Demon Sword (The Years of Longdirk Book 1) by Duncan Dave

Author:Duncan, Dave [Duncan, Dave]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Open Road Media Sci-Fi & Fantasy
Published: 2014-04-01T04:00:00+00:00

4

With Rory barking orders, the pilgrims located another habitable cottage and set fires in both to warm them. They swept the floors and plugged the windows with makeshift basketwork shutters of ferns and branches. Rory repeatedly denounced the hermit as a slatternly miser; Father Lachlan’s efforts to defend him were notably half-hearted. The only furnishings they could find were a few rotted heaps of ferns, which nobody fancied. Rory himself went off to confront the old man; angry shouts echoed through the glade. He returned with a tight jaw and a threadbare blanket for Meg.

Leaving her to manage as best she could, the men resorted to the other cottage to toast themselves and wring out their plaids. No matter that the blaze Rory had built would have roasted a team of oxen, those bulky wool garments would never be dry that night.

Toby smeared Granny Nan’s salve on his various scrapes. His back, Rory informed him acidly, was one enormous bruise from the broadsword’s bouncing. He could have guessed that.

Four bare men knelt around the fire, smelling strongly of wet. In the golden firelight, Father Lachlan was soft and pleated, Hamish lean as a board. Rory was all taut muscle, but the reddish hair on his chest failed to conceal a purple bruise there. He scowled when he saw Toby admiring it. Rain beat down on the trees and dripped steadily into a lake of mud in one corner. Someone yawned. Then they all did.

“Don’t go to sleep yet,” Rory said. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Hamish brightened. “The keeper will feed us?”

“He said he would. I showed him gold and he twitched like a dowser’s twig.” Rory sighed and glanced sideways at Father Lachlan. “Don’t judge all holy men by Murray, lads. Father Lachlan is more typical.”

The acolyte sighed. “But no more worthy. He has dedicated his life to serving the spirit. Loneliness is a burden.”

“He was probably nuttier than a squirrel’s hole when he started!” Rory heaved himself upright. “What harm does a keeper like that do to an immortal? What twisted ways of thinking does he teach it? What dubious ethics? Tell me that!”

“The spirit has known scores of keepers and will know plenty more.”

Rory did not pursue the argument. “Let’s get dressed. Then we’ll collect Lady Esther and go see what our host has prepared.”

The others rose also and began to drape themselves in wet plaids, all moving stiffly.

“One bright spot in the gloom,” he continued cheerfully, “is that Master Hamish will not be bored this winter. The Reverend Murray has never been known to give anybody anything before, but I am sure he will give his willing and industrious cousin more than enough work to keep him busy till the heather blooms. His wages—”

“I’m not staying here!” Hamish howled.

“Those were your father’s orders, were they not?”

“Yes, but—”

“Must obey one’s parents!” Rory said sternly. “So mine are always telling me, anyway. Here you are, here you stay.”

Father Lachlan chuckled. “You’re not afraid of hard work, are you? Joking apart, my son, Master Rory is right.

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