By Sylvian Hamilton (25 page)

For
years they had waylaid, slain and devoured travellers. They fell on
solitary walkers, or pairs if they looked unlikely to put up much of
a fight, with the ferocity of a wolf pack, and even ambushed and
dragged down riders. Although all folk carried weapons of some
sort--dagger, sword, axe, club--none of the family was ever badly
hurt. So swift, so shocking were their attacks that victims often
stood staring in disbelief, too amazed even to run until too late.
But if they ran, oh when they ran, that was sport indeed! The reeking
baying pack was inescapable, attacking as they did on their own
ground, the steep rough paths and desolate boggy places they knew so
well.

They
would hurl rocks and trip-sticks to bring their quarry down, batter
the skulls in with stones, drag the bodies a little way off into the
dense gorse and bracken and often tear the warm quivering flesh from
the bones there and then.

Their
lair had never been found. The brave few who sought it were never
seen again. In that wild empty land the family had flourished for
twenty years, since Sawney and his woman Kate, running from justice
in Carlisle with the hue and cry after them, had stumbled on their
refuge and denned there ever since. She bore a child each year, of
which some lived and grew; brothers and sisters incestuously mated,
and so they multiplied.

De
Brasy had come upon an injured female in a boar trap a few years ago,
and for amusement kept it alive, fed it and perversely made some sort
of pet of the thing. He had tamed it to muzzle and collar and kept it
chained and obedient for fear of the whip. Eventually, he could
almost trust it--never quite--but in its halting barely recognisable
speech it told him about the family and led him to the lair. With
gifts of food, especially sugar for which they had a desperate greed,
he persuaded them to his will. He found them useful. More than one of
his enemies--he had many ended up in the family's larder, and several
of his creditors, of whom there were even more, went the same way.
They had watched several days with feral patience, and these were
the men; these were the horses they must look for, the white-foot bay
and the grey.

The
path ran beside the river for miles, and then climbed above a rocky
gorge, narrowing at a bend with a nasty drop on the right and a wall
of rock on the left. Out of a cleft above the riders sprang three of
the males, hanging on Zingiber's neck, stabbing and hacking to bring
the stallion down. Straccan tore the axe from his saddle bow and
struck at the filthy hands that grabbed him. A severed hand fell like
a loathsome great spider, the male screaming and waving his spouting
arm as he toppled into the gorge. The other two drew back as Zingiber
fell bleeding to his knees. Straccan leapt clear as the horse rolled
in agony, and with sword in his right hand and axe in his left, flung
himself after the two retreating males.

Behind
him on the path, Bane had time to draw his sword and spur forward,
leaping Zingiber's body and thrashing legs. He caught up with
Straccan where the path widened, curving away from the gorge between
thickets of rowan in dense gorse and bracken broken by rocky
outcrops. From this shelter, in a pincer movement, flinging stones
with deadly accuracy, came a dozen more of Sawney's tribe.

Straccan
was forced back against the rock, facing half a dozen of the
creatures. His axe and sword kept them off but several stones struck
him, one opening a gash above his left eye from which the blood
blinded him while a blow over the ear made him dizzy and sick.

Bane
kept his horse turning, turning, its hooves jabbing at the attackers,
while he slashed left and right with his sword, but a fresh shower of
missiles brought him toppling from the saddle, and with howls of
triumph the creatures rushed at him. The grey neighed and galloped
back the way they had come, leaping Zingiber's lifeless body, hooves
clattering on the rocky path, round the curve, out of sight.

Three
of Straccan's attackers turned to join the pack swarming over Bane,
and the other three hesitated, glancing at their kindred. Straccan
dropped his axe, tugged the horn from his belt and blew long and
hard.

Almost
at once came the ringing of hooves on rock again, and here was Sir
Miles coming full tilt up the path, straight at the pack worrying
Bane. Mace whirling, he scattered them, and Larktwist, coming up
behind leading the mule and Bane's runaway horse, jumped down and
dragged Bane out of the road on to the grass at the side.

