Assassin's Creed: Fragments - The Highlands Children E-Book

Alain T. Puysségur

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 393

Beschreibung

Discover this action-packed Assassin's Creed Fragments novel about siblings tested and separated by the bloody carnage of war between England and Scotland. Scotland, 1296. The winds of rebellion are blowing. The wars of independence for Scotland are on the brink of changing the history of Great Britain. Under assault from King Edward I, the besieged city of Berwick-upon-Tweed is delivered into the hands of the English, who massacre and burn everything in their path. Aileas and Fillan, 16-year-old orphan twins, get separated on that horrific night. Aileas is carried away and disappears while Fillan manages to join forces with a Scottish clan fleeing to the north, into the very heart of the Highlands. The young man understands that they are to meet a mysterious group named the Brotherhood of Assassins, the only ones capable of protecting Fillan from the Order of the Templars, a group of warriors doggedly pursuing him. While he tries to find any trace of his sister, Fillan must delve into his past to understand his true destiny and discover why the birthmark he carries on his wrist makes him a target for the Order of the Templars. He must find out why his life is suddenly in danger, just as the cry for liberty resonates across all Scotland.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Map

  1 Shadows

  2 Massacre

  3 Rupture

  4 Mercenaries

  5 Hunted

  6 Captivity

  7 Cranshaws

  8 Lann Fala

  9 Trust

10 Training

11 Meeting

12 Trust

13 Uncertainty

14 Raid

15 Bealltainn

16 Rite

17 Leith

18 Hold

19 Brotherhood

20 Child of Fal

21 Apprentice

22 Wood

23 Order

24 Beinn Eallair

25 Assassin

26 Destinies

27 Revolt

28 Hope

29 Ignition

30 Mirror

31 Peril

32 Dunstaffnage

33 Doubts

34 Iona

35 Thunder

36 Lia Fàil

Epilogue

Characters

THE HIGHLANDS CHILDREN

Also in the Assassin’s Creed – Fragments seriesavailable from Titan Books:

The Blade of Aizu

The Witches of the Moors(upcoming)

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Assassin’s Creed – Fragments: The Highlands Children

Print edition ISBN: 9781803363554

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803365794

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: November 2023

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2023 Ubisoft Entertainment. All rights reserved. Assassin’s Creed, Ubisoft, and the Ubisoft logo are trademarks of Ubisoft Entertainment in the U.S. and/or other countries.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Map design by Darth Zazou.

Translation by Jessica Burton.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

1296

1

SHADOWS

The door opened with a bang, rattling the frame and breaking the lock, which gave way. The bell jingled, breaking the silence of the night. The shop was swathed in darkness. A single candle flickered, trying to chase away the darkness while making shadows dance up the walls.

An imposing man wearing a black cape with a rolled-down hood slipped inside. He barely had time to catch his breath before he shivered, as he felt a blade press against his jugular and one of his arms pushed into his back at a painful angle.

“What—”

The pressure on his arm increased and the man let out a gasp.

“It’s me, Glenn, the goldsmith!”

His headgear was pushed back, unveiling a face lined with pain. His eyes were bulging in terror.

He was forced closer to the candle and, straining his neck, he could just make out the face of a young woman with emerald eyes.

“Ailéas? My god, what’s the matter with you?”

The young woman let go of his arm and withdrew the scissors’ blade from his neck. She readjusted her long ginger mane and continued to glare questioningly at the goldsmith; the scar which ran across her forehead made her seem even scarier.

“Precautionary measure,” she replied. “You did just break down the door.”

She gestured at the door which had just swung shut with a concerning creak. Glenn dumbly observed the metal lock hanging off with his mouth open.

“I… I thought it was stuck.”

Ailéas rolled her eyes in exasperation.

An amused voice from behind the timbers spoke up.

“You’re a brute, Glenn. It’s no wonder you work on jewels instead of armor!”

A man slid out of the shadow produced by the shop counter. He was middle-aged, sported a gray beard and wore a dark embroidered doublet which accentuated his square shoulders.

“Alastair!” gasped the goldsmith in shock. “My god! Why this welcome? I almost wet myself!”

The bearded man let out a laugh and nodded.

“Your apprentice is better at cutting up a man with scissors than a garment! A real wild cat.”

“Watch yourself, Glenn, cats scratch,” snarled the girl.

She sprung forwards to light the other candles. The goldsmith moved aside with a fearful look. From the halo of the candlelight, he took in the chaos of the shop. Fabrics were piled here and there. Sections of the large and luxurious furnace had been strewn in a ball on the floor. A broken wooden table lay not far from that destruction.

“Did they try to rob you, too?”

