The Wings of Ruksh Page 11

  “Right now?” queried Sir James. “The Chief Constable and Tatler have a lot on their plates at the moment. You do know that the College of Heralds have upheld Stuart’s claim to the throne of Scotland?”

  “We heard!” Archie grinned. “Believe me, the MacArthur almost blew a gasket! But you must come right now, Sir James. It’s really important! Even yon French fellow is almost having a nervous breakdown!”

  “De Charillon? Why?”

  “A fleet of French trawlers is heading for the North Sea and, from what Amgarad says, the bulk of the French Navy is escorting them.”

  Sir James looked appalled. “I rather think I feel like de Charillon,” he said, sitting down suddenly and reaching weakly for the telephone.

  Half an hour later, they were all in the hill gazing through the crystal at a distraught de Charillon who was pacing his office, cursing furiously. Amgarad eyed him apprehensively from his desk as he blasted several high-ranking French ministers to hell and back, including his boss!

  “War!” he said to Amgarad furiously, thumping his desk so hard that the little bird bounced. “There will be war! That imbecile Bruiton! He’s not fit to run a kindergarten, far less a country!”

  The Chief Constable and Tatler looked at one another grimly, their faces strained and white. “Radar will have picked up the fleet by now,” Tatler said. “I only hope the navy is prepared for this! It’s unbelievable! The French must be totally out of their minds!”

  “Don’t blame the French, Mr Tatler,” the MacArthur said abruptly as Arthur arranged his huge bulk beside his great chair. “This has nothing to do with the French. This is the prince’s doing, I’m absolutely sure of it!” He sighed and shook his head. “He must have Bruiton under a pretty strong spell, that’s all I can say!”

  “A spell?” Tatler looked at him sharply.

  The MacArthur nodded. “Think about it!” he said. “The prince isn’t a fool. By causing an international incident on such a grand scale, he’ll divert attention away from his claim to the throne, won’t he?”

  “You could be right, at that,” Sir James answered.

  A note of horror coloured Tatler’s voice as realization dawned. “And by the time the government sorts out the French, he’ll have had himself crowned King of Scotland!”

  “Aye, he’s obviously got it planned down to the last detail,” the MacArthur nodded. “But don’t worry. I’m not going to let him get away with it.” He looked at Tatler and smiled grimly. “You tell the navy to stay at home, Mr Tatler, and I’ll do the needful. It won’t take me long to sort out the French.”

  George Tatler glanced at the Chief Constable and looked at the MacArthur in dismay. “But MacArthur,” he protested, “that’s impossible! In the first place, it’s not my business to give orders to the Admiralty and in the second … well, no one would believe me! How can I say that … that faeries are going to protect us from the French fleet?”

  The MacArthur, however, was adamant. “You tell yon wuman that runs the country,” he said forcefully, “that we are on her side and she’s not to do anything. Tell her to keep the British fleet in port and do and say nothing. She must behave as though everything is normal.”

  “Normal!” Tatler’s voice rose shakily. “Normal! With French trawlers and the French Navy in our territorial waters? They’ve been playing merry hell with our boats for months now and yet you want us to do and say nothing?”

  “She won’t buy it,” the Chief Constable agreed. “Not the kind of lady to sit back and do nothing with a French fleet on her doorstep.”

  “What do you plan to do, MacArthur?” invited Sir James. “Maybe if you were to tell us what you have in mind, it might make a difference.”

  The MacArthur gave a smile of incredible cunning. “Aye,” he said, “sit down and listen and I’ll tell you what I was thinking.”

  And he told them.

  The three men looked in blank amazement at the MacArthur when he’d finished outlining his plan. “Well,” he demanded, “what do you think?”

  All eyes promptly turned to the great dragon who, to give him his due, looked completely and utterly flabbergasted at his unexpected role in the MacArthur’s cunning plan. Archie looked at the MacArthur and then at Arthur, his face a mixture of complete dismay coupled with rising hilarity.

  “Arthur could do that?” Sir James queried in amazement.

