Page 20 of Honour Bound
I shoved the ring deep into my back pocket and glanced to my left. There was something else written on the wall. When I got close enough to read it, my bones turned to ice. This was worse than Matthew MacBain’s body.
There were only two words. They weren’t cut into the stone but drawn on it with what again looked like blood. With my heart in my throat, I backed away. I didn’t want to be here; I had to get the damned harp and get out of here.
I left quickly, returning to the makeshift road and picking up speed. It was probably my imagination but it felt like it was getting hotter and it was becoming harder to breathe. The dark sky felt oppressive. I started to run again. There was no one here; I could afford to be less careful.
Fortunately, it didn’t take long to reach a crossroads. On the far corner there was an old church. The steeple had long since fallen but there were five pillars in front, which Bob had described to me in painstaking detail. I was to turn right and count down twelve buildings. From there I would see a thin bridge leading across the Clyde River and then the house I was looking for would be twenty-seven steps east.
I whispered the numbers as I passed. ‘Ten, eleven, twelve.’ I looked over and saw the bridge. It looked precarious; there were no handholds, just a long strip of cracked stone starting from the bank and stretching over the river. I peered down. The oily black waters of the Clyde were far below.
The rivers in the Highlands were of every imaginable colour. Up in the mountains, they tended towards a deep crystal blue. In Oban, the smaller rivers included tinges of green, while in Aberdeen they were a murkier brown – though they still contained fish. Many of the Clan-less who couldn’t find gainful employment or couldn’t afford seaworthy vessels regularly fished there before selling their catch cheaply in the streets. Somehow, I didn’t think the Clyde here had any life in it. A rank odour rose up from it, reminiscent of sewage and rotting rubbish. I guessed the Fomori hadn’t yet cottoned on to recycling.
I left the river to count my steps and find the house where the harp was hidden. Disturbingly, it was exactly the same as Bob had described, an unremarkable structure of weathered sandstone with the faint etching of a four-leafed clover over the entrance, like an X marking the spot. Someone wanted Dagda’s harp to be found.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the rusting door and stepped inside. This was far grander than the place where Matthew MacBain had breathed his last. It was also far, far darker. Using my phone to light the way, I picked my way across a floor filled with rubble and unidentifiable detritus. Towards the back, where a large stone fireplace indicated that this room had once been a kitchen, was the gaping maw of the entrance to the cellar.
Despite the fact that it seemed to be my lot to venture down into the depths, I wasn’t a bloody troll. I much preferred airy heights. I decided that from now on, I was going to avoid anything below sea level.
The cellar was small and dry with several rotting old barrels standing at one side. On top of one stood a bottle. I blew off a thick layer of dust and examined the label: Auchentoshan whisky. I shrugged. I’d never heard of it but that was hardly surprising as I wasn’t much of a connoisseur. Taylor, however, would enjoy it. I grinned for the first time since I’d come through the Veil, amused by the idea of bringing back a souvenir. This beat a fridge magnet. I shoved the bottle inside my jacket, zipping up so it would stay safe, then I looked round some more. The harp was supposed to be here.
I was starting to think that Bob had sent me on a fool’s errand when I spotted it, hiding in the shadows of the far corner.
‘Yahtzee,’ I whispered.
I’d worried that I wouldn’t be able to carry a harp – they are hardly the most portable of musical instruments. Bob had assured me it would be fine and, yet again, he was right. Maybe Dagda was a particularly petite hero because his harp was little more than the size of a lute.
Still, after Matthew MacBain’s skeleton, I was glad not to fall across the bones of the last lord who’d come seeking the harp. I tried not to think about what might have happened to him and picked up the instrument. Unlike the bottle of whisky, there wasn’t a speck of dust on it. It was a pale wood, with taut strings which looked virtually new. I almost plucked one of them before hastily drawing back my hand. If Dagda’s harp had the sort of powers which Bob had alluded to, playing it here in the Lowlands wasn’t a wise idea, even if there wasn’t a demon to be seen or heard.
I tied the instrument to my back using a small length of knotted rope which I’d brought with me. When I was sure it was secure, I shrugged. ‘Well, this harp certainly isn’t in any treble.’ I looked round the cellar one last time. ‘Time to go.’
I was halfway between the house and the bridge and humming tunelessly with a lightness of spirit that I should have known better than to feel, when the clanging of a loud bell nearly gave me a heart attack. I froze in my tracks. What the hell was that? It didn’t stop, clanking and shrieking in a way that would have had Taylor eating his words about my musical abilities. Dread poured through me and I checked my watch: it was exactly midday. That couldn’t be a coincidence.
