The Wings of Ruksh (12 page)

The smartly-suited delegation from the Scottish Fishermen’s Federation approached the French Consulate looking so utterly respectable that the police constables on guard were easily overpowered and had their weapons and radios removed before they realized what was going on. Even as they were
manhandled
down the steps, a white van pulled up in front of the consulate with a screech of brakes and as its back doors were flung open, the hapless constables were swiftly bundled inside.

Inside the consulate, Amgarad raised his head sharply as a shrill whistle from the street was followed by the pounding of feet as hundreds of furious fishermen seemed to appear from nowhere. It was, thought Jimmie Leadbetter, a very well-planned operation and stage one had been completed successfully. He saw the consul at the window and grinned malevolently at him.

A huge crowd of fishermen now filled the street and there was a massive cheer as a couple of young lads tore the Tricouleur from its flagpole and threw it to the ground. As the French flag blazed on the cobbles, a select band of the strongest and toughest fishermen surged heavily against the door of the building. Leadbetter urged them on. “Take it down, boys,” he shouted encouragingly.

Inside the consulate, the count fumed with rage as his
terrified
staff hovered in the hall and looked to him for
instructions
. The roars of anger from the other side of the door were frightening and two of the secretaries were already showing signs of hysteria.

“Take the staff up to the first floor, Pierre,” he instructed, “and put every moveable object you can find across the stairs to make a barricade. I don’t know where the police are but I
can tell you one thing for sure … they’re not outside our front door at the moment!”

As the main door was showing signs of cracking off its hinges, the count went into his office and hastily put every document he could find in the safe and shut the massive door with the keys inside. Looking at his handiwork in satisfaction he turned and smiled shakily at the little grouse.

The count was under no misapprehension as to the danger he was in and he knew that if the mob got into the consulate then the best he could hope for was a bad beating; the worst, he did not care to think about. The sound of the door coming off its hinges made him realize that it was too late to give the little grouse to any of the staff upstairs.

“Come on,” he muttered, scanning the room swiftly, “let’s put you somewhere safe.” Two wall vases filled with flowers and trailing ivy decorated the wall on either side of the official French Seal and pulling a chair forward he stood on it and quickly stuffed Amgarad behind some carnations.

“Don’t move,” he instructed.

By the time the fishermen burst in, brandishing clubs and baseball bats, the count was once again sitting calmly behind his desk, his heart beating uncomfortably fast. The noise was tremendous as they piled into the room in a roar of sound. Louis de Charillon, however, was no coward. He paled visibly but his chin rose determinedly.

“Gentlemen?” he enquired icily, bracing himself for the attack as they surged furiously towards him.

Suddenly, as though someone had pressed the pause button on a film clip, they froze in a strange, quivering tableau in front of him, cudgels raised to strike.

The count looked at them blankly and watched in
amazement
as the violence drained from their contorted faces to be replaced by a cringing look of utter terror. Fear, horror and dread shone in their eyes and the brave leaders of the pack, who had entered the room ready and willing to assault an unarmed
man, now seemed to be shrinking back against those pushing from behind.

It was then that he realized that they were not actually
looking
at him at all — they were staring, horrified and appalled, at something behind him!

De Charillon swung round in his chair and gasped in amazement. It was as though the eagle in the French Seal had come to life; for perched on top of it, wings outstretched and neck thrust aggressively forward, was the most enormous eagle the count had ever seen.

Impressive at the best of times, Amgarad used every ounce of magic he possessed to induce total dread in the now
terrified
fishermen; for he was furiously angry at the attack on the defenceless consul.

To the horror of the crowd, he launched himself over the consul’s head, straight at them; his terrifying scream of rage reducing them to total panic. Cudgels were dropped as they covered their heads with their arms to protect themselves from his razor-sharp beak and vicious talons.

The screaming crowd now turned and fought its way back through the press of people still trying to come in and, a few minutes later, as police cars, sirens blaring, came
shrieking
round the corner, the amazed policemen found a street crowded by milling hordes of terrified men. Amgarad’s spell still held them in a thrall of fear and several were shaking uncontrollably after their terrifying ordeal. Some grasped the policemen’s arms as they climbed out of their cars, demanding protection and babbling incoherently about a huge eagle.

