Whatever had happened to her had left a terrible scar.
Throughout the morning he climbed through the timberline, and they stopped to eat at a rock pool below a small falls. The companions had given Lennox some oatcakes and these he shared with Plessie. The child sat upon a rock dangling her feet in the water, giggling at its icy touch. Lennox smiled – and froze. He slowly climbed to his feet, aware suddenly that he was being watched. Fear grew in his heart – not fear for himself, but for the child. He had promised she would be safe and a promise was a sacred thing among the clans.
Casually he glanced around at the thick undergrowth. He spotted a patch of darkness beyond a blossoming heather, but allowed his eyes to skip over the bush. He had the feeling the dark patch was fur, and if that was so the thing was either a bear or a wolf.
Plessie was sitting in the shade of a tall pine, and a long branch extended above the water. Lennox scooped her into his arms and lifted her high on to the branch.
‘Sit there for a moment, little dove,’ he said.
‘Don’t want to,’ she wailed.
‘Do it for your uncle Lennox. And be careful now.”
Even as he spoke a werebeast charged from the undergrowth, jaws wide, taloned fingers reaching for the clansman. As it leapt it gave a terrifying howl. Beasts of the wild always roar or screech on attacking their prey. The sound freezes the victim.
But Lennox was not a hunted animal. Nor even an ordinary man.
He was the most powerful warrior in the long history of the Farlain.
As the beast broke cover Lennox whirled, bellowing his own scream of fury. He charged it, smashing a right cross to its open jaws. Fangs snapped, the jawbone disintegrating under the impact. The beast screamed and fell, rolling to all fours and howling in pain. A second creature leapt forward and, twisting to meet it, Lennox charged again. Talons lashed across his shoulder, scoring deep through the flesh. The jaws lunged for his face and, throwing up his hand, he fastened his fingers to the furry throat. The downward lunge was halted, the fangs inches from his face. Lennox could feel hot, rancid breath on his skin. The power of the beast was immense. He threw a left-hand blow which thundered against the werebeast’s ear; the creature fell back, then leapt again. This time Lennox stood his ground until the beast was almost upon him. As it rushed forward he caught it by the throat and groin, and hurled it with all his strength against the trunk of a pine. It hit with a sickening thud -spine exploding into shards, ribs splitting and piercing the great lungs beneath. Blood flowing from his wounds, Lennox drew his sword. The first beast attacked again, its jaw hanging slack. As its talons lashed out, Lennox ducked beneath the swinging arm and hammered his sword into its unprotected belly.
The creature writhed in agony, then crumpled to the earth, thrashing in its death throes. Lennox dragged his sword loose and
drew his hunting-knife, eyes scanning the bushes. There was no movement there. But he had to be sure.
‘Stay in the tree, Plessie. Uncle Lennox won’t be a moment.’
‘No,’ she wailed. ‘Don’t leave me. Wolfs eat me up!’ Her tears cut through him, but he moved on, searching the tracks within the undergrowth. Satisfied there were only two of the creatures he returned to the weeping child, lifting her down and cuddling her.
‘There, there! You see, I was only a moment or two.’
‘Don’t leave me again, Uncle Lennox.’
‘I won’t. Now, you are going to have to be a brave girl and help me to stop this bleeding. Can you do that?’ With a grunt of pain Lennox removed his ripped shirt. There were four deep slashes across his right shoulder-blade, but he could reach none of them.
‘There’s lots of blood, Uncle Lennox.’
‘The bleeding will clean the wounds,’ he said, moving to his pack. ‘Can you sew?’
‘Mother taught me,’ said Plessie.
That’s good, little one.’ Rummaging into his pack, he found needle and thread. ‘I want you to close these little scratches for me. Then we’ll move on. Will you do that for me?’