  “Well, yes … with Archie’s help, that is.”

  Archie threw up his hands, half-horrified and half-laughing at what he was being let in for. “MacArthur,” he said helplessly, “you do my head in, sometimes. You really do!”

  Tatler, his brain working with lightning swiftness as the beauty of the scheme dawned on him, gave a slow, almost reverent smile.

  “Good Lord!” he said in wonder, “I’ve never heard anything like it! But I know this,” he turned to the Chief Constable with hope rising in his heart, “it’ll do for the French! It’ll do for them completely!! They’ll go out of their minds!”

  “And,” added Sir James pointedly, “if we keep mum, they’ll never be able to say a word without admitting that they started it all!”

  Tatler’s eyes gleamed with unholy joy at the thought of putting a few French noses out of joint. “I told you! I told you!” he thumped his knee to emphasize his words. “It’ll finish them off! By heavens, the PM will buy it! She won’t be able to resist it! It’s a master stroke!”

  They looked at one another in rising excitement. It was a master stroke.

  The thought of the entire French government seething in a fury of total frustration and unable to vent its rage was suddenly too much for Tatler. He gave a strange neighing sound and a snort of pure, undisguised glee that promptly set the others off. “Can you imagine … aaaah, haaaa?” he choked, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Ahaaa …” he gave another strange whinny and rocked back and forwards, shaking convulsively and flapping his hand as he tried to speak and couldn’t. Sir James, too, creased up and laughed until he cried, clinging helplessly to the Chief Constable who, doubled up with mirth, was mopping tears from his eyes.

  The MacArthur didn’t know whether or not to look offended at this rather doubtful reception to his cunning plan and seeing the expression on his face, Sir James managed to gasp out reassurances. “MacArthur,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes, “MacArthur, we think it’s a wonderful plan.”

  Once the laughter had died down, however, Tatler became serious. “Are you quite sure you can manage it?” he queried. “I … er … I happen to know Charles Wyndham, the head of MI5, quite well. A nice chap; very efficient. But I’ve got to be sure you can manage it, if I’m going to persuade him to put your plan to the Prime Minister.”

  21. Hell’s Glen

  Rothlan pulled up his horse as they reached the head of a bleak valley.

  “Are we near Inveraray yet?” the Ranger queried as they gathered behind him.

  “Not far now,” Rothlan assured him. “We’ll save a lot of time if we take a short-cut through this glen.”

  Clara swallowed as she saw the sheer drop that lay before them. She felt suddenly sick with fear and gripped the pommel tightly. On their journey across from Loch Lomond she hadn’t been able to see much in the dark and had trusted to the horses, but now that they were travelling in daylight, the whole majesty of the mountains lay before them and their heights were awesome to say the least.

  Rothlan pointed to the grey glint of the sea that glimmered in the distance. “By my reckoning,” he said, “that should be Loch Fyne. It’s a sea loch and Inveraray Castle lies on its furthest shore. This,” he gestured to the lonely, strangely sinister valley that swept bleakly below them, “this, I think, is called Hell’s Glen by the locals. We needn’t be afraid of anyone spotting us here,” he said grimly. “It’s uninhabited. The name speaks for itself!”

  He looked over at Neil and Clara, guessing their unspoken fear at the dreadful drop that lay in front of them. “If I go first and you see how the horses
cope, will it be easier for you?” he asked, for there wasn’t all that much room for take-off. If the worst came to the worst, the horses might literally have to step into a void and fall until their wings held them and they flew.

  Neil shot a sidelong glance at Clara and nodded. He felt just as scared as she did.

  “Serai!” Rothlan said sharply. They watched in wonder as, in a matter of seconds, Rasta’s wings sprouted, grew and unfolded. The black horse, edging itself back as far as it could against the side of the mountain, flapped its great wings strongly and then, galloping forward, soared into the air over the breathtaking drop. Rothlan flew round towards them. “You’ll be fine,” he called, “the horses know what they’re doing!”

