The Winter Tower: The Druid Stones Saga, #4

By J.F. Danskin

A renewed Norse threat and an army of Picts raise the stakes as winter descends on the kingdom.

 

Cardhu is lost to the Norse. Further inland a new settlement grows, in the shadow of a ruined tower with a history of its own. At last it seems as if the druid stones will be together again, allowing the place to be protected. But before the spell is cast, the druidess Méabh is abducted, forcing Donnell and his companions on a treacherous journey towards the great capital – where new armies gather.

 

Men are lost along the way, and old adversaries return. But nothing can prepare them for the events that will unfold by the church of Cathures, on the shores of the great River Clud.

 

The fourth instalment of the Druid Stones Saga, tales of Celtic history and magic set in 9th century Scotland.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inkpot Books
• Release date: Apr 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201297770

Book preview

J.F. Danskin

The Winter Tower

The Druid Stones Saga Book 4

First published by Inkpot Books 2020

Copyright © 2020 by J.F. Danskin

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

J.F. Danskin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

First edition

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Contents

1. A New Beginning

2. Northumbrian Strangers

3. The Ancient Tower

4. Sunset

5. A Shadow

6. The Princess

7. The Druids and the Stones

8. Following the Trail

9. Guthrum’s Men

10. By the Cliffs

11. Of Bib and Eochaid

12. Sunrise

13. A Forest Path

14. The Depths of the Forest

15. The Fire of the Inn

16. Castle Semple

17. The Howling Glen

18. The Lone Wolf

19. The Warriors

20. The Great River Clud

21. The North Bank

22. The Pictish Horde

23. The Church of Cathures

24. Cold Confrontation

25. Return to the River

26. Dumbarton Castle

Notes on The Winter Tower

About the Author

1

A New Beginning

It was late. The last streaks of sunlight left the sky early these days, as winter had nearly arrived with her gales and her claws.

Donnell and Malcolm were standing in a familiar place – the Cardhu village square, on the mound just above the Celtic Rock itself, that mysterious black monolith etched with carved runic patterns from the ancient kingdoms of the Old North.

As he gazed down on the village, Donnell reflected on how little in the village had changed physically, at least from this angle. He knew that the East Wall still stood but was rarely guarded now, while the construction of the stone towers on the road up the hill to Cardhu had been abandoned unfinished when the Norseman Iohric had taken command of the village and its surrounding areas. Iohric, of course, was now dead, slain by Sahar at the Battle of Inverkip. Nevertheless, it was highly unlikely that the defensive work would resume now – Norsemen under Iohric’s brother, Guthrum, had seized even greater control of this part of the coast, and the old Laird lay dead.

Consequently, the population had gradually been leaving Cardhu; some had moved away to live with family members in the north or near Dumbarton but many had recently travelled to a refuge in a small forest community that Donnell and his companions had established, and which was currently being overseen by the skillful Cardhu archer, Branwen.

Who do you think will stay? asked Malcolm, gesturing at the cluster of houses ahead of them. The big man had spent nearly all of his life in Cardhu. It would hurt him badly to say goodbye to the place for good.

A few are working fairly cordially with the Norse, it seems, replied Donnell. Those in the largest farms, mainly. Their produce is too useful to the outsiders, and so they have been treated fairly well. But I think most of the crofters will come with us. The friends, together with their companions Sahar and Erik, had agreed to lead the final group of refugee settlers out of Cardhu the following morning. And what of your father?

Malcolm gave a brief, single, shake of his head. He and his father, the old blacksmith, Willem, had a strained relationship at best. I’m sure he’ll be safe. Again, the Norsemen need him. It’s not in their interests to cause him any trouble when there is armour to mend and horses to shoe.

I certainly hope so. Well – he’ll be welcome with us any time, of course, if he can swallow his pride.

It was now very dark, and they began to walk down towards the main cluster of buildings. The path curved around past the hulking black mass of the Celtic Rock. As he passed, Donnell briefly touched the brooch with the amber gem that he wore inside of his tunic. It didn’t feel any different, but he now knew that this was its origin point, and that it gained its peculiar properties and energy from the carved black rock. Leaving Cardhu also meant leaving that power behind.

Further on, across the open area known as the village square, they passed the smith’s yard where they had formerly shared a storage room as a dwelling, and moved on to a dilapidated family house not far beyond. Malcolm pushed back the door, and the pair went inside. The building had formerly been the home of a large, thriving family. But times now were hard. One of the youngsters had died of illness, while both the father and his teenage boy were casualties of the great battle in nearby Inverkip back in the summer. The remaining family members, a mother, a newborn baby and a grandmother, had moved away to be with their fellow clan members near the capital, abandoning the residence.

