Authors: Mick Farren
More Than Mortal (29 page)
“Aye, awhile, Master Renquist, I’ve been wi’ th’ Lord Fenrior quite awhile. Like many o’ us, he brought me fra th’ battlefield when all hope seemed lost an’ gave me th’ gift o’ th’ Change. I’ my case, i’ was i’ th’ churchyard at Dunkeld.”
The only problem with Gallowglass’s stories was that he seemed to assume Renquist knew much more about the convoluted and bloodsoaked history of the Highlands of Scotland than he actually did. “Dunkeld?”
“I’ was where we made our final stand after Bonnie Dundee went down. We had fallen on th’ English under Mackay i’ th’ gorge o’ Killiecrankie. All th’ great ones were there, all th’ Highland Jacobites, th’ Macleans, th’ MacDonalds, th’ Stewarts of Appin an’ th’ Grants o’ Glenmorrison, th’ MacLeods, MacNeils, Robertsons an’ Farquharsons—” Gallowglass recited the names of the clans as though he were repeating a holy, or maybe unholy, litany—“an’ a thousand Camerons led by Sir
Ewen Cameron o’ Lochiel, then i’ his sixties, th’ same Lochiel who bit an English officer’s throat out wi’ his bare teeth, an’ him only a human at th’ time.”
Ewen Cameron o’ Lochiel, then i’ his sixties, th’ same Lochiel who bit an English officer’s throat out wi’ his bare teeth, an’ him only a human at th’ time.”
“You sound as though you should have claimed the victory.”
“Aye, an’ we almost did. It was a terrible slaughter, an’ th’ English took th’ worst o’ it, an’ then, cursed by luck no deserved by a dog, at th’ moment th’ English should ha’ run aw th’ way home, Dundee was struck down.”
Aside from the contortions of religion, politics, vendetta, fighting the English, conspiring with the French, and the straightforward rape, adultery, and cattle rustling that seemed to have plagued the Scottish Highlands since at least the eighth century, the principal protagonists had more titles, nicknames, and pseudonyms than the characters in a nineteenth-century Russian novel, and this caused Renquist even more confusion.
“Dundee?”
“Aye, Master Renquist, Bonnie Dundee, th’ Dundee, John Graham o’ Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, also known as Bloody Claverse, after th’ way he brought i’ t’ th’ Covenanters w’ fire an’ sword. Fair o’ face wi’ tha’ smile an’ his long black hair t’ his shoulders, an’ his deep brown eyes, we aw loved him an’ would ha’ followed him t’ th’ gates o’ Hell, an’ aw but did. So when he fell, th’ Highlanders were dumbstruck, an’ Mackay was able t’ rally an’ drive us back aw th’ way t’ th’ Dunkeld churchyard, where th’ killing started i’ earnest right between th’ headstones an’ crosses.”
Renquist’s third problem in keeping up with Gallow-glass’s tales of havoc in the glens was that he talked as though everything was so recent, as though it had all happened just a matter of months ago, although Renquist knew they were dealing in centuries.
“So this would have been 1745?”
Gallowglass laughed at Renquist’s temporal foolishness. “Och no, man, I’m no talkin’ about th’ forty-five,
tha’ was Culloden an’ Bonnie Prince Charlie. Th’ year o’ 1689 is th’ time t’ which I refer. July i’ was. Ye have get ye uprisings straight, ye ken.”
tha’ was Culloden an’ Bonnie Prince Charlie. Th’ year o’ 1689 is th’ time t’ which I refer. July i’ was. Ye have get ye uprisings straight, ye ken.”
“I’m doing my best. There seem to have been rather many of them.”
“Aye. You could say tha’. I blame i’ mainly on th’ English always coming up t’ interfere, although I ha’ t’ admit, between themselves, th’ clans were masters o’ holding grudges an’ exactin’ revenge. Like when MacFarlane o’ Arrochar learned tha’ his wife ha’ been seduced by his neighbor t’ th’ south, Colquhoun o’ Luss, he burned down th’ Colquhoun castle at Rossdhu wi’ its owner inside i’ an’ then served his unfaithful spouse her lover’s charred an’ blackened privates on a platter f’ dinner, remarking ‘This is your share. You’ll understand ye self what i’ is.’”
After this less than savory tidbit, Renquist attempted to steer the conversation back to a more generalized history. “Were you the only one rescued from among the wounded?”
“Fra’ th’ gory bed, as they say? I was th’ only one fra’ Killiecrankie an’ Dunkeld. Who knows? Maybe th’ laird would ha’ brought Dundee himself home if he hadna’ died so fast.”
“Strange to raise your vassals from among the dying.”
“Strange, Master Renquist?”
“Perhaps just strange that I never considered it.”
“Aye, but aren’t most changes shaped by some measure o’ night politics, though? M’ lord is no only a vampire but th’ immortal leader o’ a human clan, ye understand. He needs th’ loyalty o’ his swords an’ th’ minds a’ his back, ye ken?”