By the time the policemen entered the hall, however, there was no sign of an eagle, either inside or out. They found the consul still looking slightly dazed and, realizing that he was in a state of shock, treated him gently. With the arrival of the police, his staff moved the chairs and tables they had used as a barricade and ventured tentatively downstairs, wondering if they had imagined the sight of the enormous eagle that had so
effectively dealt with the riot.

De Charillon, however, knew in his heart that he would never see it again; for before the police had arrived, he had frantically pulled a chair to the wall and searched through the flowers for his little grouse.

It had gone, and all that remained to show that it had ever been there, were a few, very small, brown feathers.

The sentries on the walls of Inveraray Castle had never known a day like it. Even Kitor, perched on a handy buttress of the castle, couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d been hanging around Inveraray all day, waiting with increasing anxiety for the riders to appear — but never had he expected them to arrive like this!

The dreadful thunder from Hell’s Glen had carried clearly across the waters of the loch and within minutes had brought every inmate of the castle to its walls. From his perch, Kitor listened with interest to what they said and, if the truth be told, found it hard to believe, for tales of the Old Man of the Mountains had long since passed into legend. But the sight of hordes of tartan-clad clansmen crowding the battlements, looking at one another with terror in their hearts, infected him with a feeling of acute unease and soon he, too, was watching in petrified wonder to see what would happen next.

Nothing, however, had prepared them for the sight of the beautiful winged horses that soared from amid the tumbling, crashing mountains; a detail, Kitor noted sourly, that the prince had omitted to mention! Any fear among the watchers on the battlements that they might be an attacking force was
short-lived
as everyone was quick to notice that the horses seemed to be faltering and, as they came closer, were dropping lower and lower towards the waters of the loch as their great wings lost their strength.

“They’re never going to make it, master! They’re going to fall into the loch!” an alarmed Captain of the Guard spoke
respectfully
to Archibald Campbell, Chieftain of the Clan Campbell, as he joined him on the battlements.

Indeed, it was obvious that the horses were tiring with every
flap of their wings and although they were struggling bravely to stay in the air, it was still uncertain if they would make it to the safety of land. The crowd of villagers that had gathered at the edge of the loch, held their breaths as, one by one, the horses managed to reach the shore, splashing heavily into the shallow water. Absolutely exhausted, they then collapsed onto their knees in the sand, wings outspread and chests heaving. A great cheer arose as the crowd pressed forward to get a better view of the horses and their riders but, despite their interest, they took care not to venture too close.

“Help Lord Rothlan, Dad,” Neil urged as he swung his legs over Chakra’s back and splashed across to Jaikie and Hamish who had both fallen over the necks of their horses. He could tell from their heavy breathing that they weren’t dead but he didn’t want them to slide off and topple into the water. He looked at Clara who was half carrying Lady Ellan up the beach and managed to drag Hamish clear of the waves before
grabbing
Jaikie under the arms and hauling him clear of the lapping water.

Lord Rothlan, clinging heavily to the Ranger was, at least, still on his feet but he looked like death warmed up. “Are you … all right, Ranger?” he asked, his words slow and slurred.

The Ranger nodded. “We seem to be fine, thank heavens, but you look as though you could sleep for a week! What
happened
? Was it a spell?”

Rothlan nodded. “So … tired,” he muttered, looking anxiously at his horse. “Take the magic crystal from my saddlebag. Take it now and don’t give it to anyone, do you understand? I must tell the MacArthur …” he swayed on his feet, “I must tell the MacArthur … what has happened.”

“Get the crystal, Neil,” the Ranger said, catching Lord Rothlan as his knees buckled under him, “and don’t let anyone see what it is. Hide it under your cloak.”

To distract the gathering crowd’s attention, he beckoned to a burly man wrapped in a plaid of the Campbell tartan. “Hey,
you! Give me a hand here!” he called. The man’s reaction was to cross himself fervently and stay firmly where he was. It was only when Archibald Campbell himself came to the shore that litters were brought and Rothlan, Lady Ellan, Hamish and Jaikie were lifted onto them and taken up to the castle.

“You stay with Lady Ellan, Clara,” said the Ranger quietly, taking charge. “And Neil, you stay with Rothlan. Try to keep him awake long enough to use the crystal. We’ll have to have help from the hill! And tell him I’ll see that the horses are properly stabled.”

