Siege of Macindaw (16 page)

"He's a bit ripe close to, isn't he?" he said.

Will shrugged. "I was a little too busy to notice."

In addition to the unconscious general, three of the Scotti patrol had survived the vicious fight among the trees. Two were unwounded, although one had a large bruise on his jaw where Horace had hit him. The third was semiconscious from loss of blood, with a massive ax wound to his arm.

Gundar, having recovered from his brief flare of berserker rage, ordered the two unwounded Scotti to make a stretcher for their companion and to carry him back to Malcolm's cottage. As they were doing so, he beckoned Will to one side.

"One of them got away," he said. "I can send a few of my men after him if you want."

Will hesitated. The Skandians were excellent fighters, but he doubted their ability to track one running man in the dark. He would have preferred it if none of MacHaddish's party had escaped, but he knew that was asking too much. In the confusion of the battle, it would have been easy for one man to slip into the trees. It was a pity the man had gotten away, but it was no huge problem. He gestured toward MacHaddish, whom Horace had now lowered to the ground with a small sigh of relief.

"We've got the one we came for," he said. "Let it go. He can't do us any harm." He frowned thoughtfully, hoping he was right.

When the stretcher was ready, Horace heaved the Scotti general onto his shoulder again. Nils Ropehander offered to relieve him, but Horace shook his head.

"Maybe later," Horace replied. "He's all right for the moment."

But it was a long way back to the clearing in Grimsdell, and Horace and the Skandians ended up passing the general from one to another, each taking turns carrying him. Eventually, MacHaddish regained consciousness and was able to walk. But his hands were tied and a rope around his neck was secured to Horace's belt. Horace shrugged several times, turning his neck from side to side to relieve the cramped shoulder muscles.

"What are we going to do with this lot?" he asked Will softly, indicating the prisoners. Will didn't answer immediately.

"I suppose we'll have to build some kind of stockade," he said uncertainly. "We'll certainly have to keep guard over them."

Horace grunted."The boys will love that," he said, indicating the Skandians marching ahead of them, joking and laughing quietly among themselves. "They won't want to spend their time guarding prisoners. They like their food and drink too much."

Will shrugged."That's too bad," he said. "Maybe we can rig some kind of shackles for them – leg irons or something like that. Then we'd only need one man at a time to keep an eye on them."

" That shouldn't be too much of a hardship," Horace agreed.

It was late night before they reached the clearing. The moon had risen and set, unseen by them as they moved beneath the thick blanket of trees. The glowing remains of the Skandians' cooking fire cast a flickering light over the clearing as they emerged from the trees. There were lights in the windows of Malcolm's cottage as well. The front door opened as they walked into the clearing, spilling an elongated rectangle of light across the dark ground. Malcolm stepped out to greet them.

"I heard you were on your way," he said. Will and Horace exchanged tired grins.

"We should have known nothing would get past your network of watchers," Will said.

Malcolm pulled a wry face."Force of habit," he said. As he spoke, he had moved beside the litter and was examini ng the wounded Scotti. "You'd better get him into my house where I can take a look at him," he said.

Gundar regarded the wounded man with disinterest.

"Why bother? He's an enemy," he said. Malcolm's eyes rose to meet his. There was a hard light in them.

" That makes no difference to me. He's injured," he said.

Gundar met his gaze for a few seconds, then shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said. "But if you ask me, it's a waste of time."

As they moved farther into the light spilling from the house, Malcolm noticed the rough bandages that several of the Skandians wore and understood the reason for Gundar's seeming callousness. The Skandian captain felt a strong sense of responsibility for his men.

"I'll look at your men too," he said, with a note of apology in his voice.

Gundar nodded his acceptance. "I'd appreciate that."

During this exchange, MacHaddish had been peering around, taking in the scene. His eyes were bright and intelligent and his face was fixed in a heavy frown under the blue paint. Malcolm studied him with interest.

"I take it this is MacHaddish?" he said. The general looked sharply at him as he recognized his name.

Will nodded. "That's him," he said. "And a right dance he led us, I can tell you."

For a second, he remembered the moment in the clearing when MacHaddish's knife was bearing down on him, closer and closer to his throat. He shuddered at the memory.

"Hmmm," said Malcolm, taking in the keen, calculating light in the general's eyes. "I'd trust him about as far as I can throw him." He inspected the rough bandage Horace had bound around the Scotti's wounded hand. "That'll do for now," he said. "I'll take a closer look later." He turned away and called across the clearing. " Trobar! Bring the chains!"

The massive figure appeared at the opposite side of the clearing and lumbered toward them. One of the Scotti prisoners took a step backward, muttering something in surprise at the sight of the huge figure. Trobar was carrying several lengths of iron chain. As he came closer, Will saw that the chains had thick, hard leather collars attached.

"I thought we might need something to keep our hostages out of mischief," Malcolm explained, "so I set Trobar to making these up earlier this afternoon."

Will and Horace exchanged a quick glance. "I'm glad someone thought about it," Will said.

Malcolm smiled. "You catch them. I'll keep them," he said. "Shackle them, please, Trobar," he added.