Coals still glowed low in a central fire pit, left over from when the two men had eaten there earlier – a meal of roasted turnip and smoked fish. To the side they had left a small pile of blankets, to use in the sleeping areas that were built in to the sides of the house. Several rounds of logs were dotted around as seats; there was no other furniture, and none of the trappings of family life.

Donnell sat down in silence, rested his spear near the fire, and placed his belt with its pouch and knife holster upon one of the logs. Then he sighed. It’s going to be a sickening feeling to finally leave this village, he said at last. After all that we have been through.

I always thought you preferred the woods, replied his friend.

Donnell smiled. I do. It’s just…well. I hated most of my last few years here, working on Tarin’s farm. Perhaps it’s just that over the summer, when we were working so hard to defend the place, it finally began to feel like home. And now that will all be lost.

Malcolm slapped his friend on the back, and then picked up a couple of the blankets. The people are coming with us, Donnell. The best thing we can do is find somewhere safe for them to live, and start again.

As his friend settled down for the night in one of the in-set beds, Donnell lay down on the blankets beside the fire, pulling one of them up over his chest. Well, goodnight, old friend, he said. Sleep well – we start at dawn, so that we can get the villagers moved to the place of refuge by dusk. If luck and the gods are on our side.

* * *

Donnell typically slept soundly in any setting, even in uncomfortable lodgings; years of having to rest beside forest trails as a youth had taught him that. Tonight, however, he found it hard to sleep. The plans for the following morning were running through his head. Sahar and Erik were to lead a ‘distraction’ mission such that the Norsemen on the nearby shore would be focusing their attention away from the villagers’ departure. They wanted the ordinary folk to leave in peace, and not be challenged or harassed by the Norse incomers. Fenella, meanwhile, was going to use the power of her druid stone crafts to induce sleep in the local Luftenand and his two kinsmen – three men who were all Norse warriors and bullies, and who had been spending the autumn months making life miserable for the locals, while extracting what little the common people had left in the way of valuables.

Donnell rolled over, feeling at once too hot under the woollen blanket, and also too cold as the chill air that marked the coming of winter blew in through the rudely constructed doorway. As he finally started to relax and drift off, he realised that his feet were near the fireplace, and although the coals had gone out, the surrounding stones were still very hot. He jerked awake, pulled his legs away, then rolled over and moved slightly further away from the centre of the house. He closed his eyes again. Malcolm was already snoring softly.

But then, as he began to settle again, Donnell heard a noise – something unfamiliar. It was a soft crunch on the path, and didn’t sound like any nocturnal animal he knew. He lay there, his mind whirring. No – he felt certain. He had spent years as a forest scout travelling throughout nearby Holm’s Wood, and that sound was definitely no fox or bird, or even a deer. Someone was outside.

He opened his eyes again, turning ever so slightly, and stared towards the doorway. Even by night, the sky outside was clear to see, lighter against the gloom of the house’s interior, meaning that a rectangular gap between the door’s edge and the wall of the house could be made out from where he lay.

And there, Donnell could see the silhouette of a short, crouching figure. Someone who was moving closer.

Not wanting to make a sound, Donnell reached out for the spear, but his hand missed, clutching at thin air. He leaned a fraction closer, glancing behind him. Was that the glint of the spearhead in the gloom? He reached again, and felt his fingers close around its familiar smooth ash-wood shaft.

But now, when he quickly glanced back around, there was nothing to be seen at the entranceway. With all the stealth of a woodsman trained by one of the finest hunters in the kingdom, he rose to his feet without making a sound, spear held high.

Crouching, he spun slowly round, silently, on his tiptoes, but still there was nothing to be seen in the gloom of the house. There was only one thing for it. He reached inside his tunic and pulled out the amber brooch, summoning his concentration in the way that the druid Fenella had taught him. He concentrated on the object’s power to produce light – pictured in his head a beam of sunlight filling the space around them. And as he did so, it came to pass. A golden beam shot out from the gem inside the brooch, from the palm of his hand to the wall of the house. And then, after just the briefest of moments, it went out again.

That instant of light was enough for the scene inside the house to be etched in Donnell’s mind like a tapestry. He could picture Malcolm lying, fast asleep, on the bunk. And just above his friend was a short, slim man with long red hair, raising a dagger above his friend’s chest.

In the darkness, Donnell threw the spear full force in what he prayed was the right direction. It hit home, and he heard a gasp, followed by a thump.

The moment afterwards seemed to last an age. Still in the dark, and now unarmed, Donnell called Malcolm’s name urgently, and received no response.

Malcolm! he called again. Could he have missed the attacker, or perhaps even hit his friend with the spear?

Panicking, Donnell dropped to the ground and flailed around in the dark to find his belt and knife, and cursed when he touched the hot stones of the fire again. But this brought a new idea – did the coals have any life left in them? He punched at the centre of the fireplace, and as the remnants of the fire turned over there was a slight flicker, bringing a weak glow of firelight to the room.