Renquist nodded. He was learning a lot fast. These Highlanders might not be fastidious, but that was no reason to consider them stupid. They were as sharp as their ever-present swords and, in many respects, lived far deeper in the nosferatu world than he did, always teetering the edges commanded by the foibles of humans
and their world of machines, figures, and manipulations. In their comparative isolation, these Highlanders were able to demonstrate with some strutting that they were the top of the food chain, and they owned the night in their own glens, and on their own mountainsides.
and their world of machines, figures, and manipulations. In their comparative isolation, these Highlanders were able to demonstrate with some strutting that they were the top of the food chain, and they owned the night in their own glens, and on their own mountainsides.
With very much that attitude, Gallowglass continued. “A man who’s been brought t’ immortality from thinking aw he had left t’ him was t’ cough oot his life i’ th’ ruin o’ th’ killing field has more than just a passin’ loyalty t’ th’ one who raised him up.” Gallowglass permitted himself a wry smile. “An undyin’ loyalty, ye might say.”
He gestured to the small Highlander with the headsman’s axe. “Take Prestwick here. M’ lord brought him home fra’ Culloden, tha’ sorry wreck o’ all tha’ was fine an’ good. Pulled out fra’ right under th’ nose o’ Butcher Cumberland an’ th’ grapeshot an’ bayonets o’ his damned Hessians.”
Renquist nodded to Prestwick, who returned the nod with no flicker of expression. He realized Fenrior was living much closer to the way he himself had existed when he had his boyars at his back and the nature of the predator needed far less veneer.
“M lord ha’ brought lads home fra’ most o’ th’ great battles. Some are wi’ us an’ some have gone. We still ha’ th’ venerable Shaggy Lachlan who fought at Flodden Field.”
If Renquist’s recollection was correct, the Battle of Flodden, which resulted in the death of Scotland’s king James IV, had taken place in 1513. Thus Fenrior must be at least five hundred years old. Renquist was assembling a picture of this lord to whom he’d surrendered that was, to say the least, interesting. He was imagining a bloody and devious autocrat, with both advisors and veteran warriors from whom he demanded and received absolute devotion. Then he remembered something from the first meeting with Gallowglass. He had let slip how, at Fenrior, they bred their own humans. If nothing else,
the Lord Fenrior should prove a challenge, and Renquist missed Lupo more than ever.
the Lord Fenrior should prove a challenge, and Renquist missed Lupo more than ever.
The rain had stopped, and a white moon had broken through unraveling clouds. They had chosen the lake as their arena. Columbine seemed to favor the idea of fighting Marieko against the background of Ravenkeep’s moonlit lake, demonstrating that, as always, she saw what was happening as a romantic drama rather than a life-and-death crisis very much of her own making. The three walked from the house, a small tense procession, Columbine and Marieko side by side but keeping a good and hostile distance between them. Destry walked slightly behind, carrying the long staff in her right hand, the staff with the uncut emerald in the silver setting at the head that was her symbol of authority in this damned silly but nonetheless highly formal nosferatu confrontation. A pair of matched sabers, wrapped in a black sheepskin, were under her left arm. They were not the ones from the wall in the drawing room but a more recent and virgin pair Columbine had deemed more suitable for the duel since neither had drawn blood since their forging. As the party to receive the challenge, Columbine had made the choice of weapons, and sabers gave her a distinct advantage. For a human of Columbine’s size and sex, the saber was too heavy and unwieldy a weapon, but with her undead strength behind the blade, it could be both accurate and deadly. Of course, the same applied to Marieko, but she simply wasn’t as skilled with that style of weapon. She might be an expert with ninja butterfly knives and the lighter sword of the samurai, but Marieko was largely unfamiliar with the heavy European saber.
Destry had decided, for the moment, attempting to stop the pair was pointless. She would play her role as mistress and overseer of the combat and, along the way, find a way to intervene: to end the duel before one killed the other. Destry knew Columbine well enough to be
aware, after she’d worked off some of her guilt and anger over Renquist being taken by the Highlanders, she might view at least her own destruction as a less than desirable idea. If Destry presented a good enough reason to cease the combat and allowed Columbine the space to save face, she would back off. Marieko, though, was a wholly different matter. Although Columbine had totally provoked her, she’d been the one who’d issued the challenge. Harder, more determined, and with a more implacably developed sense of tradition, Marieko might actually be far more difficult to stop once started. Destry hoped, however, Marieko’s fundamental common sense would prevail. In the meantime, her only option was to continue the charade and wish for no early tragedy.
aware, after she’d worked off some of her guilt and anger over Renquist being taken by the Highlanders, she might view at least her own destruction as a less than desirable idea. If Destry presented a good enough reason to cease the combat and allowed Columbine the space to save face, she would back off. Marieko, though, was a wholly different matter. Although Columbine had totally provoked her, she’d been the one who’d issued the challenge. Harder, more determined, and with a more implacably developed sense of tradition, Marieko might actually be far more difficult to stop once started. Destry hoped, however, Marieko’s fundamental common sense would prevail. In the meantime, her only option was to continue the charade and wish for no early tragedy.