Alastair Aitken nodded in affirmation. He was the most respected tailor in the south of Scotland, and certainly the richest. His dresses were known right up to the Highlands*, and some of his overcoats were worth their weight in gold in the markets of Glasgow and Edinburgh. That someone tried to rob him wasn’t exactly surprising, especially right now.

“Luckily Ailéas was here.”

“The bastard ran away like a little coward,” she said with a smirk.

“I see,” replied the goldsmith, wiping his brow.

“What brings you here?”

“What brings me here? Good lord, Alastair! Three days! The town has been under siege for three days. And you ask what brings me here? What the hell are you still doing here?”

The master tailor leaned against one of the bolts of vermillion fabric.

“The Guild…” he started.

“Beck got killed in his damned bunker,” Glenn cut him off. “Oh, you didn’t know, huh? Well, he did! He was a bloody idiot and bad at business, but he didn’t deserve that.”

The goldsmith paced around the shop. He wrung his hands, with his many rings all clinking together.

“I almost got eviscerated myself on my way here! People have gone mad! But at the same time, I get it. Have you heard the screams from beyond the walls?”

Ailéas felt a shiver run down her spine.

Four days earlier, the English army had been spotted coming from the south. The young woman had climbed up to the watchtower above the ramparts and had seen the organized battalions advancing through the hills. The weapons and armor of the soldiers glistened in the spring sunshine, and the wind fluttered their banners.

The terrified screams of those who had managed to find refuge behind the city walls had come just before those who didn’t make it to safety. Ailéas half-wondered what they were doing to people to make them scream like that, not really wanting to know the answer.

Since then, tents had sprouted up everywhere, like red and gold petals on the jade moors. It had been three days since Berwick-upon-Tweed, the economic heart of the southern Scottish Lowlands*, was under siege and a maritime blockade.

Ailéas understood why the city, her city, had found itself in this catastrophic situation. Alastair had made it a point of pride to explain it to her. It was all about a military campaign, organized by Edward I, King of England, in retaliation for treason by the King of Scotland, John Balliol. The latter, in agreement with Parliament, had rejected a call to arms from the English crown to go up against the French. Even worse, he had then forged a military alliance with the King of France.

She was pulled out of her thoughts as a young man appeared in the doorframe of the shop. Just like her, he had emerald eyes, a wild and tangled mane of red hair, and a thin nose and mouth.

“Ah, Fillan! At least you won’t welcome me by trying to slaughter me?” Glenn quipped.

“A public danger is more than enough for that!” retorted the new man with a mischievous look at his twin sister, who made an obscene gesture in return. “What are you doing here?” he continued, shaking hands with the goldsmith.

“Did you hit all your heads? I’ve come to do what the Merchants Guild should have done long ago and make us leave Berwick!”

He almost shouted it, frowning deeply at Alastair.

“Calm down, Glenn.”

“Calm down?” he shouted for real this time. “Damn it! Alastair, I just learned that that son of a bitch Douglas is going to hand over the keys to the city to Clifford!”

“Right, we—”

“Do you know what awaits us? Douglas will abdicate with no conditions. They’ll gut us like pigs!”

“Will you let me speak?!” interrupted the tailor. “We leave tonight. I was about to send the kids to tell you.”

The ‘kids’ gave each other an annoyed look. At sixteen years old, they detested being treated like children.

“Ah, ok. OK. But we must leave right away. Immediately! You haven’t rushed them enough; you’ve handled all this badly!”

Fillan frowned.

“And no thanks to you, things have been arranged,” he started icily. “You should show more respect, Glenn!”

“And you,” interrupted his master, “should learn to shut your mouth and mind your own business. Go put this in my luggage.”

He was holding an old piece of fabric in his arms. Ailéas knew it was just an excuse to make her brother leave the room. She watched him exit with his head bowed.

“This is how we’ll proceed,” started Alastair to Glenn.

While he outlined how they would leave the city, using the quays, the young woman was lost in thought about the shop.

She’d miss this place. A lot.

Her eyes turned towards each wooden beam, each dusty corner, and every bit of furniture that held so many memories. She and her brother had lived here for eight years. They had grown up here and rebuilt themselves between the overflowing wardrobes. They came from the north of Scotland, and Alastair had taken them in after their parents were massacred. The master tailor had taken care of them with all his signature kindness and offered them a new life of luxury in Berwick. Ailéas was grateful to him, as he had helped to give them a future by making them his apprentices.

Yes, the smell of the dyes, the rays of sunshine on the edges of the quays, her escapades on the city walls – she would miss all of it.

She had no idea what the future held for her now and it was terrifying. She hoped their journey might bring them to the sweeping, savage, and mountainous countries of her childhood, her memories of which were slowly fading. At the same time, she hated that the hope was a possibility. Thanks to the Guild, and money, they survived while thousands of others had met their ends during this atrocity.

Her throat and her stomach were dry.