Straccan
brought down two with his sword, sickened when he saw that one was
female. One more fell to Miles's mace, and the rest dashed into the
cover of the rowans and tall bracken, and were gone as if they'd
never been, leaving their stench, and their dead. 'This one's alive,'
said Larktwist, rolling a body over with his foot. Miles dismounted,
took straps from his saddlebag and bound the creature's hands and
feet.

From
some distance ahead and still out of sight, came the sound of another
horn, tan-tan-ta-ra-tan, and soon a rider came in sight, wearing an
old-fashioned plate hauberk and steel cap, on a big dusty black
gelding.

'Who's
that?' Straccan gasped, bending to retrieve his axe and almost
falling as sick dizziness surged over him.

'Haven't
the faintest,' Miles panted.

Larktwist
rummaged in the packs for the first-aid kit and bound a rough
dressing round Straccan's head. Bane, however, was unconscious and
breathing stertorously, almost snoring.

'I
don't like the look of this,' Larktwist said. 'He's in a bad way.'

As
the newcomer--an old man, and a knight by his bearing and gear--drew
nearer, Straccan knelt by Bane, whose eyes were closed and whose face
looked shrunken and collapsed. 'Hawkan,' he said. 'Hawkan, can you
hear me?'

'He
can't,' said Larktwist.

The
rider slowed to a trot as he came close, then to a walk, and halted.

'Is
he badly hurt?' the old man asked.

'Yes,'
Straccan said. 'We were set upon by--I don't know what they
were--savages! There were women too. I killed one.'

Struggling
against vertigo, he bent over Bane touching his face gently. 'Hawkan,
they've gone.'

The
old man dismounted. 'I am Blaise d'Etranger,' he said.

'They
won't come back now; we are too many, and armed. Let us carry your
companion. A little way ahead there is a place where we can tend him,
and you can rest.'

Sir
Miles cut two rowan saplings and crossed them at one end, using a
blanket to make a travois. They wrapped Bane like a baby, fastened
him into the travois so he could not be dislodged, and fixed the
contrivance to his horse, which Straccan now must ride. The captive
they hauled upright and gagged, loosing its feet so it could walk but
fastening its strapped hands to Miles's saddle, so it must trot
alongside the horse.

As
they rode slowly, led by the newcomer, Straccan pushed forward to
ride beside the old man. He was tall and very thin, with fierce
hawkish features in which the marks of old suffering were plain. From
under his steel cap long white locks fell on to his shoulders. His
white beard was neatly braided and great moustaches hid his mouth. A
heavy two-handed sword hung under his mantle, and strapped to his
saddle was an odd sort of staff, forked and iron-clad at one end,
pointed and iron-tipped at the other. A nasty weapon, the Scottish
gaveloc, and one that Straccan had never seen.

'You
are Sir Richard Straccan,' the old man said.

'You
know me, Sir? Yet I don't remember you, and I am sure I would.'

'Sir
William Hoby sent me a letter. He said you were seeking Rainard de
Soulis, the Lord of Crawgard.'

'He
has stolen my daughter,' said Straccan. 'I've been to Crawgard. All I
found were a disabled tourney champion, a madwoman and some foul old
Arab. Soulis isn't there. We are going to his demesne, Soulistoun, to
seek him.'

'He's
at Dunfermline with the king,' said Sir Blaise. 'Or was when I left
Coldinghame. But he'll leave there soon, for Skelrig.'

'Skelrig?'

'Aye.
There's a man there, a knight in his service, who is sick, so I
heard.'

'Robert
de Beauris?'

'Yes.
You know him?'

'I've
had some dealings with him. But until now, I didn't know he was
Soulis's man. Sir Blaise, it was good of my friend William to write
to you, and gracious of you to come seeking me; but why?'

'William
is an old friend of mine, too. He told me your errand. He thought I
might be of help.'