And then, Malcolm spoke, and Donnell found himself looking up at his friend, who was sitting and rubbing his eyes, unaware of the assassin lying just below his bunk with a spear in the back.

* * *

A few minutes later, the pair were standing outside in the starlight behind the blacksmith’s house, looking at the body of the would-be murderer. Donnell was still cleaning off his spear with a rag, while Malcolm crouched over the man, trying to make out any details of his face that he could. It’s not a local man, he said. And he doesn’t look very Norse, either, although I suppose it’s possible.

He’s red haired, said Donnell. The image of the man poised to strike still seemed to be fixed in his mind, although it was hard to make out any colours in the gloom of evening. And he’s not from around here. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen him before.

An incomer, perhaps. Could he be a Norseman? Look – his clothes are like short robes made of wool, and they are cinched at the waist with a kind of rope. I’ve never seen anyone around here dressed this way.

They covered over the man’s corpse with an old horse blanket and left it there in the open, returning to the house where they were staying. Donnell wished he had some whisky to share; it didn’t seem right to try to go straight back to sleep after what had just happened, and after dragging a man’s corpse across the village. They sat in silence, making only weak attempts at further, weary conversation.

That night they both slept little, and when dawn arrived, grey and damp, a cluster of villagers were already up and about by the time Donnell walked outside. As he took a few strides out towards the village square he saw the familiar form of a druidess in long dark-grey robes. It was Fenella.

Come with me, he said to her in a low voice as he approached. I have something to show you – I haven’t told the locals yet, but Malcolm and I were attacked last night.

Fenella followed in silence until they reached the covered form of their would-be assassin. There, she crouched down, and pulled the blanket aside to reveal the dead man’s greyish and lightly-bearded face. He was young, and his cold corpse looked peaceful in the morning light.

This is a sad sight, said the druidess, frowning and pushing her long red hair back from her face as she stood up again, still looking down at the man’s body. And strange. Have you ever heard of someone sneaking into a roundhouse like this?

No, he said. Not a human, anyway. Of course, there are stories of boggles… He tailed off, knowing that the druidess knew the lore and folktales much better than he did.

But we can see that this is not the act of a wild or desperate creature, she said, and not random either, I would say. You and Malcolm have been targeted – and I think I can guess why.

He nodded once as he looked up at her. The stones?

Ever since the first Norse attack on Cardhu, Donnell had been wearing one of the druid stones – powerful artefacts that were connected to the Celtic Rock and had been used for generations to protect the kingdom. Fenella carried another, and since the much larger Norse invasion in the summer, Malcolm had been given stewardship of a third stone, the white gem of the god Lugh which was so coveted by the Norse invaders.

I think so, she said firmly. We know that Eochaid is trying to get hold of all of the druid stones, and he might not be the only one. Iohric lies dead, but his followers knew of the white stone. She nodded to herself for a moment, and then looked directly at Donnell. We need to remember – as long as we carry these items of power, we are all targets. And the less we speak of them, the better.

Together, they moved back to the village square, where Malcolm was helping an elderly man move a crate out of a roundhouse. Near the top of the square, a couple of families had mules with bogies packed up with possessions, including cages of chickens, blankets, wooden bowls, sacks of food, and the like – but most had to hold their possessions. And with infants and essential food to carry, there was little capacity for anything else. Some farm equipment would be saved, however – rather than riding, Donnell and Malcolm had agreed that their horses would be used to transport heavier items.

That meant that the pair of them would lead the refugee group on foot. It was a long walk to accomplish inside a day, especially with vulnerable and largely unarmed people to protect. However, the start of their journey was uneventful, with no riders visible on the back road out of Cardhu.

Passing the last houses, Donnell led the party along the narrow, clifftop route that sat well back from the Laird’s Road. It was marshy underfoot, but he was familiar with the path, and his main concern was the woods themselves – a known haunt of boggles. Donnell found himself wishing that Sahar and Branwen, the two best archers of Cardhu, were with the group now. But the trees stayed silent and the group moved on, closing in on Wherrycross town by the middle of the day.

There, as they approached the road around the town walls from the forest’s edge, they were joined by Erik and Sahar, who had come along the coast and then traversed the stretch of beach immediately north of the town. Their two friends both had Norse roots, but were now among their most trusted companions.

How did it go, my friend? Donnell asked Sahar.

The young woman looked elated. I think those Norse fools will be busy for a while. She was speaking raggedly as she caught her breath, and slapped Erik’s arm with a slight laugh. We led them on a wild chase, right enough, firing from the cover of the trees and then moving on silently to a new place every time. We began north of Cardhu along the coast, then cut back through the village and the trees to meet the coast south of the Norse keep.