  The Ranger went next and Neil and Clara relaxed as the great horse leapt effortlessly into the void, its wings beating strongly. “You’ll be all right,” he called as the winged horse circled in front of them. “Don’t look down, Clara! Shut your eyes and hold on!”

  “Serai!” Clara said fearfully, gripping the pommels on either side of the saddle and shutting her eyes tightly. She felt the brushing movement of Sephia’s wings as they unfolded, the swish of air as the horse beat them strongly and the thud of its hooves on the rough turf. Then the noise ceased and she knew that they were flying.

  One by one, the horses of Ruksh grew their wings and flew from the top of the mountain, circling slowly downwards into the valley below. Clara only opened her eyes when she felt Sephia’s hooves hit the ground and sat shaking in the saddle as she looked up and saw the great height from whence they had come. “Selis,” she instructed, so that the horse’s wings folded and disappeared.

  “Okay?” Neil queried, urging his horse towards her at a trot. Then he, too, turned and followed her glance upwards. “That was really quite something, wasn’t it?”

  Now that they were down in the valley itself, they dismounted; glancing round uneasily, for the place had an eerie feel to it. The silence was absolute. No birds circled the lofty peaks and even the stream seemed to run silently down the length of the valley.

  Jaikie walked the horses to the water and watched in alarm as they tossed their heads and snorted, backing away from the stream. “Milord,” he called anxiously, “the horses will not drink!”

  Rothlan walked over and looked frowningly at the horses that were shying nervously away from the fast-flowing water that ran black and deep over the rocks. He met Jaikie’s eyes and they both knew that something was desperately wrong, for the horses would not refuse to drink for no reason. His face became suddenly serious as he scanned the valley and the grim sides of the mountains that suddenly seemed to lower threateningly over them.

  “I’ve heard tell of this glen,” he muttered, “but I never really believed what was said about it.”

  “What was that?” Lady Ellan asked.

  “People say that it’s the home of the Man of the Mountains, and that he values his privacy!”

  “The Old Man of the Mountains?” queried Neil as they looked round apprehensively — and to all of them it seemed as though the mountains loomed closer than before.

  “According to legend, he is King of the Cri’achan,” Rothlan said grimly. “They were stone giants that used to walk the hills in ancient times. Locals call him the Old Man of the Mountains and no one lives here for fear of him.”

  “It’s certainly a grim place,” the Ranger said, looking round at the oppressive peaks that surrounded them.

  Lady Ellan gave a shiver of fear as a sudden malevolence seemed to thread the atmosphere.

  Rothlan felt it, too. “We won’t stop to eat,” he said, his eyes scanning the heights. “I don’t like this glen and neither do the horses. Let’s mount and go.”

  Hamish and Jaikie looked at one another and agreed. Living as they did in the depths of Arthur’s Seat, their feeling for the earth was strong and they sensed an evil presence among the towering peaks.

  “You’re right, milord,” Hamish said, with fear in his eyes. “We’ve got to get out of this glen quickly. Something is stirring in the mountains; I can sense it.”

  “Wrap your cloaks around you and let them cover as much of the horses as you can,” Rothlan snapped as a strange wind soughed through the glen. “Come on, let’s go!”

  The black horses of Ruksh stamped and tossed their heads as they, too, sensed the change in the atmosphere. As Rothlan urged them forward, they immediately rose to the gallop, their hooves pounding the rough grass and heather as they headed for the distant glimmer of the sea.

  Clara and Neil clung grimly to the pommels on their saddles as the horses streaked alongside the banks of the rushing, black stream that tore hungrily between deep banks. With devilish intent, it kept changing its course in front of them so that horses had to take great leaps to clear it. Rushing winds suddenly screamed from the heavens, tearing at their cloaks, but more frightening still was the growing rumble of sound that seemed to come from the very depths of the earth. It grew in volume, reverberating between the peaks, until the mountains themselves seemed to roar with fury and rage at the intruders that had disturbed their peace. Glancing back over her shoulder Clara saw that the rearing, bulging slopes of the mountains had subtly altered to form a huge, almost human shape. It was as though an enormous giant was moving with great lumbering steps behind her.

