Demon Sword

Hamish smiled wanly. 'When I was looking for coins with Fergan's head on them, before the prizefight… remember? You gave me your sporran to care for and told me to look through it.'

'So you guessed that was where the power came from? Why in the name of demons didn't you say so?'

The smile became a triumphant grin. 'I assumed you knew and didn't want to talk about it, of course! I am discreet, remember? That's what you told the king. And when you went tearing off in the night without it, I knew there was dirty work afoot.'

'I can never tell you how grateful I am. I mean that!'

Hamish perked up to listen to new noises on deck, then turned and rose on his knees to look out the window again. He paused. 'By the way, why did you tell yon king laddie that I killed the Krygon creature?'

'It was you who picked up the dagger and…'

Hamish was shaking his head.

But… 'Then who did?'

'The hob! You shouted at me to get the dagger, but I couldn't find it — it was in the fire — the table and all that stuff… I was looking for something else, a table knife or a fork… and your foot was almost into the stove… Then I passed out from the smoke. But you managed to open the casket… No?'

'No.'

'Oh…' The boy's voice cracked. 'The dagger jumped out of the fire and shot right into the creature's back — all by itself. I saw it, Toby!'

'I don't understand! The hob was locked up in that hexed box of hers. I didn't get it open until after.'

They stared at each other. It made no sense.

'Unless… demons and hellfire!'

He had it — whereas Hamish looked more like a startled rabbit than an owl.

Toby groaned as the implications sank in. 'Didn't Lady Valda say that sometimes it's easy to make a switch? And when she tried to plant another soul in me, if the hob didn't like that…'

'Toby! No!'

'Yes! We've had it all backwards! Valda, too! That's why she couldn't find Nevil's soul in me — it was locked away in her casket.'

'And that's why the hob still has free will!' Hamish shouted. 'It's incarnate, not bottled… Oh, demons, Toby!'

Father Lachlan had been horrified at the idea of him carrying a hob around on a chain. What would he say to carrying a hob around in his heart?

Now the presence of the hob suggested very sinister possibilities. Toby tried to laugh, without noticeable success. 'Rory told me that I was a human hob! That's it! I'm possessed after all — possessed by the hob.'

Hamish nodded morosely. 'So you can't just drop it in the sea.'

'I'm stuck with it!' Spirits! He was possessed by a hob! That might be better than being possessed by a demon, but not necessarily. The hob had no sense of right or wrong. It was childish, wayward, capricious. This hob might be even worse than most, because this hob, unlike all others, had decided on its own initiative to venture forth and see the world. He knew how it reacted to drums and thunderstorms — suppose someone started firing guns near him? It was totally ruthless, as Crazy Colin had discovered. It had made him lust after that absurd broadsword, dreaming of slaughter and mayhem. And it had been present at the prizefight, after all! It had probably enjoyed that roughhouse tremendously, perhaps even keeping him fighting and suffering long after he should have collapsed under Randal's battering, and today's battle with the demons, too — it had intervened only at the last moment. Very funny!

Father Lachlan had warned that it might drive him insane, or go insane itself. And Hamish's appalled expression confirmed that he could see all the terrible possibilities. Possessed by a hob!

Toby forced a laugh. 'Well, what of it? I can't throw it overboard, but I can always get it exorcised at a sanctuary. Do you hear that, hob? You behave yourself from now on! And you cheer up, my trusty friend. We're on our way to see the world, aren't we? That's what we both wanted, isn't it?'

Hamish brightened and nodded.

The door opened. Toby hastily thrust the amethyst back under his plaid.

'Time to get to work!' Captain MacLeod announced cheerily. 'We'll have no lazy layabouts on board this ship!'

'Aye, aye, sir!' Hamish piped brightly.

'Aye. First you both must sign the log. Means you agree to be bound by ship's law.' The sailor chuckled. 'And that means whatever I say it does!'

He pulled a large book down from the shelf and spread it on the desk. He uncapped the inkwell, wrote a line with a squeaky quill.

Toby did not enjoy having people watch him write.

Hamish must have noticed his expression. 'My friend's hands are still swollen, sir. Can I sign for both of us?'

The captain shrugged. 'Aye, as long as he makes a mark. Don't use the name that's on that Sassenach poster, 'cos other eyes may pry in there. Use whatever names you want to be known by. Your mothers will not be writing to you here.' He stepped back and began unlacing his cloak. 'That's a demon of a fire in the town!'

Toby winced. 'Terrible.'

The sailor eyed him thoughtfully. 'You're a very fortunate young man, you are — escaping from demons and all. Glad to have luck like yours on board.'

'He just blunders around,' Hamish said from the desk — apparently he could talk even while writing. 'I get him out of trouble when he needs help. Here, er…' He passed the quill to Toby and wriggled quickly out of the way.

Toby rose and leaned over the log book, squinting at the crabbed scrawl.

Hamish Campbell of Tyndrum, it said.

And underneath that — he spelled out the letters:

Longdirk of the Hills, his mark.

He turned his head to regard his self-appointed secretary, who was poised at the door — ready to flee if necessary, but gazing at him with a wild mixture of mischief and anxiety and boyish glee.

Toby grinned back. He had found the new name he sought, obviously. It would do.

So Longdirk of the Hills proceeded to make his mark.