‘That monstrosity should be in the Druagh museum,’ he said. ‘It’s an anachronism.’
‘I don’t know what that means,’ muttered Grymauch.
‘It means out of its time, my friend. That blade was created to rip through plate armour. No-one wears plate any more.’
Grymauch sighed. Returning the blade to its scabbard, he sat down beside his friend. ‘Out of its time, eh?’ he said. ‘It’s like us then, Lan. We should have been born in the days of the real highland kings.’
Blood was leaking slowly from the cloth plugging the exit wound in Lanovar’s lower back, a dark stain spreading across the outlawed blue and green cloak of the Rigante. ‘I need to plug that wound again,’ said Grymauch.
Lanovar made no complaint as the clansman pulled him forward and he felt nothing as Grymauch pressed a fresh wad of cloth into the wound. His mind wandered briefly, and he saw again the Standing Stone and the tall, black-clad man waiting there. Regrets were pointless now, but he should have trusted his instincts. He had known deep in his heart that the Moidart could not be trusted. As their gaze met he had seen the hatred in the man’s dark eyes. But the prize had been too great, and Lanovar had allowed the dazzle of its promise to blind him to the truth.
The Moidart had promised that the Turbulent Years would end. No more pointless bloodshed, no more senseless feuds, no more murdered soldiers and clansmen. This night, at the ancient stone, he and the Moidart would clasp hands and put an end to the savagery. For his part the Moidart had also agreed to petition the king to have Clan Rigante reinstated to the Roll of Honour.
Lanovar’s black warhound, Raven, had growled deeply as they walked into the clearing. ‘Be silent, boy,’ whispered Lanovar. ‘This is an end to battle – not the beginning of it.’ He approached the Moidart, extending his hand. ‘It is good that we can meet in this way,’ he said. ‘This feud has bled the highlands for too long.’
‘Aye, it ends tonight,’ agreed the Moidart, stepping back into the shadow of the stone.
For a fraction of a heartbeat Lanovar stood still, his hand still extended. Then he heard movement from the undergrowth to left and right and saw armed men rise up from hiding. Six soldiers carrying muskets emerged and surrounded the Rigante leader. Several others moved into sight, sabres in their hands. Raven bunched his muscles to charge, but Lanovar stopped him with a word of command. The Rigante leader stood very still. As agreed, he had brought no weapon to the meeting.
He glanced back at the Moidart. The nobleman was smiling now, though no humour showed in his dark, hooded eyes. Instead there was hatred, deep and all-consuming.
‘So, your word counts for nothing,’ said Lanovar softly. ‘Safe conduct, you said.’
‘It will be safe conduct, you Rigante scum,’ said the Moidart. ‘Safe conduct to my castle. Safe conduct to the deepest dungeon within it. Then safe conduct up every step of the gallows.’
At that moment a bellowing war cry pierced the air. A massive figure rushed into sight, a huge broadsword raised high. His lower face was masked by a black scarf, and his dark clothes bore no clan markings. Lanovar’s spirits soared.
It was Grymauch!
The surprised soldiers swung towards the charging warrior. Several shots were fired, but not one ball struck him. The massive broadsword clove down, slicing a soldier from shoulder to belly before exiting in a bloody spray. In the panic that followed the clansman’s charge Lanovar leapt to his left, grabbed a musket by the barrel and dragged it from the hands of a startled soldier. As the man rushed in to retrieve the weapon Lanovar crashed the butt into his face, knocking him from his feet. A second musketeer ran in. The warhound Raven gave a savage growl then leapt, his great jaws closing on the man’s throat. Lanovar raised the musket to his shoulder and sought out the Moidart. The nobleman had ducked back into the undergrowth. More shots rang out. Smoke from the guns drifted like mist in the clearing, and the air stank of sulphur. Grymauch, slashing the great blade left and right, hurled himself at the musketeers. A swordsman ran in behind him. Raising the captured musket again Lanovar fired quickly. The shot struck the hilt of the swordsman’s upraised weapon and ricocheted back through the hapless man’s-right eye. Across the clearing three more musketeers came into view. Raven, his jaws drenched with blood, tore into them. One went down screaming. The others shot into the snarling hound. Raven slumped to the ground.