Donnel’s eyes lingered for a moment at the fierce scar that led from the back of Sahar’s cheek up to her misshapen ear – the place where she had been badly wounded by Iohric, but which was now almost healed. He then looked around at Erik. The tall warrior was also smiling broadly at the retelling of the pair’s escapades. He shook Donnell by the hand, and put an arm around his friend’s shoulders. It’s going well, chief, he said. Your plan is working. And better still, there were soldiers ahead on the road. Mounted ones.

Really? Whose soldiers?

We weren’t sure, but from a distance they looked like Mac Rath’s men. I suspect that he sent a company of men north to Inverkip. I couldn’t make out the nobleman himself among them, though.

It turned out well, then, said Donnell quietly, nodding.

Erik was smiling broadly around the group, but he grew uncharacteristically serious when Malcolm related the events of the night before. Well, said the big Norseman, I’m sure this new refuge will be a safer place. Nobody will know we are there, except perhaps Mac Rath and his men.

Let’s hope so, said Donnell. It’s far from the coast and the Norsemen, away from the influence of Wherrycross and the new Laird, but close enough to Castlecraik that Mac Rath can provide protection if there is trouble.

The location – at the forest’s edge, not far from ancient ruins that were already used by outlaws – had been his idea, and as such, he felt a huge pressure that was only increasing with each passing day. An assassination attempt on his closest friend was one more thing to worry about.

2

Northumbrian Strangers

Walking to the head of the group, Donnell led the way past Wherrycross town itself. He could see heavily armed figures on the walls – men with bows strung across their backs and battle axes at their hips. By their armour and colours, they appeared to be Norse. Since the Battle of Inverkip in the early autumn and the death of their former Laird, both Cardhu and Wherrycross had been ruled over by Guthrum – a decision the friends had been shocked at, given the open rebellion of his brother Iohric, who had turned coat and allied in battle with the Norse overlord Ímar. They knew that Mac Rath – whose lands were immediately to the south – was similarly unimpressed, but was too loyal to the King to resist the ruling.

Beyond the town they were able to rejoin the main Lairds’ Road, and the going became much easier underfoot. Malcolm, the scholar in their midst, pointed out the reddish clay at the side of the road – a sign of iron in the soil, he said, which could potentially be mined and prepared for the furnaces. This was a land with great potential.

As they proceeded, Donnell found himself reflecting on the recent battle at Inverkip – the many brave fallen warriors, the deaths and suffering, the blood on his own hands. He could still picture in his mind the moment at which he and the other folk of Ystrad Clud had charged towards the enormous Norse horde, with arrows flying in both directions and agonised screams filling his ears. It was a scene that frequently filled his thoughts when he closed his eyes at night.

Before long, his musings drifted one step back to the matter of their betrayal by Eochaid, Malcolm’s former mentor. The spellcaster was determined to gain the druid stones for himself, it appeared. His hunger for their power had changed him, and he had turned the young druidess Nessa into a traitor, supporting his cause against her kindred. But what had now become of Méabh? When Donnell had last seen her, she was travelling through the deep forest with Nessa and the unpredictable forest druid Loarn, all of them aiming to regain the white druid stone from Iohric. Fenella believed that her fellow druidess was safe, but until Donnell saw her with his own eyes, he remained concerned.

And on the issue of venturing into the forest, he was now leading the people of Cardhu that way himself – away from their homes. While they would be broadly under Mac Rath’s protection at the new settlement, the responsibility surely fell to him to keep them safe. And likewise, it would be his fault if things went badly, Donnell felt. He knew all too well that the forest could be a dangerous place. He and his companions had been waylaid by boggles on numerous occasions, and had recently seen a mysterious giant figure stalking through the trees – a godly creature he hoped, and therefore uninterested in harming them. All the same, their new path was uncertain and laced with unknown dangers.

Gradually, Donnell became aware of murmuring of complaints from the villagers behind, and his musings faded. It had now been another hour or more since they had passed Wherrycross, and clearly the tired, cold and footsore travellers were no longer even attempting to keep their woes away from Donnell’s earshot. The sun was now beginning to sink off to their right, falling down towards the southernmost point of the Isle of Arran and the mountain islands beyond, its golden glow shimmering on the sea’s surface. This late in the year, darkness would be upon them soon.

Donnell caught Malcolm’s eye, and saw concern written across his friend’s bearded face. They were both equally keen to keep going, he knew – they must reach their destination before nightfall if the refugees were to be safe. However some of the villagers were elderly, and most were unused to long days upon the road.

Turning, Donnell called a halt, and unclipped the two waterskins that hung at Beira’s saddle. After taking a long drink himself, he passed them to the family closest to him, and then stood back from the road and looked around.

Wherrycross was now out of sight to the north, but their lengthy caravan of refugees was strung out along the road with large gaps in between each small group, and it would take the tail a few minutes to catch up with the leaders. Sahar and Erik were about halfway back in the group, walking beside Fenella. Leaving