The Scotti warriors recoiled from the giant figure at first, then as one of the Skandians growled a warning, they submitted to having the heavy leather collars attached around their necks. Assisted by two of the Skandians, Trobar then led the prisoners across to a huge fallen log under the edge of the trees. He hammered large iron staples through the end links of each chain to fasten them to the log.

"The snow's stopped, so they can sleep in the open," Malcolm said. "They're used to it." He glanced at MacHaddish. "I think it might be better if we keep the general separate from the others."

Horace nodded. "Good thinking. He can have his own log. It's a privilege of rank," he added, with a small grin.

When MacHaddish had been secured in a similar fashion, several other members of Malcolm's secret community emerged from the trees, as was their custom, bringing food and drink for the tired ambush party. Malcolm, sensing Gundar's priorities, tended to the two injured Skandians, cleaning their wounds thoroughly, dressing them with a healing salve and bandaging them neatly and efficiently. Then he addressed the wounded and still unconscious Scotti, cleaning the ax wound in his arm and gently sewing the edges together with clean thread. Horace winced at the sight of the needle passing in and out of the man's flesh.

When Malcolm had finished, Trobar carried the Scotti to a bunk bed under the shelter of the veranda. He laid him in it and covered him with blankets. Then, unconscious or not, he fastened another collar around the man's throat and attached it by a short length of chain to the bed.

"If he goes anywhere, he'll have to take his bed with him," Malcolm observed, a glint in his eye. "I doubt he's up to the effort."

The other Scotti soldiers, having been fed by Malcolm's people, had already wrapped themselves in their massive tartans and leaned back against the log they were fastened to. By now, they were philosophical about their fate as captives and reasonably reassured that they weren't going to be killed or tortured. As a result, they reacted like soldiers everywhere: They took the chance to catch up on some sleep. Their snores were audible across the clearing.

By contrast, MacHaddish sat straight-backed by a second log, his eyes darting around the clearing.

"He'll need watching," Horace said, chewing on a chunk of tender grilled lamb wrapped in a soft piece of flat bread. Close by, Trobar grunted something unintelligible and moved out to sit on the ground a few meters from MacHaddish, his eyes fixed on him. Silently, a black and white shape detached itself from the shadows and slipped across the clearing to his side. Will smiled at the sight of her.

"The dog can take care of that," he said. "But perhaps we'd better set a watch through the night. At least, out in the open the way they are, they're easy to keep an eye on."

Malcolm joined them, working his shoulders up and down, easing the arm and back muscles that were cramped and stiff from bending over, tending to the wounded men.

"Trobar can watch him for a couple of hours," he said. "You two should rest. I'll organize a guard roster."

Will smiled gratefully. "I won't argue," he said. "It has been a long day." He turned away, heading toward his and Horace's tents. Then a thought struck him, and he stopped and looked back at the healer.

"When do you want to question him?" he said, jerking a thumb at the stiff-backed figure chained to the log. Malcolm answered without hesitation.

"Tomorrow night," he said. "The little surprise I've planned to play on his nerves will be much more effective in the dark."

Will sat cross-legged in the late-morning sun outside his tent, poring over the message Alyss had sent the night before.

Mortinn, a former inn-boy who had come to Malcolm after being hideously disfigured by a spilled cauldron of boiling water, had kept watch at the forest's edge during the night, dutifully noting down the light patterns as Alyss sent them from her window. He'd made a few mistakes, but the gist of the message was clear enough.

The temptation for Horace, sitting outside his own tent with nothing to occupy him, was to watch the process. But, knowing Will's concern over the secrecy of the code, he wandered off to check on the chains holding MacHaddish and his two warriors. Satisfied that they were still secure, he stopped to scratch the dog's head as he passed. The heavy tail thumped several times on the ground. The dog had remained on vigil all night while the human guards had changed every few hours. Now, Horace saw, Trobar had resumed the guard position.

"Good dog, Blackie," Horace said. The words were greeted by another tail thump from the dog and an angry glare from Trobar. The giant rarely spoke, Horace knew. His palate was deformed, and this made speaking an effort for him. In addition, his words were so slurred they were difficult to understand, and the inevitable questions that resulted tended to embarrass the big man. This time, however, he was sufficiently annoyed to make the effort. "No' Bla'ie," he said.

Horace hesitated, then thought he knew what had been said. He had noticed that Trobar had trouble with hard consonant sounds like
t
and
k.

"Not Blackie?" he ventured, and the angry face nodded vehemently. Horace shrugged apologetically, a little put out. Everybody seemed to deride his choice of name for the dog, he thought. "Then what is his name?" he asked.

Trobar paused, then, trying his hardest to enunciate clearly, he said, "Sha'th'ow." There was just the faintest hint of a
d
sound in the
th.

Horace considered for a moment, then asked, "Shadow?"

The big moon face lit up in a smile and Trobar nodded enthusiastically. "Sha'th'ow," he repeated, pleased that he had communicated something. The dog's tail thumped again as he said the word. Horace studied the dog, thinking how she slipped along, belly close to the ground, moving silently as a wraith.

" That's a good name," he said, genuinely impressed by the giant's creativity. Trobar nodded assent once more.

"Be'er tha' Bla'ie," he said disdainfully.

Horace raised his eyebrows at the taunt.