Glenn left with a wave, and she went to find Fillan in the back of the shop with Alastair, before buckling up their packs. A heavy silence hung in the air. It was so heavy that Ailéas felt her sense of guilt growing.

“It’s not fair,” she said with a frown.

“What’s that?” asked Alastair.

“That we get to leave the city while so many others can’t.”

The tailor looked at her with his kind eyes, full of sympathy.

“Don’t be so stupid,” retorted her brother, annoyed. “What do you want? To stay here and be massacred? Take more with us who would get us caught? Think about it!”

He was right, and she knew it. There was no other choice.

“Do you know what soldiers do to women during a siege?” he continued.

“Calm yourself, Fillan,” soothed Alastair, who was used to their bickering. “Being cruel is no help to you. Ailéas, listen to me. When war comes, the only thing that matters is survival. And you cannot lose your will to survive.”

The teenager bit her lip. Her master’s words eased the knot in her stomach. A little. But not enough.

“Now you’ve finished, go warn Nollan.”

“The cobbler?” asked Fillan.

“He’s the last one to know.”

Mounting cries resounded from just a few streets away. They all exchanged worried looks.

“Be careful,” he carried on. “Douglas has called back the garrison. The streets aren’t safe.”

“We know what’s coming,” retorted Ailéas, arming herself with a walking stick.

Fillan shrugged his shoulders and snarled.

“You’re like a dog! No, that’s unfair to dogs. You’re even worse!”

Her brother gave her a mean look as they kept going. They turned at a fork in the road, where it was darker because of the timber buildings.

“You’re so annoying with your stupid thoughts,” he said. “Plus, you woke me up last night again.”

“Sooo sorry for having a nightmare, oh great sir.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t you ever relive it?”

“Relive what?”

She held back a sigh. He knew perfectly well what she was talking about. It wasn’t the first time she’d had this sort of dream.

“The night our parents died.”

“Damn, Ailéas! We’re sixteen. It was years ago! Get over it!”

This time she wanted to break his nose.

As they came out of the shadows of the street, Fillan saw the rage-filled eyes of his sister.

“No one said we had to talk,” he said.

He went silent once more and pressed on.

They were the mirror image of one another, but their characters were complete opposites.

Ailéas was poised and reflective, and preferred solitude to futile friendships. Fillan was impetuous and arrogant, loved to mingle, and knew everyone in town.

They kept going as though they were shadows. After two steps, they ducked into a porch to avoid the groups of local thugs who were trying to find a poor soul on whom to take out their nerves. From time to time, a scream rang out. The rest of the city was petrified in anticipation and terror, frozen by indecision.

It was suffocating.

They came into view of the workshop and spread out. The moon had finally managed to pierce through the clouds and they could make out the shopfront. On the cobblestones, near the dark threshold, a scarlet pool gleamed.

They each took a direction, listening intently.

Nothing.

They crept along to the entry. The trail of blood was flowing from outside to inside. Ailéas gripped her stick, which did nothing for the erratic beating of her heart.

They entered the shop in one step, but found nothing.

Nothing alive.

“Is that… Master Nollan?”

Fillan thought he was going to be sick, the bile burning his throat, and his sister reached out for his hand.

There was blood everywhere, to the point that even the walls were streaked with red. The awful smell of iron enveloped the whole room. The cobbler, a man the same age as Alastair, was laid out on the counter. Several of his tools surrounded his body. Along with several of his organs.

“They jumped him in front of his door,” observed the young man. “Then they pushed him inside…”

“They’ve stolen everything,” said Ailéas taking in the devastation on the counter.

“Such animals! What difference will money make when the English have their heads on spikes?”

The eerie silence fell once more, but it was broken almost immediately by dozens of shouts exploding from the west of the city. Roused by the same instincts, brother and sister looked at each other. Their fear was visceral and instinctive, and shone in their eyes.

As they exited the shop, a man slipped onto the blood-covered floor in mid-run. He cast a furtive look in the direction of two growing shadows and gave a start upon discovering the twins.

“The English are in the city!” he screamed from the ground.

Residents fearfully looked out of their windows and some even dared open their doors.

“Douglas has surrendered! The soldiers are killing everyone!”

The man shouted the words with a haunted look. It was only as Ailéas tried to help him up that she noticed the spear in his back.

“Get out of here! Go!” he shouted as he tried to flee.

The teenagers took off without a word.

* The Highlands are the mountainous region in the north and west of Scotland. The natural border of the Highlands runs from Arran to Stonehaven.

* The Scottish Lowlands stretch from the south of Scotland to the east of the natural border of the Highlands between Stonehaven and Helensburgh.

