Prophecy Of Kings: Volume 1 ✔️

Chapter 17 - Southbound

Firmin looked over his shoulder as the sound of distant screams, and menacing howls carried in the sharp North wind. The gale blew past them like a frightened horse; as though trying to escape the likely horrors about to unfold in Scone.

"Rupert, we must go back," he said, patting frantically on Ru's hide. He scratched at his chest as the sinking feeling returned once more. "We have to go back for the child. The wolves... they're looking for him."

"Ye seen the Kerr's outside the village Firmin?" Rupert continued to trot South, but looked solemnly behind him to the panicked Knight. "Ye heard the horn of the English army... Surely ye know we cannae go back now. Nae yet anyway."

"But Finn, if they find him." He leaned back against his hands, staring into the dark cotton-like clouds that swirled portentously overhead. They'll kill him. My sacrifice will have been for nothing if the child dies. He must live.

"Yer no good to anyone dead. What can ye do against an army? Aye, ye look like a brawny lad, but against the Kerr's ye've nae chance!"

Firmin returned to his original position; hunched over the front of the cart, and nodded at Rupert. "I know."

"The bairn is in a brothel, that's the last place ye'd look for the wee lad. Plus the stink of the place will blind the Kerr noses fae the smell o' Lynx. He'll be arite."

Looking torn, Firmin continued to nod. "I suppose. Yes."

"Besides, we've got a fair journey ahead of us. We need tae make it tae Port na Banrighinn before sundown and secure safe passage 'oer tae Taobh a Deas Chas Chaolais."

"English, please," said Firmin.

The Scotsman strained his hairy chin in an attempt to speak the King's tongue more clearly. "We've got tae get over the water tonight, and the last boat leaves at sundown. If we dinnae, the wolves will likely track us down."

A faint rumble reverberated through the evening sky, as Firmin felt the tiny patters of rain prickle his skin.

"There's a storm ahead!" Howled Ru, as the wind picked up synonymously with the first foreboding droplets that fell from the angry sky.

"Ride! Go Rupert!" Shouted Firmin, over the whistling gale. I'm coming Barabel. Just a little longer. I'll steal you away from Carlsyle.

Rupert rode relentlessly into the increasingly intense storm; unshaken by the lashing water that swooped from the heavens, and the biting wind that attacked from behind. Firmin, not blessed with a thick hide or heavy fur, retreated into the corner of the cart, using his kilt as a shield against the elements. He peered uneasily over the side of the cart to check how close it was to sundown; but the clouds stood guard above its canopy, refusing to let a single ray of light past its defenses. Doubt raged in Firmin's weary mind, like the storm overhead. We're going to miss it. Surely.

*****

"Firmin, the lights of Inbhir Chèitinn we're only one village awa!"

Waking from his daze, Firmin perked up as Rupert slowed to a trot. They carried on through the town, not stopping till they reached the port town.

Firmin dragged himself out of the cart, walking level with Rupert as they passed the outlying houses at the threshold of the town; extinguished oil lamps cracked against their stone walls as the storm continued to wail in the direction of the unwelcoming shore. Port na Banrighinn grew outwards from the harsh water's edge. It was as though the buildings had crawled from the deep themselves, as they hung with slimy ocean debris, and barnacles grew from the foundations in increasing density as they neared the chasm of the great North Sea.