Page 19 of Darach

As Fyn Carack entered the garrison hall at Dun Deigh, he saw most of the whiners and complainers gathered before the hearth with their nightly jugs.

“The great hunter returns from stalking the cleaning wenches,” a bitter voice called out. “Come and drink with us, wee brother.”

Wee brother. Wee piglet. Wee, wee, wee, always and ever, eh?

Fyn allowed his steps to grow unsteady as he gave the group of clansman a sloppy grin. “The no’-laird bid me go to my chamber and mourn the dead laird.”

“Aye, ’tis ever all we shall do.” The guard drained a goblet before slamming it down on the table. “Pray the Gods dinnae forever curse us for no’ taking vengeance on the facking MacRoss.”

As Fyn passed them he took note of the face of the one who had called him wee, and then stumbled around the corner. When he saw no other Carack in sight he straightened and moved quickly to open his door, which he took care to slam loudly before he lit two candles inside.

Home comes the master hunter, home from the killing fields.

The flames flared, dancing in the polished stone eyes of the fox, boar and stag heads he had stuffed and mounted on his walls. Since going on his first hunt he killed too many animals to display them all––the lot would cover every wall in the stronghold––but he kept the heads of those that had been particularly memorable. The fox had bitten his wrist as it struggled to free itself from the snare, and the stag Callum had failed to take down, which Fyn had hunted for weeks just so he could present the antlers to the laird.

Keep them, Brother, Callum had said. ’Tis your trophy, no’ mine.

The boar, his favorite, had taken even longer to die. Sometimes all Fyn had to do was stare into its pebble eyes for a few minutes as he remembered that kill, and his cock would spurt in his trews.

Fyn smiled at the dead things and their eternally silent snarls. Hunting their kin would also please him, but he had other prey to track now. Slipping out of the stronghold unnoticed, and returning without anyone realizing he had gone, however, required some canniness.

You cannae be seen away from Dun Deigh, his master had warned him.

Pretending to be pished on whiskey had at first entertained Fyn, for nearly everyone ignored his antics and spoke more freely around him. When he wished to leave the stronghold, however, he had to resort to an elaborate scheme to fool his brothers into believing him sleeping off the drink he never swallowed but poured out the windows and down the drains.

First Fyn had to make a show of drinking too much, and then feign passing out in some place inconvenient for the rest of the clan. One of his brothers would carry him to his chamber and dump him on his bed. Once he was left alone Fyn would arrange a few wads of linen under his coverlet to resemble his sleeping body, pour a bit of the spew he’d collected from the privies on the floor (the smell and sight of the puke would chase off the nosiest vassal) and then use the narrow passage between the stronghold’s walls to descend to the back passages. Being forced to wait there for sunset before he crept out like some rodent made him impatient, as did avoiding Struan’s patrols and the watchers until he could reach the entrance to the mines.

Once the miners left for the night, however, Fyn could use the shafts to go wherever he wished.

He might have tolerated a few days or even a week of the ruse, but after refusing to be named the new laird Struan had declared the entire clan would remain at the stronghold and mourn Callum in the old way, from one full moon to the next. Only patrols, guards and the household vassals would be permitted to carry out their daily duties.

What of mine?

The prospect of being unable to return to his work made Dun Deigh seem more like a cage than a castle to Fyn. He found himself picking fights with the youngest scullery lads and tormenting the wenches, all of whom feared him, but even that secretive toying wasn’t enough to satisfy his needs. He wanted a spear and net in his hand and a mount between his legs, and the cool shadows of the forest caressing him as he stalked his prey. He wanted to drive something terrified into one of his hollow traps, and watch their eyes close as they succumbed to the dreamstone he had strewn in the pits.

Aye, and put their flesh and blood in my hands.

Leaving one candle burning by his bed, Fyn carried the other over to the pelt rack in one corner. Setting it aside, he slid back a panel of wood he’d painted to resemble stone to reveal the opening behind it. He had been only a lad when he’d found the passage, thanks to being locked away by his bitch màthair, who likely would have left him to starve if the old laird had not missed the ptarmigan he always brought for the winter meals.

You’re no’ like the other lads, Fyn. You’re quick and keen, like my boot knife. ’Tis why I named you thus.

His slim build permitted him to walk through the narrow space between the walls as if it were a passage made specially for him. Although he had stood much taller, the old laird had shared the same narrow shoulders and hips, so Fyn knew he had first used them. They had allowed him to suddenly appear where his sons and vassals had least expected him.

He passed a post in which he had carved as a lad. Instead of FYN he’d chiseled into the wood what he considered now his true name. Forever he had vowed to be his sire’s finest hunter, hiding himself from everyone so that he could strike as the old laird had, as silent and cold as death.

Fyn listened before he opened another false-fronted panel door and stepped out into the back passage used for deliveries from the mines. The stone floor sparkled with bits of crystal ground beneath the cart wheels that had trundled over them for centuries. He eyed a bit of dreamstone that had fallen into a crack in the stones, and crouched for a moment to pry it loose and pocket the gem.

You neednae a sage’s elixir for the pit traps, his master had assured him. You’ve but to grind the dreamstone to powder, and scatter it under a layer of dead leaves. When your prey falls into the hollow, they shall breathe in the dust and soon fall into deep slumber. Only take care to remove them before rain comes. Any moving water that touches their lips shall revive them at once.

Creeping out of the stronghold, Fyn checked for any guards before hurrying over to the shed built over the ore hoist for the Carack mines. There he listened to be sure none of the clan’s vassals or sages had lingered before he climbed down the rope and moved into the shafts.

Aside from the forest, Fyn most loved the stone tunnels of the mines, and how their walls glittered with tiny traces of the wealth his clan had dug out of them. He decided to check on the recently-dug shaft where new dreamstone had been found, and saw that the men had removed nearly all of the gold discovered with it. He took out a small pick, and used it to dislodge several chunks of the rainbow-streaked crystal, which he dropped in his pocket. The miners would notice the missing crystals, of course, but believe one of their own had filched them, and say nothing to the overseer. Indeed, some of them might even begin tucking some gems in their beards and boot sole gaps to do the same.

Who would suspect a Carack to be the one stealing from the Carack?

Once he had the dreamstone he needed, Fyn left the shaft and walked down the oldest tunnel to a second level that had been abandoned after proving devoid of precious gems and metals. There he moved aside an L-shaped strut that covered a gap in the stone wall, and squeezed through it into another, far older passage.

A coldfire orb sat under a dark cloth atop the old work bench, and when Fyn removed the cloth he saw a note had been left under the ever-burning light. On one side a likeness of a female he had never seen had been sketched on the parchment, and on the other his master had left him instructions.