2

MASSACRE

Berwick awoke to the sound of screaming, only to be plunged into horror. With every passing minute new voices were added to the loud and unbearable racket, as more and more of the screams of those about to die rang out. The north of the city was a hellscape of atrocities. The flickering red light of the first fires began along with the furling black smoke to confirm their existence. The smell of burning wood started to spread, harsh and choking.

Fillan dodged a puddle of blood and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. He fell to the ground from a blow he couldn’t have seen coming.

As he and his sister fled through the streets to try and get back to Alastair’s shop, three young novices of the guard had come upon them. They had business to settle with the young man who had humiliated them a week earlier in one of the city’s taverns. They were using the general panic to do what the law normally forbade.

Ailéas begged her brother not to rise to their provocation. Each new scream was a stark reminder that their time was running out. They were close—tooclose—to one of the city gates where English soldiers could burst through at any moment. As always, Fillan ignored her and shook his head. If she’d known for sure that she could carry him afterwards, she’d have knocked him out.

“Oh, not so smart, are you?” taunted the biggest of the three novices as he massaged his reddened fist.

The young woman watched her brother, who still hadn’t gotten up. He looked miserable. The worst thing was that he’d forbidden her from interfering, even though out of the two of them, she was the only one who knew how to fight.

“I stand by what I said,” said Fillan with a laugh. “You’re stupider than goats.”

The novice’s eyes glinted. He pulled out a sharp blade from under his coat.

“I’ve been waiting days for this—”

His jaw cracked with a horrific sound, preventing him from finishing that thought. Losing patience, Ailéas had leapt forward with her stick. With the weapon thrust from her shoulders, she used the distance to hit him again in the temple. The novice stumbled and fell, and his dagger made a metallic clink as it hit the ground.

Four seconds, five maximum, passed slowly.

The trainees stayed where they were, hesitant to move. The redheaded girl advanced on them with determination. They stumbled and fled, disappearing onto Main Street, where a cohort of residents were shouting and trying to save themselves.

She held out her hand to help her brother up, but he shoved it away violently.

“Leave me alone! I told you to stay out of it!”

“He was going to split you in half.”

“So what! I’m sick of you always jumping to my rescue. I know how to defend myself.”

It was completely untrue, laughable even, but Ailéas didn’t respond. Her brother went out of his way to annoy her. You’d think he hated her.

“Oh, get up,” was all she replied.

They set off once more but had to cut through a crossing of the main roads. The chaos was unimaginable. People were running in all directions. Some forgot to jump over the bodies of the unfortunate souls who’d already been killed. All around, men, women, and children clustered together to form a magma of impenetrable movement that wasn’t getting them anywhere. A child stuck under the axle of a wagon frantically beckoned with his tiny hands, his face streaked with tears. No one paid any attention to him. When she noticed him, Ailéas almost ran to his aid but Fillan put out his arm to stop her. Barging with his large shoulders, he forged a path through the kerfuffle and helped them reach the opposite side.

The soles of their leather boots clattered along the ground and their lungs were on fire, but they didn’t slow down at all and soon reached the southeast of the city. The terror hadn’t completely taken over there yet. The only trace was the waves of smoke carried by a light breeze.

They had almost reached the merchants’ column where the shop was located when they distinctly heard the cry of their master, followed by a thud that could only mean he’d been hit.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

It was the weak and breathless voice of Alastair.

The twins risked a look over the wall, angled from the alley they’d just passed.

The old man was on his knees in the middle of the street. A warrior in shining armor stood in front of him. The warrior was wearing a long red cape that draped down his back and to the floor. In the moonlight it looked like the color of blood. His head was covered by a resplendent helmet mounted with metallic antlers. Ailéas found them both magnificent and terrifying.

Three soldiers came out of the shop. Each was wearing an identical red cape, but their armor was less impressive and their heads were uncovered. Ailéas observed their behavior and realized that the one with the helmet was in command. They weren’t part of the English army, she was sure. They were too well equipped, and the advance guard hadn’t yet reached this part of town.

“He’s lying,” said one of them. “I found luggage in the back room.”

“Plus beds upstairs,” added another.

The man with the antlers grabbed Alastair by the throat and lifted him up. The old man had been beaten nearly to death. His arm was broken at a strange angle. He could barely stand and his stricken face was covered in blood.

“For the last time, we know you worked with the Brotherhood. Where are the Children of Fal?”

Ailéas had never heard such a cold voice. If a dead man could talk, he would have done so in the same tone. She sought her brother’s hand but couldn’t find it. He was pressed against the wall, trembling.

The tailor replied with something they couldn’t hear. His lips could barely get out a murmur. The grip on his throat tightened and he let out a horrific gargle.

“As you wish.”

The warrior in the helmet let him go, pulled out a sword that glinted in the moonlight, and without an ounce of hesitation, plunged it into Alastair’s chest.

Time stood still. The faraway screams disappeared. The air itself seemed to dissipate.

