The Inscription (9 page)

“ ‘Tis a welcome sight, laddie, after the long ride from Urquhart. I shall secure our accommodations and a warm meal.”

Angus tossed the reins of his horse to a boy about Gavin’s age before entering the inn. Lachlan hesitated. The boy was dressed in little more than dirty rags. Cupping the boy’s chin, he tilted the lad’s face toward him.

“By what name are you called?”

“Thomas, sire.” His voice rang clear and strong.

A man burst from the tavern, stumbled and then passed out on the dusty road. His plaid was indistinguishable; his face scarred by the harsh life he had lived. The bright colors and laughter of the festival could not hide the poverty and despair that claimed many in the Highlands. Lachlan reached into the leather pouch strapped to his belt and pulled out a coin. He placed it in the boy’s hand.

“Take care of the horses. Now, off with you.”

Thomas led the horses to a stable behind the tavern. He looked to be a sturdy lad with a spirit that had not been crushed by hard times. If Lachlan discovered the boy was without family or man, he would take him back to Urquhart.

Lachlan entered the tavern, brushing the dust from the road off his plaid. Dim light filtered through the dirt-encrusted windows and rested in the pub where men crowded together in hushed conversation. A young woman, her clothes as faded and worn as the oak beams that crisscrossed the ceiling overhead, offered him a tankard of ale. He accepted the drink, tossed her a coin and looked around.

In a dark corner Angus was already playing a solitary game of chess. Lachlan walked over to him.

“Chess is a game best played with two.”

His friend kept his head bent over the ivory pieces. “This way I always win. Rooms to accommodate all those you have brought with you are secured. It took a heavy purse, but the deed is done.” He paused. “My informants tell me that Subedei passed this way no more men a few days ago.”

Lachlan drew out a rough bench and set his tankard down on the table. A memory of the funeral fire that consumed the bodies of his father, brothers, and sisters before they were admitted to their watery grave blurred his vision. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Where did Subedei take residence?”

“At the inn on Doomsdale road.”

“The street leading to the gallows on Castle Hill. ‘Tis a fit place for my enemy.”

Angus picked up the knight. “This game grows tiresome as does the wait for Subedei. There is much at stake. Why does he wait so long?”

“I suspect he uses the time to hire as many mercenaries as he can before he attempts to storm Urquhart by land. Subedei was ill-prepared when last he attempted to take the castle. He will not make the same mistake twice. Spread the word that I shall double any purse Subedei offers.“

“It will be done. Do you think we shall become like the Mongol and your father: killing in order to feel alive?”

Lachlan tensed. The thought had come to his mind many times as well.

A few men at the bar began to clap to an ageless tune as the serving woman danced around and around to the lively rhythm. One by one those in the tavern joined in, shouting, laughing and stomping their feet. The sound vibrated through the tavern. He took a drink. The ale had lost its flavor and the tavern noises faded as events from a not-so-distant past flooded his mind.

The image of a small village in China, in the year 1500, filled his vision. He could hear the sound of metal striking metal. The smell of burning incense permeated the air beyond the garden walls of Subedei’s residence. Here, laws did not apply.

In the courtyard two men were fighting. Subedei’s head was shaved clean, his chest was bare, and he wore the loose-fitting trousers of the Mongols. The opponent was dressed similarly, but was a smaller man in both size and strength. Lachlan, an invited guest, watched them follow a series of steps, thrusts and parries calculated to penetrate the other’s defense.

Although Subedei was quicker to deflect any advance, and swifter still to attack, there was no urgency to the interchange, no passion, no violence. The sound of their blades rang through the enclosure and surged through Lachlan like the blood through his veins. The muscles in his arms tightened. He focused on the two who battled before him. It would be over soon. His turn would be next.

Subedei glanced briefly in his direction, and Lachlan felt the fingers of death curl around his soul. A smile creased Subedei’s normally expressionless face, before he turned his attention back to the man he fought. Something was wrong. Lachlan sensed the change. What had begun as a friendly diversion to fill the hours of the day had turned ominous. In less time than it took to draw blade from scabbard a laugh tore from the Mongol’s throat. Subedei knocked his opponent’s weapon to the ground and impaled his victim with his sword. Pulling his blade free, he pushed the man to the ground and turned toward Lachlan.

