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.

The only lit building perched at the bottom of the hill. They stumbled down towards it, just barely able to catch a glimpse of the wooden sign that battered violently in the wind.

"The shore hoose. They'll ken where tae board the boat." He gestured towards a small alcove at the back of the wall. "Give us a hand with this eh?"

Firmin pushed the rear of the cart into the nook, then removed the harness that bound Ru to the wagon. "I think I owe you a drink friend. That was some ride."

"Ach, no sweat. Av been deliverin' presents all over the country since I was a wee calf. Us reindeer are the only ones fit to keep going when the snows set in." He slumped to the ground, and, shrouded by a mysterious wind, emerged a man once more. Cracking his neck to either side, he grabbed Firmin by the shoulder. "Lets get that drink then! It's sare needed after battling the dreich!"

Rupert swung open the heavy door as the sodden pair entered the dim tavern. It slammed behind them, causing the murmur of conversation to stall; all eyes turned to the duo in the doorway.

"Aye aye!" Announced Rupert with open, unthreathing arms. Heads swivelled and conversations resumed as they walked towards the bar; several shady figures sat hunched over the counter, glugging at an assortment of potent liquids that ranged from black to golden brown.

"What can we do ye for lads?" The beefy man spoke with folded arms as he stood behind the bar. Firmin was immediately drawn to the winding scars that criss-crossed the entirety of the man's forearms. Noticing his gaze, the bartender cleared his throat. "These eh..." He unfolded his arms, spinning them round to get a better view. "Lets just say its best nae to mess with a kelpie!"

"They're not real." Replied Firmin. "A story they tell children to stay out of the lochs and rivers." He looked around uneasily as he heard a few murmurs and chuckles behind him.

"Hohoho." Bellowed the barman. "Yer in for a fright if ye ever find yerself near a loch at night. Draw ye in they do. Those evil, yellow eyes. Then Bam!" He slammed his hands down on the bar. "Dead."

Firmin smirked, unamused at the barman's attempt to scare him. "Then how did you manage to survive." He said, eyeing the scars.

"Snapped oot of it's trance before it was too late I did. It pulled me in, but I managed to wrestle the bastard till I got free. Most aren't as lucky."

"Now now," interjected Rupert. "We've still got the journey across tae Taobh a Deas Chas Chaolais. Are ye tryin' tae scare my friend shitless."

"Ye won't be making no such journey tonight with a storm like that." The barman shrugged. "Ship's no sailing till the 'morn I'm afraid."

"We must," said Firmin with wide eyes. "We have important business in Dun Eideann."

"As I said, ye'll no be sailing tonight." He pointed to the end of the bar, where an old man lay slumped over in a slew of empty chalices. "There's yer Captain. Even if the water was as still the dead, do ye think he's in any fit state to sail a ship?"

"Two mugs of ale please," said Rupert. "Thank ye for telling us. Aye, looks like we'll be staying here tonight then." He cupped Firmin's shoulder and led him to a vacant table in a dark corner of the tavern. "Come on."

The pair sat silently across from each other. Firmin fidged with his cup, staring at its contents as he swirled it around, deep in thought. "We can't wait till the storm passes Rupert."

"I ken, but what other option do we hae? We cannae go round, It'll take days. They'll have caught up tae us by then."

Firmin spotted a suspicious gaze over Ru's shoulder. "Quiet. I don't think this conversation is private anymore."

On que, the small, thick set man stood to his feet and slowly shuffled over to the table where Firmin and Ru sat. "May I?" Said the whiskered man as he approached. Standing no taller than five feet, he looked wider than we were tall; any wider, and he would have had to roll.

"Please," Firmin gestured to the empty space on the bench.

Plodding down, the bench creaked under the load. "Names Gartoch. I heard yer in a spot of bother." The stench of fish soured the back of Firmin's throat as he sat.

"And what of it?" Snapped Rupert, clearly bothered by the strangers presence, as he turned in disgust.

"If we take a small boat, I could tow ye over... for a pretty fee of course."

"I ken yer kind! Dinnae be daft. Ye'll drag us out to sea and drown us. Away with ye!"

Firmin held a hand to his face. What other option do we have? "Thank you for your kind offer Sir, when could we depart?"

"Firmin." Rupert shot him an uneasy glance.

"Heheh, right away, of course..." He slipped off the bench quicker than he had sat down. "I'll be at the quay. Don't keep me waiting, there's a storm out there ye know?"

Rupert sighed as he drained the last of his drink. "I should have left ye at Scone. Made off with yer medal. Taken a few months off."

Frowning, Firmin did the same. Standing to his feet, he headed for the door; he felt the harsh chill as he stood at its threshold, and heard the powerful gusts as they blasted the side of the tavern. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door, immediately getting sprayed by the horizontal rain. The thought of entering the frozen waters, even in the summer, made him shiver uncontrollably.

Firmin squinted in the storm, spotting a faint, flickering flame dancing at the end of the pier. "Come on!" He shouted at Rupert, who was farther up the hill, carrying down a small box of rations from the cart.

The violent waves clawed at their feet as they jumped out of the water, consuming the rotting wooden planks that made up the walkway. The small two man boat was tied up at the end of a short pier; a newly lit lamp illuminated its presence. It rocked visciously in all directions as it cracked time and time again against the wooden post it was tied to.

"Are ye ready?" The voice barely registered over the roar of the ocean waves that crashed into the coastline like a battering-ram against a castle gate. A small head was barely visible as it bobbed in the swelling tide. Gartoch held a rope between his jaws, which was attached vicariously to the boat.

"Get in before I change my mind!"

"This is nae a good idea, Firmin." Rupert shouted into his ear.

"I Know..."

*****

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