Ailéas remembered meeting the master tailor the day a man in a helmet brought them to him. He had joked with her and ‘stolen’ her nose. The memories flooded in as her throat went dry. She relived him teaching her to pin an old chiffon, him taking her to the herbalist the first time she bled, him consoling her as her nightmares plagued her. A final image remained in her mind: a hug, which he wouldn’t ever be able to give again.

Time started again with a cry.

Fillan’s cry.

Ailéas met her master’s eyes and heard him gasp a ‘no’ of deep sadness as Fillan was discovered. But maybe it was just her imagination, as the lifeless body of the old man dropped limply to the ground. The soldiers turned to face their direction. The one with the helmet didn’t even need to speak; he just pointed the sword, the tip of which still dripped with Alastair’s blood.

Fillan stayed in the middle of the street, paralyzed. Ailéas had to shove him to get him to react.

“We head for the quays!” she yelled, thinking of the Guild’s plan.

In the middle of her panicked shouts, her brother agreed with a nod.

After a few steps they came face to face with a horde of men and women, crashing like a wave towards them. Their screams barely covered the clinking of the weapons of the detachment of English soldiers pursuing them.

The compacted crowd was blocking their only escape. Seeing their crazed eyes, Ailéas didn’t hesitate in pushing them aside to get past.

The clinking of armor was right at their backs.

“Split up!” she shouted.

She took the lead, jumped onto a wooden crate, and grabbed a signpost of a building. With cat-like agility, she scaled the facade of the building with the help of imperfections in the wood and windows. Her brother followed suit and they were on the roof within a few seconds.

They had a terrible shock when they saw the full city, though each reacted in their own way. Fillan let out a curse which involved the mothers of the English, while Ailéas tried to wipe away the tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.

Most of the city was ablaze. The consuming ghost-like flames had spread from the ramparts through the city as though the buildings were nothing but kindling. Berwick was no more than a monster of fire, embers, and death. The sky had disappeared under the thick, black, suffocating smoke.

Regaining their wits, they set off over the straw-covered roofs, moving from side to side to avoid the immovable chimney obstacles. Ailéas was more agile, even running along the central beams without needing to hold out her arms for balance. They sometimes zigzagged between flames that were engulfing the wooden beams below their feet. The breeze and the heat spurred them on.

“After them!” ordered the warrior with the helmet. “Don’t let them get away!”

The soldiers in red capes pressed forwards below without taking their eyes off them. The residents did everything they could to get out of their way. Some were too slow, others paralyzed in fear, and were pushed aside or impaled on swords.

The twins ran quickly. They had learned to explore the city from this angle the first year they arrived here, hungry for the thrills of adventure and freedom. They knew the best places to step, how hard to tread on the tiles without them giving way. They had learned to judge the distance to jump between buildings, in a leap of faith against the emptiness below them.

With a quick look back, Ailéas saw that they had lost their pursuers.

“Go left,” she ordered, aiming towards the quays.

She crossed a roof enveloped in flames that gave way just after she ran across.

“I’m cut off!” shouted Fillan, who could no longer follow her.

“Go along Fishmongers row, then!”

“What do you think I am, an idiot? I know where to go, damn it.”

“We’ll meet at the warehouses!” replied Ailéas with a cold glare.

The young man wiped away the soot and sweat that was tickling his nose and started to run again. His sister got further away and disappeared into the thickening smoke. He felt a tremendous terror rise up in him, a wave of fear that almost made him step on a false tile. He regained his balance, adrenaline running through his whole body.

And then, a scream that resounded above all the others.

A cry he’d heard a thousand times. The one that woke him at night and that he knew by heart.

“Ailéas?!” he called as he stopped.

But only the horror of the city and the cries of the dying answered him.

3

RUPTURE

Fillan held himself on the edge of darkness, on the edge of a roof ravaged by flames. A powerful terror devoured him from within.

There was just one scream. Long, pained, and fearful. And then nothing.

His heart stopped beating, even though only a second ago it had been racing from the intensity of his run. His body reacted first because his mind was laden with fear and doubt. He leapt down quickly from the roof without looking where he was landing. He pushed on through the street, shoving aside the crowds and being shoved in turn, almost oblivious of his surroundings.

Fillan set off down the street where the scream had come from, driven by an instinct that could not be explained. He pressed forwards, occasionally putting his hands up to protect his face from the floating embers. He squinted at the shadows pooled at the end of the alley, and through the smoke he saw a figure trying to get up.

“Ailéas!” he gasped.

He had no strength left in his voice, which was filled with despair.

He pressed on and almost tripped over the body of an English soldier with a burnt face, but slipped on the blood that covered the ground. He arrived in time to help the shadow up. Both relief and anguish washed over him; the shadow was just a man, a city resident whose slit throat was oozing blood in weak droplets.