Subedei’s smile was predatory as he wiped the dying man’s blood from his blade. “Death is an elixir. There is no power that is equal to it.”

The smell of blood filled Lachlan’s senses and his heart thundered in his chest. He could feel his strength build until a red haze clouded his vision. A single purpose lay before him. Kill.

A scream shattered the insanity that held Lachlan prisoner. He saw the man Subedei had wounded choke on his own blood, and reach out toward him. The effort drained the last of what was left of the man’s life. His eyes remained open as his hand dropped to the battle-stained ground. Lachlan backed away, trying to push the sound of the man’s screams from his mind.

Subedei had killed for no other reason than the pleasure of it and Lachlan was about to do the same. He had to get away from this madness before it consumed him. His father had only to hold a sword in his hand, and the need to kill would overwhelm all reason; killing, for its own sake, regardless of who crossed his path. Toward the end, the castle dungeons had been filled with those who died a slow and torturous death at the hands of his father. No one was safe, even his own wife and children feared him when he held a sword; and for good reason.

While Lachlan stood watching the death scene before him, the blade in his hand grew heavy. It seemed to possess its own strength. It took all his will to force the sword into its scabbard.

“I will not fight you. I have no cause to battle to the death.”

Subedei shrugged and bowed slightly toward him. “One day you may have.” He smiled. “You stood absorbed in the battle I fought. Savoring each moment as it sped by, until death filled the air. I saw the look in your eyes. You were mad with the fever that affects a few of our kind. Treat it not as a curse, Lachlan, but relish it, embrace it. Let it grow within you.”

Lachlan clenched his fists. “We are not the same, you and I.”

Subedei laughed as he sheathed his sword. “True. I know what I am. Join me and together we could bring the world to its knees.”

Raucous laughter and the clanking of tankards brought him back to the present. The sound of Angus’ voice interrupted his thoughts and pulled him from the dark memories that had begun to haunt both his days and his nights. But, as always, he could not shake the feeling that had come over him when he saw Subedei plunge his sword into the man’s chest. Lachlan had enjoyed watching the man die. No, it was more than that. He needed to see the man die. And his only regret was that it had not been his sword that had dealt the killing blow. That was the madness and the curse of his people. It had been the same for his father, who had killed one of his own sons to satisfy his unquenchable thirst. His stomach churned and the taste of bile filled his mouth.

“Lachlan.”

He raised his head and looked at Angus. There was a worried expression on his friend’s face. “Lachlan, has the dream returned?”

“Aye.”

Angus nodded slowly. “You are not your father.”

Lachlan was not so sure. For some time he had felt powerless to fight the blood lust that had consumed his father and Subedei. Words of the legend floated through his mind like a soothing balm:
Through the
mist-shrouded waters of an enchanted sea, the Guardian will be summoned. The seasons will alter their natural course, the barriers of time will be broken, and a woman, with hair of burnished gold, will be -pulled from the depths of Loch Ness
.

If it were true, and Amber were indeed the woman mentioned, he might be spared. But he knew not how she could reverse the effects of what he believed had already infected his blood.

He raised his tankard and took a drink of the cool ale. “What think you of the legend of the Lady of the Loch?”

Angus shrugged. “I believe the ancients created the story to offer false hope. Our path is predestined. Those who believe otherwise are fools. Why is it that you ask?”

His friend’s words rang clear with their logic.

“ ‘Tis only the appearance of Amber in Loch Ness and warm weather in October. I but wondered at the coincidence.”

“That is all it is, laddie.”

Lachlan felt a dark gloom settle over him. “Aye.” He motioned for his friend to follow him toward the door.

Angus put his hand on Lachlan’s shoulder. “Believe me when I say you are not your father. The insanity will pass you by.”

Lachlan took a deep breath. “I pray it will be as you say.”

