Ken Hood - Demon Sword

"Yes, sir. You want to come and see?"

Bryce Campbell of Crief shook his head. He leaned back, displaying his few remaining teeth in a surprising parody of a smile. "If you say it's done, Strangerson, then I know it's done and well done. There's few I would trust like that, but I trust you. You've never failed me yet."

Toby squirmed and mumbled thanks for the compliment, wondering if the words meant more than they said.

The steward's bony fingers twitched like dying spiders amid the clutter on his desk. "Now, what else… Aye. Take a donkey. They need a sack of oats at Bridge of Orchy. Mind you have a wash in the burn on the way, too!"

Toby and Hamish exchanged astonished glances and made themselves scarce before the old man changed his mind.

At the granary door, Hamish asked doubtfully, "You think he meant both of us?"

"Yes, but stay and read your book if you want."

That won a guilty start. "No. I'll get the donkey."

"Phooey! Just one sack? We don't need a donkey for that."

"What? You can't carry a meal sack all the way to Bridge of Orchy!"

Toby snapped, "Watch me!" before he had seriously considered what he was letting himself in for. Then it was too late to back out, of course. He must be getting caught up in the hero role.

"Don't expect me to help!" Hamish said, wide-eyed.

"It's not much more than the soldiers hump around all day."

"Demons it isn't!"

"You can carry me back, then." Toby hauled down one of the sacks he had placed there before lunch and strode off across the courtyard with it slung over his shoulder. He set off up the road, his companion scurrying along at his side and muttering that it must be seven miles or more, and he was crazy.

"Beats shovelling zitty manure, though!" he added, cheering up. "Why do you suppose he gave us a nice jaunt like this to do?"

Toby had worked that out. He was being shown how much power the steward had to make his life pleasant or miserable. Vinegar and honey — cooperate or else. He didn't explain.

His companion's butterfly mind flitted to other topics. "Why do they need a post at Bridge of Orchy anyway?"

"You're the scholar. You tell me."

After a moment, the youngster said, "The castle looks south… Advance warning of enemies coming from the north?"

"That's my guess." It was something to ask the soldiers.

"That's possible isn't it? MacGregor's History of the West lists eight times armies have attacked Lochy and four times they came by way of Bridge of Orchy. When evil comes to the glen, it often comes by that road."

Evil comes to the glen! Toby shivered, recalling the hob's prophecy. Suppose he found rebels in control of the post? That wasn't very likely, though, because couriers brought Captain Tailor reports twice a day.

Hamish prattled on about history.

The cottages were few up here, and there was no one else in sight. A few dogs barked from a distance; shaggy, long-horned cattle watched the travelers suspiciously. A flock of ravens had found a feast beside a dry-stone wall and were quarreling noisily over it.

The road headed upward, stony and steep, and the hills closed in on either hand. Soon torrents of sweat were washing the dirt from Toby's pores. The sack of oats grew steadily heavier on his shoulder. He wasn't doing this just to impress the kid. He hoped he wasn't. He was doing it because it was good for him.

"Wish I had your muscles," Hamish gasped. His shorter legs were having trouble keeping up.

"This is how you get them. This is real work, man's work!" No one would call Toby Strangerson a fishing pole now.

"It's mule's work, you mean!"

"There are worse things to be than a mule. Mules are tough and strong and they know their own minds." They were also low on romance, of course, and perhaps that was another point of resemblance. Toby wondered if girls saw him as a mule.

"You be a mule if you want. I'm going to be an owl."

Toby laughed aloud. The kid beamed.

At the top of the saddle, Toby stopped and lowered the sack to a flat-topped boulder, gasping like a stag turning to face the hounds.

"Spirits!" Hamish said, flopping to the turf. "Thought you'd never take a break!"

Toby wiped his face with the shoulder of his plaid. He stood within a tunnel, flanked by walls of Beinn Bheag on one side and Beinn Odhar on the other, roofed by low cloud. He peered out at Strath Fillan as if from a window. There was hardly a tree to be seen anywhere. Grass and scrub coated the slopes, interspersed with patches of bare rock, or heather, and bright green broom here and there, and even brighter specks of bog. The little copse around Lightning Rock was too far off to see, even the rock itself hard to make out. The castle was hidden, Tyndrum's shaggy cottages invisible unless one knew exactly where to look.

"Home!" Hamish sighed.

"Love it, do you?"

The boy flinched. "I know it's not much of a place in itself, of course," he said hastily. "Pa says it's not rich. Other glens can raise more men for war and drive more cattle to the sales, he says. But it's our home, so we love it. The Campbells of Fillan are the bravest fighters in the Highlands and that means the whole world."

"Yes," Toby said, and pulled the sack onto his shoulders again. He strode off along the road. The glen was his birthplace, but he did not love it. He had no family here and nothing to inherit — no land or trade or herds, not even a sixteenth share of an ox. He had only one asset, a powerful body, and he must make the most of that. As others might seek to nurture flocks or perfect a talent, so he would work to build strength. What he would do with it remained to be seen.

Hamish came scrambling after him. "What's the matter?" He was staring up at his hero with a very worried expression.

"When does courage become sheer stupidity?"

About thirty paces later: "You're very cynical, Toby."

"Am I?"

"I remember my Pa telling you that."

"Just before he birched me, I expect. I think courage is good, but it can be overdone. If you're going to risk your life, then you ought to gamble it for something worthwhile. Just throwing it away to show you're brave doesn't make sense." He was probably ruining the boy's faith in everything he'd ever believed in.

"We have other virtues, too! We're honest and we work hard and we take care of our own."

Toby did not comment.

After another hundred paces or so, Hamish said, "But no one works harder than you do, and I suppose you haven't seen much love or care, have you?"

Toby felt thoroughly guilty now. "We mules never complain."

"You don't think Strath Fillan's worth much?"

"I think it's worth a lot."

Hamish brightened. "Really?"

"Really." Strategically it might be. The people weren't much.

As the trail descended the northern slope, it began skirting puddles of brown, peaty water. In another fifteen minutes, it was accompanied by a chattering burn, splashing over rocks and plunging into pools. Toby headed for one he knew.

Leaving the sack on a rock, he dropped his plaid and plunged in, with Hamish shadowing every move. The cold mountain water was agony and yet thrilling. They clowned a little and splashed. Hamish chattered all the while like a flock of starlings.

"How long have you had hairs on your chest, Toby?"

"This one or those two?"

His questions became more impertinent and finally he called Toby "Longdirk." That was a common enough nickname for growing lads, one that had been thrown at Toby often in the past, and one that Hamish himself must be starting to hear now. Addressed to a grown man, though, it could have more personal implications, especially in certain circumstances. As these were such circumstances and that was the way Hamish meant it, Toby roared and went for him. Hamish scrambled ashore and scampered off over the moor, squealing with glee; Toby caught him, carried him back to the pool by his ankles and dunked him head downward until he could stop laughing and choking long enough to beg for mercy.