The man gave a last gargle. A bubbly and foul-smelling gasp. Fillan pushed the body away in horror, barely registering his own shaking hands. He looked around him for the body of his sister, praying to the gods he wouldn’t find her there. He couldn’t see her and let out a sigh of relief.

Which ended with a sharp intake of breath.

His eyes landed on a specific spot in the street a yard away. The ground was falling away under his feet. The pavestones, the mud, the blood, the bodies, everything was disappearing.

“No,” was all he could try to say, but his lips barely moved and no sound came out.

His knees hit the floor with a wet sound.

His emotions were all over the place, contradictory and violent. They made no sense to him but flowed all the same. He could no longer contain them, as though he was a prisoner to them.

He could only crawl. With a trembling hand he reached over the fluids on the ground and touched a ripped piece of fabric.

“Ailéas…” he rasped.

It was a fragment of the shirt his sister had been wearing. It was torn. In the only places not covered by blood, he recognized the blue-gray color. On the fabric there were strands of red hair clumped together in the sticky mess, confirming the unthinkable truth.

His stomach churned and his throat contracted but he had no time to vomit. A clack resounded from down the street. He raised his tear-filled eyes, that were red from the heat, and found his sister’s face. It was rigid and still. Instead of calming him down, this sight destroyed him. He wanted to scream, scream enough to drive himself mad.

A man exited the alley. He was fleeing the devouring fire at pace. Judging by his armor he was an English soldier. Over his shoulder was slung Ailéas’s limp body. His twin’s arm swung lifelessly. Her head, upside down and covered in blood with her mouth hanging open, did the same. Fillan searched his sister’s face for even the slightest trace of life but saw only still and cold death.

His legs began to move by themselves. He took a first step and almost fell.

He was still screaming to himself. Ailéas couldn’t be dead. It wasn’t possible! Not today. Not now. Not after all the horrors that he’d seen on her face.

He took another step. His legs were trembling and spasming. The man was about to disappear around the corner.

The teenager pushed through the terror invading him.

“Aileeeeeeeeaaa—”

A hand violently grabbed his neck.

“Now I’ve got you!” enthused one of the warriors in the red capes. “Come with me, and no funny business, or…”

He simply raised his sword, which glowed in the light of the flames.

Ailéas disappeared along with every ounce of willpower from Fillan. He let himself be led away, unable to hear what the man was saying to him as he pushed him along. A building collapsed in front of him with a rumbling and cracking, covering the soldier. Fillan was deafened and flung his arms up to his face as the city continued to scream out its agony. The flames were licking up against his skin and he could barely even feel it.

Get to the quays!

Right. Get to the quays. He started to stumble like a drunk, then found the strength to run, and fled without a backward glance at the soldier struggling under the burning wood. He felt like his whole body was suffering, but denial invaded his soul and made him forget everything. He ran through terrible scenes without even really seeing them.

The survivors continued to flee, crazed and trampling over the dead. They hoped not to die as prisoners of the flames, or worse, to be massacred out in the open. Nothing represented better the massacre that took place that first night of April. The English had progressed and spread terror. They burned, pillaged, and raped. They let out screams of rage and bloodlust. They laughed like animals amid a frenetic killing spree, high on the hunt, blood and death.

Fillan pushed through it all with agility. He dodged a horse that almost knocked him over as it reared up with neighs of pain. An old man lying on the ground with only one leg tried to reach out for him, but Fillan ignored him. Carried on ignoring everything. He thought about getting back up onto the roofs, but there was no point; everything was on fire and full of smoke.

He reached the main city square, the trading heart of the city where different markets took place during the week. Here, unlike the rest of the city, a group of townspeople had stopped fleeing to regroup and challenge the English, with the senseless hope of surviving for just a little longer.

The resistance had already confronted the English and formed a compact wall in the center of the square.

It was useless, in vain. They should have fled, thought Fillan, with no idea as to where. He ran along the line of melee to the right but came face to face with Charles, the blacksmith of the square. Wielding a giant sword, he taught an English soldier respect, dodging his attacks like a fawn. His crossed red and black tartan* made him look even fiercer in the flames. In a large sweeping movement, he disarmed the soldier, whose sword flew through the air. The blacksmith pivoted, and in the same movement, decapitated his opponent.

Fillan did everything he could to dodge the body that fell on him, but it hit him so hard it knocked the wind out of him. He found himself lying in the middle of a pile of bodies. He felt time slow down and wondered if it would be better to stay here and play dead. Maybe he’d figure out a way to get out of it later.

It was a stupid idea.

Using the last of his strength, he pushed away the body whose blood was pooling in its mouth.

He didn’t know who he was anymore. Maybe he was just a shadow, trying to escape the horror. He got up and started running again.