Bright sunlight greeted him as he stepped into the narrow street. The notes of a fiddle in a nearby alley bounced off the stone building. The sound began as soft as a breeze, but the urgent tempo increased with each sweep of the man’s bow, until the tune was a frantic blur. Instead of the music soothing him, it called to his mind the face of the man Subedei had killed. A boy’s shout could be heard above the din. Thomas. So, the lad was still here. With his enemy on the march, it would be more merciful to leave Thomas in Inverness. At least here he had a chance for survival. At Urquhart, if Subedei’s mercenaries prevailed, the lad would be cut down with the rest of the castle’s inhabitants.

Angus nudged him in the ribs. “You cannot be
glum
on such a warm afternoon. You are in need of a distraction, before your expression grows as dark as the depths of the loch. The games have started. This time you will not be the only Highlander to best all challengers. I intend to enter as well.”

Lachlan allowed his friend to guide him toward the center of the celebrations, but he could not shake the dark foreboding that claimed him. There was a difference between his father and himself. There had to be.

The midday sun seemed to shimmer off the bolts of silk, brocade, and velvet rolled and stacked on tables. The goods were crowded together with others being hawked by the merchants. Amber wove through the crush of people whose conversations hummed like bees around a honeycomb. There were booths filled with cinnamon sticks, ostrich feathers, vegetables, fresh breads, pastries, and ready-made clothes. It was the marketplace she’d been told existed when Inverness was an important trading city. Behind her was the bridge over the River Ness and on the hill was Inverness Castle. By her calculations she was standing on the spot where the Town House would be one day.

Four dirt-smudged boys raced past her, laughing and pushing each other in their excitement to reach one of the tables piled high with sweets. She smiled. The warm sun felt good against her face. The mood of the children was infectious.

She could hear the fast pace of a fiddler’s music. The people around her appeared to be heading in the direction of the sound. She allowed herself to be buoyed forward on a wave of people dressed in faded tartans and worn dresses. Their faces were bright with anticipation. Conversations mixed with the laughter of small children as the young ones darted through the crowd toward the center of the clearing.

The easy laughter of the townspeople turned to whispers as the soft notes of a flute rose in the air to add its music to that of the fiddle. The crowds formed a semicircle around a crate-sized box covered in black velvet on three sides and resting on pole-like stilts.

The side that faced the audience was open, exposing painted castle turrets and a meadow in the background. Ribbons, the colors of a rainbow, shimmered from the corners and fluttered in the warm breeze. It was the Punch-and-Judy show she’d seen earlier. Amber paused, breathing in the excitement drenched moment, wanting to hold it as she did her breath. She noticed Lachlan standing on the perimeter of the crowd. His expression reflected the anticipation she felt. He seemed content to enjoy the entertainment alone. She started toward him, but at that moment the crowd surged forward again.

A trumpet sounded. A man dressed as a court jester in yellow and purple satin announced the play was about to begin. It was like the time she’d been on a roller-coaster ride at the amusement park. All the people had screamed, laughed, and shut their eyes. They’d shared a combination of anticipation and exhilaration. Amber noticed Elaenor working her way through the crowd. When the young woman stood beside Amber she nudged her.

“Having a good time?”

Elaenor smiled.

The man beat slowly on a drum, increasing the tempo until the air seemed to vibrate around them. He came to an abrupt stop. As he did two hand puppets popped into view. One was dressed as a king, the other a knight. Their faces were painted in vivid colors, their noses long and exaggerated. Each took a bow and then they began to chase each other around the stage, engaging in mock fights to resounding cheers.

Amber leaned closer with the crowd toward the performance. The puppet that was dressed like King Henry VIII stabbed the knight over and over. The regal figure faced them. “He will not die. He will not die.” The puppet appeared more frustrated than surprised. The tale reminded her of one her aunt used to talk about. This was probably where the legend had started, with the imagination of a skilled storyteller and the enthusiastic response of his audience.

The violence of the scene seemed surreal when acted out by the puppets and reminded her of the Road Runner cartoons. She felt herself being caught up in the make-believe world that was created. The shrill words of the puppet and the laughter surrounding the performance echoed over the grass fields. She found herself joining in until her sides ached. It felt wonderful.