  “I saw him!” she screamed. “Lord Rothlan, I saw him! The Old Man of the Mountains! He’s behind us!”

  Fully alert to the danger, the horses frantically lengthened their stride as the mountains lurched dangerously close, their steep sides shedding tumbling boulders that bounced in great, jarring leaps towards them. Guiding the horses in their desperate, headlong flight, Rothlan peered ahead and his heart contracted as he saw that, even as the sea loomed nearer, the valley in front of them was steadily narrowing. Their escape was being cut off.

  Huge rocks were now crashing around them but the magic in their cloaks protected them and even boulders that seemed ready to bounce straight onto them were somehow deflected and fell to one side.

  “Keep together,” the Ranger shouted, for he could see the danger of rocks landing between the feet of the horses and if one of them were to fall, it would, he knew, be the end of them.

  As the mountains heaved about them, the sea now glinted tantalizingly close. To their horror, however, the gap between the two mountains seemed to be swelling upwards as well as inwards, threatening to bar their way completely and at each side the slopes bulged ever closer until they found themselves confined to a narrow passageway.

  They barely noticed the thin mist that wafted gently from the hillside but as they rode through it, they felt a dreadful tiredness seeping through them as though their last reserves of energy were being drained from them. Rothlan paled as he felt the deadly effects of the spell that was enveloping them and fervently hoped that the horses would have enough strength left to clear the valley. It was the thought of the horrific damage that the boulders would cause if they smashed the horses’ wings that made him leave his order until the very last moment.

  “Serai,” he called out sharply. The horses’ wings immediately sprang forth and as the black horses of Ruksh lifted off the ground to soar to safety through the frighteningly thin sliver of light that remained between the hills, the mountain slopes crashed angrily together behind them.

  Relief washed over them as they saw the sea below and ahead, on a distant shore, the grim bulk of a huge castle.

  Inveraray Castle, the stronghold of the Clan Campbell.

  22. Amgarad Attacks

  The smartly-suited delegation from the Scottish Fishermen’s Federation approached the French Consulate looking so utterly respectable that the police constables on guard were easily overpowered and had their weapons and radios removed before they realized what was going on. Even as they were manhandled down the steps, a white van pulled up in front of the consulate with a screech of brakes and as its back doors were flung open, the hapless constables were swiftly bundled inside.
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  Inside the consulate, Amgarad raised his head sharply as a shrill whistle from the street was followed by the pounding of feet as hundreds of furious fishermen seemed to appear from nowhere. It was, thought Jimmie Leadbetter, a very well-planned operation and stage one had been completed successfully. He saw the consul at the window and grinned malevolently at him.

  A huge crowd of fishermen now filled the street and there was a massive cheer as a couple of young lads tore the Tricouleur from its flagpole and threw it to the ground. As the French flag blazed on the cobbles, a select band of the strongest and toughest fishermen surged heavily against the door of the building. Leadbetter urged them on. “Take it down, boys,” he shouted encouragingly.

  Inside the consulate, the count fumed with rage as his terrified staff hovered in the hall and looked to him for instructions. The roars of anger from the other side of the door were frightening and two of the secretaries were already showing signs of hysteria.

  “Take the staff up to the first floor, Pierre,” he instructed, “and put every moveable object you can find across the stairs to make a barricade. I don’t know where the police are but I can tell you one thing for sure … they’re not outside our front door at the moment!”

  As the main door was showing signs of cracking off its hinges, the count went into his office and hastily put every document he could find in the safe and shut the massive door with the keys inside. Looking at his handiwork in satisfaction he turned and smiled shakily at the little grouse.

  The count was under no misapprehension as to the danger he was in and he knew that if the mob got into the consulate then the best he could hope for was a bad beating; the worst, he did not care to think about. The sound of the door coming off its hinges made him realize that it was too late to give the little grouse to any of the staff upstairs.