“It’s the kid!” shouted an English soldier as he spotted him. “He murdered the captain!”

“What? Don’t let him get away! Bring me the murdering bastard!”

Fillan ignored them. He dived, ducked, and even dropped to the ground to avoid everyone fighting, those who were screaming, and the dying. On his way, he spotted Glenn, swimming in a sea of blood and surrounded by other bodies. The goldsmith had no rings left on his fingers.

A new sprint, another street.

The chaos of the fight grew quieter. The interior quays, at last, came into view. The sea air and its freshness were so soothing in comparison to the heat of the city. Fillan even felt drops of water on his face. He had started to cry.

He approached the east wall of the city, not far from where all the ships were docked in the port. They would soon catch fire and become giant torches. He saw no one on the way to the ramparts. The residents, like the English soldiers, surely knew there was no reason to come here, because there was nothing here.

Think. He had to think. Remember.

The denial in his head blurred everything, but a few fragments came back to him.

The quays. The east wall. The drains.

He boarded a long wooden pontoon that hadn’t yet been devoured by flames and paddled towards an opening that led to the waters of the Tweed.

“Hey ho!” he tried, without shouting.

No one.

His throat and his lungs were burning.

“Is anybody there? I know Alastair!”

His denial broke at these words, because he’d spoken of the master in the present tense, though his master was dead. He gritted his teeth and inhaled the port air and waited. Still no one.

As he watched the shadows on the wall, the clinking of armor made him jump. One of the English soldiers from the square had followed him and was approaching him with a dagger in hand.

“Time to die, Scottish bastard!”

Fillan once again found himself paralyzed, unable to make the slightest movement. Everything spun in his head. The severe glare from Alastair as he reprimanded him. The sound the weapon had made as it had entered Alastair’s chest. Berwick, the hub of fire and death. And Ailéas, or worse still, her lifeless face. A blow struck the back of his head and the world started spinning.

As he was dying, he hoped to rejoin his sister.

* Tartan is a checkered and colored wool fabric typical to Scotland. The word also denotes the garment made from the fabric.

4

MERCENARIES

Fillan awoke to a crow’s squawk.

It was dark and humid. Upon hearing the rustling of leaves, the cracking of twigs, and the occasional tweeting of birds, he realized he was in a forest. Dawn had not yet risen. Underneath his cheek he felt the freshness of grass with hints of flowers. This feeling soothed his sore skin a little, but another more unpleasant sensation took over: a tight cord around his wrists. His hands were tied behind his back.

He tried to wriggle out of the knots in the rope with a discreet movement but soon gave up. Voices murmured nearby.

He closed his eyes and fell still. Listening closely.

There were two of them, a man and a woman.

“Are you sure we didn’t make a mistake?” said the female voice. “What does the Brotherhood want with this kid?”

“No idea,” replied the other, in a gravelly and authoritative masculine voice.

Fillan opened his eyes but couldn’t recognize anyone. All around him, between the dark trees, were more trees. The people speaking were behind him.

“And the sister?”

“Given the state of the city, she got left behind.”

Fillan felt his whole body tense. He couldn’t follow the rest of this conversation. His brain was screaming.

Ailéas.

Just one thought invaded his mind. He’d abandoned her. He hadn’t even tried to fight, to find her after the battle. All he had done was flee like a coward.

A tear rolled down his cheek.

“The kid’s awake,” said a third voice with a northern accent.

A firm hand dragged Fillan a few yards across the ground. They helped him sit up and he found himself leaning against a tree. A sharp pain flared in his lower back. Amidst the darkness of the woods, he could make out three silhouettes.

“I think he woke up because of you, Edan!” said the woman, a touch of amusement in her voice. “Look how alert he is!”

“Yeah well, who cares!”

Fillan found himself nose to nose with the one who’d shot him at the quays and had just spoken—a man of around thirty who, it seemed, was named Edan. He had a bald head and his long brown beard had traces of red. A strong smell of alcohol wafted from his whole body. The old tartan with a simple motif that covered his simple leather armor was dotted with dried blood. On his belt, a dagger hung to one side and a sword on the other.

He was a mercenary—or, even worse, a bandit.

“Come on, tell us your name,” Edan started, trying to be jovial, but it made him look even more terrifying.

Fillan felt the fear rising in him. Who were these people who’d captured him? What did they want? Did they work for the English? Not knowing if they were expecting a full name, and unable to respond, he simply turned his head and stayed quiet.

“Cat got your tongue?” continued the man, giving him a soft slap on the back of his head.

Fillan shifted his weight, but it hurt him even more. He tried to keep a neutral expression, but inside he was shaking in terror.

“I had to hit him pretty hard,” said the mercenary as he returned to the others. “He’s gone deaf.”

