Demon Sword Page 7

  Toby wished he could rearrange the pleats and folds of his plaid.

  "Yes, I've seen him around," the laird said. "Big laddie, isn't he? What did you say his name was?"

  "My lord!" bellowed Sergeant Drake, somewhere close, but in the background. "The prisoner Toby Strangerson of Fillan, Your Lordship's vassal, accused of wilful murder in the death of His Majesty's servant, Godwin Forrester, enlisted man in the Royal Fusiliers."

  "There were witnesses?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  Campbell of Fillan sighed. "What's your story, prisoner?"

  Nothing Toby could say would make the slightest difference. They were going to try him and hang him, without even waiting for a justiciar to arrive. If he must die, he would rather die proudly, and anything he did say would sound like whining. The only reason to speak at all would be to find out why that sinister woman was watching him so intently. He would hate to die without having at least some sort of clue.

  "My lord, I found a man attempting to rape a child. I stopped him. He drew his sword and attacked me. I defended myself. I did not intend to kill him." He had quite liked Godwin, but he could not say so now.

  The laird pulled a face. "Take him away and secure him, then." He peered along the table. "Bailie, see you prepare a breeve—"

  Captain Tailor barked, "No!" The soldier's bony features were flushed with anger, or possibly drink. "One of my men has died. This is a military matter!"

  The bluff had been called.

  "Rape is not a military matter," the laird protested feebly.

  "My lord... does the prisoner have evidence that rape was intended? Does he have evidence that the woman was harmed?"

  "Her dress was torn!" Toby protested.

  "That could have happened when you attacked!" Tailor snapped.

  Useless to argue. "The only reason I am here at all," Toby shouted, "is that my mother was abducted and unjustly imprisoned and subjected—"

  The metal collar was yanked against his throat. He stumbled backward and was pushed upright, gagging and retching.

  He expected to hear sentence being passed then, but still the laird hesitated. He must fear the spark and the powder keg. Did he not realize that the prisoner was a bastard, an English mongrel, not even a Campbell? Did he really think the glen cared a spit what happened to that one?

  "Steward?" he said. "You know this man?"

  Old Bryce had been gazing down fixedly at the table in front of him. He looked up slowly.

  "My lord, big as he is, he is still only a boy. He has grown visibly in the few months he has been working here. I doubt much that he knows his own strength. He has never caused trouble before..." His voice quavered away into silence.

  Campbell of Fillan tapped fingertips on the table again. Then he seemed to conclude that he had no choice. "Captain, you—"

  "My lord?" said another voice.

  His head flicked around. "My lady?"

  He seemed almost as frightened of Lady Valda as Toby had been when he first met her on the road. If she was King Nevil's mistress—or even if she had been once—then that was only to be expected.

  She smiled, as if at some secret joke. "A woman feels a natural sympathy for a man who seeks to prevent a rape, my lord."

  "Quite understandable, my lady!"

  "And am I to understand that the prisoner attacked an armed warrior with his bare hands?"

  She turned to Captain Tailor, who grimaced.

  "Your Ladyship, he is bareknuckle champion of the glen! His fists are weapons."

  Lady Valda somehow contrived to raise her exquisite eyebrows without wrinkling her forehead. "Champion, and so young? Would he have a future in the ring, if properly handled?"

  "Steward? Have you seen him fight?"

  The old man chewed his gums for a moment. "I have heard enough. He is almost a legend already. He has the size, as you can see. He has the strength of a bear and the courage of a cornered badger."

  Everyone looked expectantly at the lady, who smiled demurely.

  "I see no reason why a member of the gentler sex should not sponsor a prizefighter! We can run racehorses—why not pugilists? Suppose I take the boy into my service, giving my personal guarantee that he will accompany me to England? Of course I shall see to it that he remains law-abiding in future, confining his violent impulses to the Manly Art." Her dark gaze settled on Toby with a gleam of triumph.

  Captain Tailor looked stunned at this unexpected development. The laird swelled and shed ten years. Obviously it would solve his problem. The glen would have no excuse to rise in revolt. The dead man had been in flagrant violation of orders, and his companions must see the implications.