The horses had managed to pull themselves shakily to their feet and, much to the amazement of the watchers, had drawn back their wings. The Ranger moved towards Rothlan’s horse and stroked its neck gently. “Come on, Rasta, old fellow,” he murmured. “Where you go, the rest will follow!” He led them in procession through the houses of the village to the towering walls of the castle and the stables where grooms were already laying straw for the magnificent animals.

The chief of the Clan Campbell, overwhelmed by the arrival of people who obviously came from another world, was
seriously
worried; his concern only mitigated by the fact that they seemed badly in need of his help. Nevertheless, he did not quite know what to make of his unexpected guests. “Why would they come here?” he remarked to his wife while they were upstairs, dressing for dinner. “We’ve nothing to offer them. Our cattle are diseased and our harvest this year has been thin. And to travel on flying horses … they must be magicians.”

“Of course, they’re magicians,” his wife said sharply, “that’s obvious. How else could they have such horses? And what were they doing in Hell’s Glen?”

“They were lucky to get out alive, Agnes. Who would have thought that the Old Man of the Mountain still exists?”

“Yes, but many others have ventured into Hell’s Glen over the years and the mountains haven’t risen against them,” she pointed out. “Whoever they are, they must indeed be powerful
to have roused the Old Man of the Mountains; especially the one they call Lord Rothlan.”

Archie Campbell nodded. “He’s sick,” he said. “From what I saw of him, he might well not last the night. There’s nothing wrong with the man or his children but the others, the small ones …” He frowned as he looked in the mirror and adjusted the ruffles at the neck of his shirt, “they might not be magicians but they’re magic people, all the same.”

“You would be wise to be careful in your dealings with them, Archie,” Agnes cautioned, her voice serious. “It won’t do to
displease
them and, who knows, one day we might want a favour returned!”

Archibald Campbell nodded his head in agreement. “Aye, that’s true,” he said. “But the sooner they leave Inveraray, the happier I’ll be!”

In a bedroom in another wing of the castle, Neil barred the door as Lord Rothlan, propped up by pillows in a four-poster bed of enormous proportions, gazed wearily into his crystal and concentrated what was left of his mind on calling Archie.

As the crystal in the hill glowed with light, Archie moved forward to peer into its depths. He took one look at Rothlan’s face and called the MacArthur.

“They’re in trouble,” he said abruptly. “Rothlan can hardly keep his eyes open so you’d better be quick! It seems that he got caught up with the old Man of the Mountains!”

“Cri’achan Mor?” the MacArthur looked surprised.

“Rothlan’s caught in one of his spells, by the look of it.”

“Did you tell him that Amgarad is back?”

“No, I didn’t. I thought you’d like to give him the good news,” Archie smiled, moving over so that the MacArthur could take his place.

“Alasdair, listen to me,” the MacArthur began, “Amgarad is back in the hill and I am going to send him to you. He will bring firestones with him so that you can counteract the spell.”

Rothlan gave a shaky smile. “Good … news! What happened at the consulate?”

“The fishermen attacked it but Amgarad managed to sort them out. The consul’s fine, don’t worry.”

“Sir James?”

“He’s helping me just now with a wee scheme I have in mind. You relax — I’ll keep in touch!”

Lord Rothlan looked at Neil over the top of the crystal. “Amgarad is coming,” he whispered in relief. “Tell Lady Ellan. He’s bringing firestones. We’ll be okay!”

Given the prospect of a rift with Scotland and imminent war with France, the British Prime Minister was, one way or another,
having
a bad week and in all fairness could be excused a smidgeon of bad temper. It is also true that the flurry of seriously-worded, top-secret communiqués that had crossed her desk with alarming frequency that day had done little to prepare her for faery tales and, as she listened with blank amazement to Charles Wyndham’s ramblings about dragons and crystal balls, it was hardly surprising that she threw a wobbly of mammoth proportions. Never one to suffer fools gladly, she came close to shredding the head of MI5 where he stood.

“Have – you – gone – out – of – your – mind, Charles?” she demanded, her voice cracking with disbelief.

Sir Charles Wyndham heaved a sigh and eyed her in much the same way as he would a prowling tiger. He had known that this was going to be a particularly sticky interview.

“I know it sounds utterly and completely incredible, Prime Minister,” he said evenly, “and my reaction was exactly the same as yours when I first heard it.” He paused uncertainly and tried for a little lightness of touch. “I really thought old Tatler had gone round the bend, to tell you the truth.”