Now it was the other man’s turn to approach. Fillan felt the very ground rumbling beneath him. He was enormous, as big as a mountain. He wasn’t scary like Edan. No, he was absolutely terrifying. Fillan thought he must have Norwegian heritage, from those who were once conquering Vikings. He was no doubt a direct descendant. You could see his chest was bigger than an ox’s and the outline showed nothing but muscle, even in the darkness. His hair was blond with white streaks and hung down his back in a long ponytail. An old scar, which Fillan first mistook for a strand of hair, ran down the right side of his face. He had a long beard, the tip of which was bunched up in an iron ring.

The teenager had never met anyone who gave off such an aura. Confidence. Violence. Serenity. Death.

“I don’t care what your name is,” said the Norwegian in a growl. “But I want you to tell me what happened before we got you out of the city.”

“Are you the Guild?” asked Fillan hopefully.

“No. And I’m the one asking questions. Answer me. What happened?”

His tone was calm and collected, and his demeanor made it clear that this request could not be refused. Plus, it wasn’t a request, thought Fillan, it was an order. He didn’t dare imagine what would happen if he didn’t comply, so he did.

He gathered his strength and tried to explain all he had gone through since they’d seen Glenn in the shop as best he could. He stuttered over his words, interrupted himself and couldn’t finish his sentences. Everything was confusion, fleeting visions, and scattered memories. The most difficult thing was trying to retrace the events in order. Alastair’s escape plan. His murder by the English soldiers. The run along the roofs with Ailéas, whose name he couldn’t speak.

When he got to that point in his story, he had to stop. He didn’t want to cry. Especially not in front of these strangers who’d surely judge him. He couldn’t show the slightest weakness. His teeth chattered.

The Norwegian, who’d listened to his tale without the slightest reaction or comment, met his gaze. For just a moment Fillan thought he saw a trace of emotion in those blue-gray eyes, but the man just gave a grunt as he got up.

“The old tailor was betrayed,” he said once he got back to the others.

“By whom?” asked the woman. “The Guild?”

“Maybe…”

“Deorsa won’t be happy. We were supposed to deliver the twins. Both of them.”

“I know the job; I take care of my business.”

Fillan listened with an attentive ear, and the more he listened the more he felt like a piece of merchandise. That wasn’t good. He tried to assess his strength. He was battered and exhausted, but he thought he might be able to get up and run. But probably not much more than that.

Ailéas.

The denial in him bubbled up once more. He must do everything to find her. She wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be.

He took a deep breath and pushed his crossed legs to get up. He got up quicker than he would have thought possible, and everything spun for a second.

He sprinted.

“And just where do you think you’re going?”

His body screamed in pain as he hit the floor. He hadn’t even made it a yard.

A woman had tripped him as he ran. She must have been behind him the whole time. He hadn’t noticed her, hadn’t even felt her presence. She wielded a long walking stick upon which dried flowers, amulets and bones hung. That was probably what had tripped him. She wore a fitted tunic and a red sash with sewn ornaments that covered her shoulders: clothing typical of a druid.

“Deafened, huh?” said the younger woman in the direction of the bald man. “So you say! He’s faster than a hare!”

He shrugged with a grumble in return.

The Norwegian came close to Fillan.

“That’s exactly the type of idiocy you should avoid, kid.”

“I’m not a kid!” retorted Fillan, getting a little mud in his mouth.

“If you want us to call you something different, you just need to tell us your name.”

“Fillan.”

“Fillan. Good. A bit of advice: trying to escape with your hands tied is a kid’s reaction. Want to tell me where you thought you were heading?”

In a clear memory, the young man saw two lifeless green eyes.

“Berwick… Mysister…” he gasped, trying unsuccessfully to get off the floor.

“It’s no use. She’s dead.”

The words were cold, emotionless.

“NO. No, I—”

“I’m telling you, it’s no use!”

Fillan tried to crawl across the ground, the earth staining his tunic.

“Would you look at that,” chuckled Edan. “A real nature boy!”

“Shut it!”

Everyone watched him try to carry on, at the very end of his strength. The crow let out another squawk.

“You’re coming with me,” said the Norwegian as he grabbed the teenager.

“We’d better get going,” sulked the bald man. “A part of the army will keep advancing, and we’ve already lost enough time. Plus—”

With a stern look, the leader of the mercenaries shut him up.

“Be ready to leave when I get back.”

Edan gave a disapproving glare, then went to pee against a tree. Fillan was shocked that he wasn’t concerned about doing it in front of the two women who could see him and judge him.

The Norwegian led him into the forest, sometimes almost carrying him as his strength failed him.

“You have to see sense, kid. There’s nothing left—do you hear? There’s nothing left for you in Berwick.”

Despite the harshness of his words, his tone had softened.

“There is! I have to—”

“No, believe me.”