  "That is exceedingly generous of Your Ladyship! The steward will reaffirm his testimony regarding the man's good character?"

  The steward glanced briefly at Tony, muttered something inaudible, and scowled down at the table before him.

  "Strangerson," the laird said, "you have heard Lady Valda's beneficent offer. I must tell you that your life is presently forfeit, but her suggestion will not merely save it, but open splendid opportunities for you to advance yourself. Will you enter into her service, giving this court your solemn word that—"

  "No!" Toby said. Valda had seized on prizefighting as an excuse for something else. Whatever her real purpose, he would rather hang than be that woman's meat.

  His reply surprised the onlookers as much as it did him. The guards did not even jerk his tether. The ensuing silence was deadly. The only person who did not seem stunned by his insane denial was Lady Valda herself. She pursed her red lips as if to hide a smile. Toby did not know what she wanted of him, but she made his flesh crawl. Evil had come to the glen, and he wanted no part of it.

  "Oh, dear," she said. "What a pity! Of course, as you explained to me this evening, Lord Ross, the men of Fillan are celebrated for their courage. Will you give him the rest of the night to think it over? Perhaps he will change his mind."

  "Perhaps I will have him flogged, my lady!"

  She considered the proposal for a moment, watching Toby carefully. "A tempting thought, but I think not. Just lock him up until after breakfast. We'll see how he feels then, shall we?"

  The laird shrugged, clearly as puzzled as everyone else. "Take him away! Lock him up. This court is adjourned."

  "Tell them not to damage him!" she said sharply. "I have no use for a cripple."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Six soldiers took Toby to the dungeon; they left him in no doubt that he was much in debt to Lady Valda. Without her final remark and the laird's resulting orders, they would have made him pay dearly for what he had done to Godwin Forrester. They did debate whether they should hang him up by his feet or his elbows, and outlined several other entertaining possibilities, also. They were obviously apprehensive of his strength, testing the shackles carefully, but in the end they merely attached his ankle chains to one wall and his neck chain to the wall opposite, leaving him sitting in the middle of the rock-hewn floor. Then they went away. The gate creaked and clanged. A lock clicked faraway at the top of the stairs.

  He was alone in the dark and the silence and the bone-freezing cold. It could have been much worse. By no human contortion could he ever free himself, but he could sit up or he could lie down. As his hands were still fastened behind him and the chain from his collar dangled down his back, that was not the most comfortable of situations. There was not enough slack on his leg tethers for him to roll over, facedown, which was how he preferred to sleep, and he could not wrap himself up in his plaid. But he was still alive and uninjured.

  As he shivered himself to sleep, he wondered briefly why the prospect of swearing loyalty to that woman should be so unthinkable. He concluded only that it was, and that strangling in a noose would be preferable. Whose man... Never hers! Perhaps in the morning he would change his mind.

  Either a rattling of chain wakened him, or he became aware of the light. He could not have slept long, but his wits were muddled. He did not u
nderstand where he was, or why he was on his back with his arms twisted under him. He blinked in bewilderment at the robed, cowled figure holding the candle. Memory began to return. He looked the other way and saw two more of them...

  Argh! He tried to sit up and almost choked himself. The chain from his collar had been drawn tight; he was staked out, helpless.

  "Who are you?" he mumbled with parched mouth. "What are you doing?"

  The man did not respond. Although he was standing motionless, clasping a black candle before him, only a steady glitter of eyes showed within his cowl. Toby's hair rose on his scalp. "Who are you?" he screamed.

  "They will not speak," Lady Valda said.

  He twisted his head until he located her. She was standing at a small table near the stair, busily unpacking a metal casket. Her four cowled associates stood in a square around Toby. Each held a black candle, and the steadiness of the flames suggested that the men were not breathing.

  "Who are you?"

  "My name is of no importance to you," she said calmly, intent on what she was doing. "To be truthful, nothing is of importance to you anymore." She closed the lid and laid the box on the floor, then began rearranging the miscellaneous objects she had removed from it. He saw a golden bowl, a scroll, and a dagger, but there were other things, too.

