all over Europe for years. If this was King Fergan's Grand Design, then its merits escaped him.

'You think he might be going to travel to Sarai?'

'Could be,' Kennedy muttered, taking up his dirk and strop again. 'As I said, it's just chatter. But it could be.' He winked.

'Sarai? That's on a big river somewhere?'

'The Volga. Long way. Long, long way!'

'Weeks?'

'Och, laddie, it's months you're talking about!'

Definitely promising!

Toby pushed his stool back. 'Then I think I'll rest up for the journey. If they want me tonight, they'll find me. Have you a spare candle?'

The older man scowled and swung his feet to the floor. He held out the flagon. 'Here, boy, put some real hair on that big chest of yours. You'll not be going off to bed now and leaving me drinking by my lonesome?'

Toby had to take a gulp of the awful stuff before he was allowed to leave, with Kennedy muttering dire comments about his lack of manhood. Holding both his own bundle and Hamish's, he paused in the doorway. 'Where do I sleep?'

'Straight up, as far as you can go. If you see the stars, you've gone too far.' Cackling, Kennedy sucked on his bottle again.

Straight up was a fair description of the stairs. They ended in a narrow passage, flanked by doors. At the far end was a ladder, leading up to a trapdoor. When Toby raised one side of that and peered through, he saw straw. He blew out the candle, went down to the floor for the bundles, and then scrambled up into a low attic. He could barely sit upright in it, let alone stand. In a moment or two he identified a faint light from gaps under the eaves. The wind came from those, too. There was a musty odor of chicken coop, which meant birds' nests somewhere.

He was a long time going to sleep, mostly because his bruises forced him to lie on his back, not facedown as he preferred. Even in his plaid, he was barely warm enough. Later he registered someone lifting the trap, replacing it, rustling in the straw. Whoever it was did not summon him away to the sanctuary. In what seemed no time at all, although he had probably dozed off in the meantime, he heard Hamish's familiar snores.

Life in a king's palace was not quite what he had expected.

CHAPTER THREE

It was not like Glen Orchy — this time Valda had no doubt where he was. He stood and watched her walking toward him, but she was indistinct, mist-shrouded. She stopped a few paces away and raised both arms to him.

'Susie?' Her voice seemed farther off than her image, but it was clear and compelling. 'Susie, answer me!'

He watched, knowing in the silent certainty of dreams that if he did not speak, she could have no power over him.

Her shape seemed to brighten, clarify, her body glowing through a gauzy veil. He wondered how he looked to her.

'Toby Strangerson!' she said, louder.

He thought, I am Toby Strangerson.

She smiled, and the veil faded from her. He felt his body respond with a savage surge of desire.

'Then come to me. You will come to me.'

I will come to you.

She was gone, and he was awake, drenched in sweat. Not really awake, he thought. I was just dreaming. It's the middle of the night.

But he couldn't just lie there. The call was too strong. He had to go. He sat up, wincing at the stiffness in his limbs. Straw rustled. A faint dawn glow showed in the air holes under the eaves.

Other straw rustled. 'Wha's matter?' Hamish mumbled.

'I have to go.'

'There's a bucket in the corner.' Hamish rolled over and went back to sleep.

Already Toby's arms and legs were moving him to the trapdoor. Wait! I can't go out like this! Panic seized him. I've got to dress first! But his limbs refused to listen. One hand was already lifting the trap when he realized his left knee was resting on his belt. He snatched it up and grabbed a corner of his plaid also. He scrambled down the ladder, bringing a cloudburst of straw with him. Hastily bundling himself as he went, he headed for the stairs.

It was impossible to put on a plaid properly while walking, or with hands still swollen like mealy puddings, but he managed the best he could. Reeling along the dark corridor, he managed to buckle his belt. He found his pin still in one corner.

He was walking into a trap, of course. He was probably going to his death, but there was nothing he could do about it. The house must be full of people — he could hear snoring. If he could just call out, they would come and stop him, come and save him; but he was forbidden to call out. He was forbidden to raise the alarm in any way. He moved deliberately, making as little sound as he could, although he could not prevent boards from creaking under his weight. More snoring audible through doorways… he wanted to scream. They would waken in the morning and find him gone. Why didn't they keep a dog?

He stumbled down the precipitous stairs. The house had its own little creaks and tappings. Rats, perhaps. Once he thought he heard footsteps overhead, but it was probably just someone else looking for a bucket in a corner. Inching along another black passage, he smelled the stale odors of smoke and fat from the kitchen. Still fighting to arrange his plaid, he came to the front door.

The door would not move. Saved! He could not break it down without rousing half the city. He fumbled his swollen hands over it, trying to identify bolts or bars or locks, but the shapes made no sense. Saved! I can't come!

Compulsion: He must go and find a window. Or there might be a back door, leading to a yard or alley.

With two sharp metallic clicks, the bolts slid of their own accord — they were both set vertically, one into the floor and the other into the lintel, which was why he had not recognized them. Hearing his own low moan of despair, he pulled the door open.

Cold dawn air washed in on his bare skin, bringing the salty scent of the Clyde. His feet wanted to move. He resisted, peering out at a murky pale fog. He could not go wandering around the burgh in daylight! There would be people around by now, or very soon. The fog would lift when the sun rose — the far side of the street was already a vague solidity with hints of doors and windows. The sky was paler, a narrow strip, high overhead. He had never been in a town before; already he felt shut in.