He had no idea who’d sent him the letter, but he didn’t care. What he cared about was his father. Perhaps together they could hunt for his mother, find her alive, reunite the family. Retake MacGregor Castle even? Wouldn’t that be something? Bring the clan back from oblivion.
To do all that he had to be brave. He had to ignore the sounds coming from the darkness, concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.
His father was in the dungeon. All he had to do was get into the castle. It was impregnable to attackers, but he wasn’t an attacker, he was an eleven-year-old skinny boy.
Would they even notice him? Few people wanted to invade MacCallister land. It was infertileafter years of neglect. There was nothing worth fighting over.
The MacCallisters had little to defend anymore. They had taken over the MacGregor territory after the clan war, but they’d been unable to hold onto it. The gossip in the village was always about how much had been lost in any given month.
Other clans continually encroached and soon the MacCallister border would be back where it had been for centuries. The MacGregor land became no man’s land, many clans fighting over it, none able to emerge victorious.
All the MacCallisters had to show for their effort was the laird of the MacGregors captured at their hand.
It took longer than he expected to get to MacCallister Castle. When he did, he almost lost hope. The castle definitely looked impregnable, a taller building than he had ever seen, towering over the surrounding landscape. The village church was a hay stack in comparison. How could he ever have hoped to get inside?
His legs ached from the effort of walking so far through the thick mud of late fall. He tried to be brave. He couldn’t turn back. He could do this. If only he could work out how.
The castle was lit by torches. There was one above the gatehouse. It provided enough light to show him the gap where the drawbridge had been raised for the night.
There were more torches higher up on the outside of the keep, those had been the ones that had guided him through the darkness.
He kept to the shadows, working his way around the edge of the moat. Then he smiled. It was no moat. It was only an earthwork, the slopes steep and covered in undergrowth but not too difficult for a boy used to clambering through bramble bushes to fetch berries.
Two guards manned the near side of the drawbridge. They looked mean and he was glad they were too far away to see him as he moved silently down the slope of the earthwork. He took care to protect the letter from clawing thorns.
At the bottom he paused, catching his breath before beginning the tough ascent on the far side. At the top he paused again, listening hard, peering around the corner. He relaxed when he saw the guards had not moved from their post.
Looking up, he smiled again. The wall that had seemed so solid from the far side of the earthwork was not nearly as neat as it had appeared. Stonesjutted out in many places. In others the mortar had crumbled, leaving gaps the perfect size for handholds.
Tucking the letter into his waistband, Wallace began to climb, telling himself this was nothing more than the wall of the farmhouse which he regularly climbed to tend to the thatch. Just a wall like any other. Only ten times higher.
Halfway up, he had to stop. Voices could be heard above, gruff men’s voices talking together quietly.
He craned his neck upward. On the battlement two men were crossing each other on patrol, pausing to share a joke before moving on. He held his breath, hoping neither man would look down. One spat over the side then moved off.
He was alone once again.
He resumed the climb, reaching the top a minute later. Hopping over the top of the wall, he ducked low and then ran for the safety of the corner tower.
The door was locked. That meant no guard would be coming out from there any time soon. By the door he found more evidence of MacCallister complacency. A coil of rope sat abandoned, one end still tied to an iron ring in the wall. The cordwas rotten, but it was still solid enough to take the weight of a half-starved boy and his letter.
Kicking the rope off the wall into the courtyard, he waited, wondering if anyone heard the noise he’d just made. Nothing.
Not wanting to push his luck, he climbed down quickly while contemplating his next move. The dungeon was most likely below the keep and over there was an unshuttered window. It had been left open as it was too small for a man to climb through. Perfect for one such as him.
He squeezed between the rough stones, his hips catching, scraped cruelly by the jagged edges. For a moment he thought he was stuck but then with a shove of his arms he was through, falling heavily onto the wooden boards on the far side.
At this point something odd happened. He became aware of exactly where his father was being held prisoner. He could never have explained it, but he knew exactly which route to take.
He passed along the pitch-black corridor, needing no light. When he reached stairs, he descended them without hesitation, guided by something outside himself. Could it be the letter was helping him?
Whatever it was, he was glad of the assistancebecause the keep was a maze. He marveled that man could build something so large. How did anyone find their way around such a place?
At the end of the next corridor he found a candle in a sconce. He took it, knowing he would soon need light to read the incantation.
At the foot of a second flight of stairs the air changed, growing staler and colder. He shivered, his nostrils wrinkling, a strong stench hitting him from ahead.
One more door. He knew it would be locked.