“Are you seriously trying to tell me that in a time of grave danger to the nation we should defend ourselves with …” she was loath to pronounce the word, “… faeries?”

“I think we could do worse than give them a sporting chance!”

Now completely convinced that he was barking mad, her voice rose by a couple of octaves. “A sporting chance?” she repeated, incredulously. “Sir Charles, may I remind you that
you hold one of the top offices in government. When I receive a report from you, I most certainly do not expect a lot of … of drivel about faeries! Do I make myself clear?”

It didn’t take an IQ of 145 plus (and Sir Charles’s IQ was much, much higher than that) to read the Prime Minister’s mind.

“I’m as sane as you are PM,” he observed with a shaky smile, “and believe me, despite the fact that my department doesn’t believe in faeries on principle, I am now quite convinced that they really do exist.” He took a deep breath, wondering just how much to tell her. Better, perhaps, to leave out the bit about magic carpets. She’d think he’d gone completely round the bend if he told her that. “Tatler took me to visit them. They’re called the MacArthurs. I’ve seen them and spoken to them and I’m quite convinced that they can get us out of this mess with the French.”

The Prime Minister looked at him in utter amazement and shook her head. Things couldn’t get much worse than this! The man was obviously a lunatic!

“Charles,” she spoke in tones normally reserved for errant five-year olds, “the French not only have a fleet of trawlers in the North Sea, they also have a fleet of warships! You are
wasting
my time!”

Sir Charles threw out his hands in protest. “Do you think I don’t realize the gravity of the situation, Prime Minister? I’m just as worried as you are, for goodness sake! Look,” he bent over her desk and brought his face close to hers, “you’ve known me for years now. Have I ever let you down before? Do you really think I’d waste your time with a load of childish rubbish if it weren’t true?”

Something in his expression suddenly made her bite back the scathing retort that had sprung to her lips and he relaxed imperceptibly as he saw her expression change. Indeed, her face was a picture as she struggled to believe the unbelievable. “But, you can’t mean …” she whispered, “you can’t mean that … it
is
true?”

Sir Charles almost smiled. “Oh yes, my dear Prime Minister, it’s true all right! And I can prove it! That’s why I had to see you so urgently.”

He placed a black box on her desk. “This is what they gave me when I visited Arthur’s Seat,” he said lifting the lid
carefully
and easing a glittering crystal ball from its velvet depths. “I know it takes a bit of swallowing at first but I promise you, Prime Minister, it’s the real thing.
And
,” he said in a whisper tinged with heart-stopping elation, “
it’s ours to keep!
”

The Prime Minister’s mind leapt at the thought and, as their eyes met in heady anticipation of the days and events to come, he pressed a firestone into her hand. He’d already threaded a chain through it. “War it round your neck, Prime Minister,” he instructed, “and you’ll be able to activate the crystal. Like this.”

Sir Charles passed his hand over the crystal and as it glowed into life, she saw the MacArthur sitting on his great chair with a fearsome, red dragon curled at his feet.

The MacArthur and the Prime Minister talked for nearly half an hour and by the end of their conversation, the Prime Minster’s face had lost its drawn, haggard look and a glimmer of hope lurked in her eyes.

“But … will it work?” she stared at him, suddenly desperate for reassurance. “Can … I mean, are you sure you can do it?”

“It’ll work, never fear!” the MacArthur said confidently.

At this assurance, a slow smile crossed the Prime Minister’s face as, like Tatler, she visualized the effect it would have on the French.

The conversation finished, Wyndham watched the crystal mist over and, picking it up, replaced it carefully in its box, eyeing her with a mixture of curiosity and relief as she flung herself back in her chair.

He raised his eyebrows. “Well, Prime Minister?” he queried, somewhat archly.

Her customary, stern expression suddenly slipped and
disintegrated
into what he could only describe as gleeful grin as
she threw out her hands helplessly at the complete absurdity of the situation.

“This is all
totally
unbelievable,” she said, shaking her head as she reached for the telephone, “and heaven alone knows
what
the Admiralty is going to say when I tell them to stand the fleet down.”

Charles Wyndham, who had a fairly good idea of what the Admiralty would say, rubbed his chin as his lips creased in a knowing smile. His eyes twinkled.

“Go for it, Prime Minister,” he advised.