Destry positioned herself with her back to the lake, facing the lights that still burned in the house. She folded back the sheepskin, exposing the steel-and-lizardskin hilts of the two sabers, and beckoned to the antagonists. Columbine made the first choice of blade. She drew it carefully from the sheepskin and swung it experimentally, feeling the weight and balance. Marieko took the second weapon with much less show and flourish. Marieko’s hands were sufficiently small for both to fit inside the guard on the hilt, and she was able to grasp it in the two-handed Japanese manner. Columbine had taken her time dressing for the occasion. In tights, Robin Hood boots, and a floppy Errol Flynn pirate shirt, she looked to Destry like a combination of Peter Pan and Hamlet. In direct competition, and refusing to be psyched by any enforced waiting, Marieko had used the time to do the same, and appeared in a flame-scarlet kimono with the crossed axes of the Yarabachi Clan on the back in handpainted gold. She also wore a scarlet silk band around her head with the same insignia. Both had put their hair up, Marieko in the same traditional warrior topknot that—although neither Destry or Columbine knew it—she had assumed for the violent dream she had shared with Renquist. Columbine had adopted a looser, Gibson
Girl roll of the kind popular in the 1900s. It might have been more dashing, but to Destry, it appeared a great deal less practical. Already stray strands were starting to fall loose.
Girl roll of the kind popular in the 1900s. It might have been more dashing, but to Destry, it appeared a great deal less practical. Already stray strands were starting to fall loose.
With considerable reluctance, Destry tapped the end of her staff twice on the ground to bring the inevitable to order. “Ladies, commend upon your weapons.”
Each female adopted her individual stance, and in so doing, they couldn’t have been more at odds. Columbine favored the high-wristed, blade-angled-down posture of a mounted dragoon. Marieko, in complete contrast, held her sword high, hilt at shoulder-level and with the blade perfectly vertical. Destry noted the grass was still wet from the rain, and Columbine’s stylish boots could well start slipping and sliding, giving Marieko, who was fighting barefoot, a distinct advantage.
For what seemed like an eternity, neither combatant moved. Both stood rigid, stone-faced, gazes locked one on the other, watchful and patient as panthers, concentration rapt, motionless players in a game where the first to blink took on a massive psychological disadvantage. As Destry fully expected, it was Columbine who finally lost her composure and, swinging her saber, took a longbooted step, following the momentum of a blade that would have gutted Marieko—had she not skillfully twisted away on ballerina pointes. After the wild cut, Columbine was slightly off balance. Marieko came at her with a two-three combination of a downward slash, a thrust, and a fast upward slice that ripped the flowing sleeve of Columbine’s shirt and pinked her upper arm so spots of crimson showed on the white fabric. Destry quickly extended her cane ordering the adversaries to disengage.
“Blood has been drawn. The contest may, at this time, be concluded without loss of honor.”
Columbine didn’t bother so much as to acknowledge the chance to withdraw. She swung at Marieko, who parried quickly. Their steel shot sparks, and darts of firelike
hostility snarled between them. With their nosferatu speed, a human would never have been able to follow the moves in the sudden flurry of action that followed, and even Destry had to step swiftly aside to avoid lunging blades and pivoting bodies. Marieko sustained a cut on the shoulder, and the sleeve of her kimono was ripped to a trailing rag, but she had managed to strike Columbine no less than three times, and seemed, so far, to be getting the best of the encounter. Columbine was bleeding copiously, and her shirt was shredded. Both of them backed off and circled. Marieko ran a nervous tongue over dry lips, and her eyes glinted as she stared at the bleeding wounds on Columbine’s upper body. This was what Destry had feared. The sight of blood would enflame their senses, and now the duel would be impossible to stop, short of its complete and definitive outcome.
hostility snarled between them. With their nosferatu speed, a human would never have been able to follow the moves in the sudden flurry of action that followed, and even Destry had to step swiftly aside to avoid lunging blades and pivoting bodies. Marieko sustained a cut on the shoulder, and the sleeve of her kimono was ripped to a trailing rag, but she had managed to strike Columbine no less than three times, and seemed, so far, to be getting the best of the encounter. Columbine was bleeding copiously, and her shirt was shredded. Both of them backed off and circled. Marieko ran a nervous tongue over dry lips, and her eyes glinted as she stared at the bleeding wounds on Columbine’s upper body. This was what Destry had feared. The sight of blood would enflame their senses, and now the duel would be impossible to stop, short of its complete and definitive outcome.
Columbine and Marieko continued to circle, using the opportunity to collect their strength for the next exchange. They were not out of breath the way two human swordsmen might have been, but the fighting was taking a toll on even their undead energy. Each grimly looked for an opening, and this time Marieko went on the offensive. This second clashing steel duet was of shorter duration than the first, and the two quickly moved back to a safer distance and resumed their circling. Both were now losing blood, and Destry herself felt a dangerous stirring at the sight. Marieko’s scarlet silk hardly showed the extent of her wounds, but what had been Columbine’s crisp white buccaneer shirt was now nothing more than a crimson rag. Destry tightened her grip on her staff. It wouldn’t do for the adjudicator to succumb to crude bloodlust.
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