From all around me harsh, guttural sounds started to fill the air, drowning out the clanging bell. I couldn’t work out where they were coming from until I looked upwards. On top of every building along the street, dark shapes were rising up and moving. I saw a vast set of wings stretch out on one corner and a spitting, snarling fight start up on another. I glanced fearfully back at the house but it was too far away to offer a refuge. I couldn’t stay out here in the open, though. As the bell stopped and the shrieks and caws from the demons took over, I did the only thing I could to hide myself: I pitched to my right and dived into the evil-looking Clyde.
The shock of the cold, almost viscous water came close to being my undoing. It coated every part of me until I was like a bird caught in an oil slick. I kicked as hard as I could, reached the side of the river and pressed myself against it, praying that it would hide me. The last thing I wanted was to duck my head underneath the water.
It was a struggle to stay afloat, not just because my clothes were saturated and pulling me under but because it felt like the river itself was beckoning me down into its depths. I flattened myself against the bank, my fingers clawing into the wet dirt, and held my breath. The demon shrieks were giving way to keening cries as hundreds of warped, twisted things rose up into the dark sky. Not all of the creatures were winged; some pounded down the street above my head like an unsynchronised army on a march to the depths of hell. At least a dozen of them turned onto the narrow bridge ahead. I wanted to look away but I couldn’t help myself. Hieronymus Bosch eat your heart out.
They were, to a demon, ugly bastards. Every one that I could see was naked, the male Fomori with grotesque large penises which hung down between their legs, slapping against their balls as they ran. The females proudly displayed wrinkled breasts with puckered nipples which seemed to catch the weak light. Most were completely hairless, their gaunt, sinewy bodies shaped for the most arduous of physical activities, although I spotted a few with hair sprouting in patches from their skulls and chests. Every so often, a head turned and I caught a glimpse of searing red eyes and sharp yellow teeth. I began to shiver and it wasn’t just because of the cold water. If one of them saw me, I’d be ripped to shreds before I could tell them my best demon joke.
By now, the skies were heavy with the flying Fomori. This wasn’t a flock of birds and there didn’t appear to be any order to the way they moved. The winged, wheeling shapes collided frequently, sending each other spinning off in different directions. There was a lot of jostling and snapping of teeth; seemingly the demons didn’t even like each other.
One high-pitched shriek sounded louder than the others and suddenly heavy wings began to beat in my direction. I’d been spotted. I prepared to do whatever I could to defend myself. In the Cruaich grove, my parents had given me my true name of Layoch, Gaelic for warrior. I hated violence but I wasn’t going to lie down and let the demons take me. I’d go down at least attempting to fulfil that name.
But it wasn’t me that the winged demon had seen. It swooped upwards and away from the Clyde’s oily surface at the last second then flung itself towards the demons that were still crossing the bridge. Most of them scattered but one pulled itself up and gestured arrogantly. Almost forgetting the danger, I watched as the pair launched into a vicious, bloody brawl.
The bridge demon landed one or two swift punches, making its opponent hiss and pull back. He wasn’t going to give up that easily though. He sank sharp claws into the other demon’s back and flapped as he rose into the air. There was a screech and they pulled away from each other. I expected the non-winged one to crash down into the river below with a tremendous splash but it hung there, suspended in the air.
I blinked. That meant the Fomori demon was Gifted, just like the Sidhe. I should have realised: how else would they have managed to over-run half of the country if they didn’t have the same powers as the Sidhe? This one could obviously levitate. Damn, that would be a handy Gift to have and for a moment, I wished I could do it too ? it might have made escaping a bit easier.
A breath later I felt a wave of dizziness and my stomach was assailed with nausea. Shite. The cold was getting to me more than I’d realised.
Just then, the floating demon squawked and flapped his arms in alarm. A heartbeat later he plummeted downwards, crashing into the river and creating a mini tsunami in my direction. Panicked that he would notice me, I took a gulp of air and plunged underwater. I couldn’t see a thing; I just hoped that I could hold my breath long enough to keep out of sight.
I stayed under until my lungs were burning with a fire I’d never felt before. I had a choice: either drown or break the surface to get more air. I kicked, fighting against the pull of the water. My legs felt heavy and sluggish and it was only because I was next to the bank and could dig my hands into the mud that I managed to heave my head back up.
I gasped loudly but the noise of the demons covered my involuntary wheeze. The demon who had fallen in the river was already at the opposite bank, being helped out by a friend. I wiped the clinging, dark liquid from my eyes and peered across. He was gesturing into the air, confused; he obviously hadn’t expected his Gift to fail like that. Despite my shivers, I felt a flicker of curiosity – and suspicion.
His friend laughed and patted his shoulder then the pair of them turned their backs and walked away. My gaze flitted back to the bridge. There were only one or two Fomori on it now, still jogging across to catch up with the others. The skies were emptying. I had no idea where all the demons were off to; I was just thankful that they were leaving.