They
had come about a mile from the ambush; the road went downhill again
and levelled, meeting the river and running alongside. There was an
ancient beehive stone hut, an abandoned hermitage, on a small spit of
rock that stuck out into the river. A heron, disturbed by their
coming, laboured heavily away dropping its fish. An otter splashed in
after it, disappearing in a swirl of silver bubbles to emerge at the
opposite bank, where it vanished into the reeds with its booty.

They
carried Bane into the hut, which was cold but blessedly dry, and
while Miles cut bracken to make a bed, Larktwist got a fire going and
heated water to bathe the blood off Bane and Straccan. Blaise
wordlessly produced needle and sinew and competently stitched the
flap of skin that had been torn loose over Straccan's eye. It was
quite numb, and Straccan felt nothing. 'Thank you,' he said. He
lifted Bane's unresponsive hand. It was cold.

'Will
he die?' Miles asked.

'It's
in God's hands,' said Blaise.

'Can
we do nothing for him?'

'Only
pray, and keep him warm.'

Later,
as they sat round the fire eating supper, the old knight produced Sir
William Hoby's letter and showed it to Straccan.

'Why
is he so concerned?' Straccan asked. 'He has sent me his nephew,
Miles, God bless him, and now you.'

'When
Soulis's name came up, he was concerned; and so am I.'

'You
know him?'

'I've
met him, in Outremer. He lived there some years, first as crusader,
later as a pilgrim. Tell me, Sir Richard, have you heard of a black
pilgrimage?'

'No.
What is it?'

'It
is for an evil end. Soulis made his pilgrimage far into the southern
waste. He was gone two years and reckoned dead. But no, out he came
after all, and with great treasure. It was whispered that he had
found the lost City of Pillars.'

Miles
said, 'Sir, what is the City of Pillars?'

The
old knight was silent so long that Miles thought his question had not
been heard, but he did not like to ask again. Then Sir Blaise said,
'The City of Pillars, fabled Irem, was lost in the waste for a
thousand years. But Soulis went in search of it, and found it. That's
where your old Arab came from.'

'You
know him, then?' Straccan said, surprised.

'I've
heard of him.' The man spoke softly, as if to himself.

'Abdul
Al-Hazred, of the Tribe of Ad. All those ancient tribes of desert
dwellers are long dead, like the Romans who once dwelt in these
parts. Irem was lost and buried in the sands for a thousand years.
Yet it seems Soulis found it, and came away not only with much gold,
but brought Al-Hazred out.'

Miles
looked puzzled. 'How had the old man lived in such a place?'

'God
knows! There is neither meat there, nor anything that grows. There
must be forgotten wells, but water alone cannot keep a man alive for
long. Perhaps the wandering desert folk supplied him, although most
of them would shun the place. They say it is magic, ensorcelled, and
only demons dwell there now.'

The
rhythm of Bane's breathing changed. It hitched, and caught, and after
that was barely perceptible. Straccan wiped the grey face tenderly.
Sir Blaise, watching him, said, 'If we could get him to Jedburgh ...'

'Is
there a chirurgeon there?'

'A
monk-physician, at the abbey. But it is a long way to carry your
servant.'

'My
friend,' said Straccan. Despite the fire and the warm evening, he was
shivering. He grieved for Bane, who was surely dying, and guiltily
suppressed the fear that the days it might take would be days lost in
his search for Gilla. Once, after a siege, he had seen a man stumble
away from his wife's violated corpse, and beat his own head against
the wall until he fell senseless and bleeding. Now, in his agony for
Gilla and despair for Bane, he understood why. He mourned too for
Zingiber; Zingiber who was only a beast and soulless, but his
companion for eleven years. He sat staring into the fire, and then,
blinded by it, into the gathering night outside the hut, where horses
and mule were tethered. Now that the numbness had worn off, the wound
above his eye felt as if it had been sewn with red-hot wire. Yet
despite his fears, his nausea and the pain, he eventually slept.