  He was shivering shamefully. There was a tight knot in his belly.

  To scream would be useless. The guardroom would be deserted. The house was far away, its residents doubtless asleep. The sentries on the walls would neither hear nor come to investigate if they did.

  He stared again at the four men. Four flames, eight eyes unblinking. Masks! They all had thick black beards and wore black masks above them. So they were mortal men and that was trickery. But he was not cynic enough to believe that it would all be trickery. Hamish had been wrong about these men being hexers, or not right enough. Lady Valda was the hexer. Toby's recognition of evil had been a true instinct.

  "What do you want of me?" His voice emerged as a hoarse whisper.

  "Your body, of course. I came hunting a stalwart young man and see what I caught!"

  She came across to him, her shoes scraping softly on the rock, the hem of her gown whispering around her ankles. He thought it was the same garment she had worn earlier, although it looked darker in the dim light—that shameless neckline was breathtakingly memorable. Her breasts seemed even larger viewed from below, above an astonishingly narrow waist. Unbound hair floated in a sable cloud around her, almost to her waist.

  She crouched down beside him and stroked his cheek. He twisted his head away and the rusty collar scraped his throat.

  "Relax!" she purred. "You're a big, brave boy, remember? You'd rather die than serve me, and you have the courage of a cornered badger."

  He could see the burning evil behind the mockery dancing in her eyes. He tried to speak in a normal voice. "What are you going to do?"

  "Conjure, of course. But you needn't worry. You will not be eaten by demons. You will not even see a demon, I promise you, not the teeniest, wispiest demon. You will feel no pain—or only a very tiny amount, nothing a strong young lad can't grit his teeth through. And when we are done, you will walk out of here a free man! Now, isn't that an exciting prospect?"

  "I don't believe you!" His heart raced in terror and yet he was conscious of her closeness, her musky perfume. He was a man and a desirable woman had a hand on his neck. He noted the long, deep crease between her milk-white breasts.

  Seeing his gaze wander, she chuckled. "Not that exciting prospect, boy! Admire, by all means, but those are not for you. To work! All I require of you is that you lie there and be silent. I repeat—you will not be hurt, even by this." She raised a dagger above his eyes. Its blade shone steely blue and was long enough to reach all the way through him. She unpinned his plaid to lay bare his chest, then stroked it playfully with soft fingers.

  "I need you conscious, but silent. Must I gag you, or can you be trusted?"

  He hesitated and the soft fingers curled. Nails dug into his flesh. "You will be silent! If you cause me trouble, I shall make you endure such agony as you have never imagined. Is that clear, Toby?"

  "Yes," he whispered.

  "You do believe me now?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Remember that you are destined to hang. I am saving your life. Cooperation will cost you nothing except minor indignity." Her scarlet lips curled in mockery. "And you have so very little dignity left!"

  With a chuckle of satisfaction, she rose and returned to her table. The four men showed no sign that they had heard a word.

  Demonic possession? As a kid, he had believed stories of demons taking over people's bodies. Later he'd decided that being possessed by a demon would make an excellent excuse for doing anything at all, so he'd stopped believing. Now he wasn't so sure. When the hexer said he would not see the demon, she implied that she was going to conjure it inside him. In the morning Toby Strangerson might inform the laird that he had changed his mind and would be a loyal servant to Lady Valda; the laird would let him depart as a free man—but how free? And would he be a man at all? What were these four voiceless, masked figures? Were they really human? Would he be another of those?

  Lady Valda returned, clutching a vellum scroll. "Hold your breath and lie still." She placed a shod foot on his chest and put her weight on it.

  He heaved with his shoulders and dislodged her. She stepped down hurriedly to regain her balance. She made a tutting sound of annoyance. "Don't be foolish, boy. This is your last chance! If you do not cooperate, I shall make you scream at the top of your lungs for a solid hour. A husky lad like you can endure my weight for a few minutes."

  She stepped up and stood full on his chest. She weighed less than he had expected. He could breathe. The manacles dug into his wrists and back, but the pain was bearable, if it did not last too long.

  She unrolled the scroll. She read out a proclamation in a guttural language he did not know. It went on for several minutes, the words rolling around the chamber, raising a deep echo he had not noticed before. When she finished, the silence returned. Could a silence grow denser?

  She stepped off him and walked back to her table. He drew a long breath. He had a horrible suspicion that his living body had just been dedicated as a sacrifice to... something.

  For a while after that, she did not touch him. She walked around him several times, sprinkling various powders from small vials, each time repeating a formula in that same harsh tongue. The flames on the four candles seemed to grow longer. The four human candlesticks never moved. If they blinked, Toby did not catch them at it. She placed a pinch of powder on each of his shoulders, on his heart, his forehead, his sporran. After her next visit to the table, she knelt down beside him, heedless of the damage the rough rock floor could do to her fine gown. She laid the little golden bowl on his chest as if he were a table, and he sensed that the preliminaries were over. How could a man be so cold and still sweat so much? Evil had come to the glen. Terrible things were about to happen.

  She had brought the dagger back, too. The quillons were silver, elaborately inlaid with dark red stone. The pommel was a startling yellow gem as big as the top joint of his thumb. She raised both arms as high as she could, clasping the dagger by its quillons, point down. If she dropped it from there, it would go straight into his heart. Her lips moved, but this time she made no sound. She seemed to be addressing the weapon itself, or offering it to some unseen presence near the roof. The jewel on the pommel glittered, reflecting the candlelight. Her victim listened helplessly to his own breath and the thud of his heart.

  He noticed... No, he refused to believe... Admit it! The chamber was growing brighter. The vault of the roof was in clear view and parts of the rock walls shone wetly. The candle flames had become almost invisible and the jewel no longer glittered. It was the source of the new light, glowing with an impossible internal brightness. Everything he had seen until now could be cynically dismissed as mere playacting, but tha
t baleful radiance blazing from the dagger could not be denied. It was uncanny. This was real gramarye. Soon the gem was too bright to look upon, illuminating the whole chamber to the farthest corner.

  The hexer completed her silent incantation and leaned over him. He wondered what horror was coming next. He saw mad exultation in her eyes, but she seemed unaware of him now. He was only part of the furnishings, an altar for her art. She slipped her left breast out of her dress. Holding it steady with one hand, she cut it with the dagger—an easy, offhand slash at the underside, almost contemptuous. She showed no sign of pain, indeed she watched the blood trickling into the golden bowl with a smile of childlike pleasure.

  He felt the warmth of it through the metal. He shuddered and closed his eyes. His heart pounded. His head pounded, too. He wondered if he was about to faint. That could not be just his heart he was hearing. Faint and far away, a drum had begun to tap.

  Was that part of her gramarye, or could it possibly be a hope of rescue? Had the laird guessed what sort of guest had infested his house? Or perhaps the shrewd old steward, who had seemed so glum? Dum... Dum... Someone was sounding a tattoo. Rousing the guard to rout the evil from Lochy Castle?

  Toby felt the bowl being removed from his chest and opened his eyes quickly. Valda had covered herself, but a spreading dark stain on her bodice showed that the wound still bled. She was holding the bowl in one hand, making passes over it with the dagger, mouthing silently. When she was done, she set the dagger aside by laying it on his belly, as the nearest convenient shelf. He tried not to move at all then.

  The drum drew closer, but it did not come from the stairway. It seemed to be inside his head. It could never be the fusiliers. That drummer was not of his world. Sweat trickled across his forehead and along his ribs.

  "Aha!" The hexer was gazing at him. Her eyes shone with insane excitement, her red lips were drawn back. "You feel it already?"

  She dipped two fingers in the blood and drew a mark on his chest. It felt cold as ice. Another dip, another mark... She was concentrating hard, tongue between her teeth, inscribing some arcane symbol on him. The cold of it burned his skin. A steady yellow light blazed from the dagger, but he could feel no heat, only the winter cold of the sigil. She worked outward—around his nipples, curving down his ribs, up to his collar bones, down almost to his navel.