Spy for a Wayward Daughter (The Adventures of Grant Scotland, Book Three)

By Dan McClure

GRANT SCOTLAND HAS A LEAD on finding a man who might be able to tell him the truth about his father's treason. When his quest for justice leads him to the dark world of another family's intrigue, he finds that not even the frontiers of the Aelfan Empire are far enough away to escape the dangers of fortune and fate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan McClure
• Release date: May 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311641120

Dan McClure

Writing, working and living in beautiful, historic Arlington, MA.

Book preview

Adventures of Grant Scotland:

Spy for a Wayward Daughter

Dan McClure

Copyright 2015 Dan McClure

Published by Dan McClure at Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Meet Grant Scotland

Book 1

Book 2

Description

AS THE GREGYANS MARCH TO WAR and his handler takes a trip to Zyren, Grant Scotland, spy errant of the Aelfan Empire, gets ready to pursue a lead on finding a man who might be able to tell him the truth about his father's treason. Old friends, new enemies and hidden dangers soon confront him on his quest, but when he enters the dark world of another family's intrigue, he finds that not even the frontiers of the Aelfan Empire are far enough away to escape the dangers of fortune and fate.

Dedication

For Don and Karen McClure, the best parents I've ever met.

For Doug McClure, the best big brother I've ever known.

For Mark West and Jennifer Silvia, the best friends I've ever had.

This book would not have been possible without the love and support of you all.

Contents

Meet Grant Scotland

Description

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

The Adventure Continues . . .

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

DRINKING ISN'T AS EASY as it looks. That is, if you're attempting to drink and do practically anything else, it can be quite difficult. As a case in point, I was engaging in the time-honored activity of getting mind erasingly drunk after a full day's worth of terrifically horrifying battle with my comrades in arms, but at the same time I was trying to not do that at all. What I actually wanted to do was find out where Bartram Dropolous was being held. Unfortunately for me, this was not a piece of information I should've either known or cared about, according to the aforementioned comrades.

We were sitting in a circle around a large fire, one of several in the camp of the Army of King Reynard, and passing around skins full of wine and ale and jugs full of whiskey and more ale. Everyone was loud and red-faced and seemed to be having a generally swell time. If we were louder than was strictly necessary, it was only because the moans and cries of the wounded and dying lying in nearby tents needed to be drowned out so we didn't have to think about them.

We had been victorious and were alive and that was all that mattered. Well, that was all that mattered to my drinking companions anyway. I was interested in this Dropolous fellow. I had never been much of a soldier. In fact, I hadn't even taken part in the battle, not that there had been much of one to take part in. Reynard's cavalry had swept down onto a column of Durfan infantry that had been trying to make its way as surreptitiously as possible toward the main concentration of Eledani forces some thirty or forty miles to the south. They couldn't outrun the Gregyan horsemen and didn't have time to form battle lines. Although the Durfans fought hard and bravely, the issue had never been in doubt.

No one seemed overly worried about my showing up late to the battle. As far as they were concerned, my name was Derek Gunwald, the bastard son of Gentleman Jack Gunwald, a renowned warrior and notorious rake. Everyone believed it because I knew enough about Jack to convince them I was his illegitimate offspring come to help take care of him in his advancing years. Also, the forged documents I had brought with me commended me to Lord Brockner Merrincourt, the Count of Sylphstream, Jack's direct liege lord. Finally, I had bleached my hair blonde and the bushy beard and mustache glued to my face helped me look the part of a Huthan raider of Gunwald stock. As for Jack himself, he was seventy-three going on one hundred and ten and could barely leave his bed, much less take the field. The documents pronounced that I was to serve proudly in his place and bring honor to our family.

In reality, Jack knew none of this, of course. I was hoping he would never hear about it at all, but considering what I was planning on doing that evening, the odds of keeping a low profile were long indeed. Once I found where Bartram was being held, I was going to free him, smuggle him unnoticed back to Aelfa and deliver him to my handler, Solin. After I accomplished that small feat of wonder, Derek Gunwald was to vanish without a trace and poor Jack would be left with having to answer questions about the disappearance of the treacherous bastard son he never actually had.

I nodded and smiled at the burly, greasy-haired Huthan sitting next to me as he handed me a whiskey jug. I tipped it up and took a mouthful of the fiery Durfan liquor but then let most of it dribble out of my mouth as I pretended to laugh uncontrollably at something someone said from across the circle. One of the secrets to staying sober when you are supposed to be getting blitzed is to find excuses to either not drink or not drink as much. Another way is to pretend you are already too drunk to manage enough manual dexterity to facilitate the exercise at all. I was making great strides doing both.

Ah, but I wish I had joined you in time for the battle! I completely missed my share of the loot, I yelled at the hefty man by my side as I attempted to clap him on the shoulder and somehow managed to miss.

He burst out laughing as I flailed in my seat before regaining my balance. Bah! There wasn't much to loot anyway. After we finished butchering the Dirt-Eaters, we didn't find nothing in the baggage train but some travelers who got caught in the fight. Doubt they'll even be worth a ransom.

Oh? Then why keep them?

Don't ask me! I thought they were just a bunch of miners or something, but the captain handed them over to the count for questioning. Dunno what questions miners can answer.

Miners?

Yeah. Y'know. Diggers. Had all them pickaxes and shovels and maps and such.

Oh.

If they were being questioned by the count, then that meant they were either being held in or near his command tent. If they weren't there, then they might be located somewhere near Gerrard's camp. Gerrard Menek, previously our Count of Rovslin and now our newly minted Duke of Rovslin and the Orgslund March, was the overall commander of the king's Army while the king wasn't in the field. If he already had his hands on Bartram then things would get significantly dicier for yours truly. I had dealings with Gerrard in the past—he was no fool and likely would discover whatever Bartram knew in short order. I didn't know what Bartram knew, but I knew that Solin thought it was important.

The jug came around again and as I tipped it to my lips I made sure I fell off the rock I had been sitting on. Whiskey splashed on my face and peals of laughter erupted from everyone. I wiped my face with the back of my hand and gave the jug to the man on my right.

As I laughed and waved off the jeers of my companions and rose unsteadily to my feet, I leaned sharply to my left and fell down. More laughter roared around the flames of the campfire and I summoned a hearty burst of drunken belly laughing to match theirs. After regaining my composure, I got to my feet and stumbled away toward the trench we were using as a latrine. It ran down one slope of the hill where we were bivouacked. The hillside also happened to be steep enough not to have any tents pitched nearby. Once I got to the trench and checked to make sure no one else was within sight, I darted down the slope a ways and began working my way over to the officers' tents.

The officers of a Huthan army are usually comprised of the nobles and the nobles' personal retainers. In general, all the people who owned land in the Aellands were officers and everyone who lived on that land served as foot soldiers. It wasn't a terribly meritorious system, but the Huthans tended to rely more on brute strength tactics than on precision maneuvers in the field. Not much was ever required of their officers besides just bringing their muster onto the field of battle.

Consequently, a Huthan camp was usually set up in concentric circles. Foot soldiers occupied the larger, outer rings and the inner rings were comprised of the nobility. The deeper the ring, the higher the station until you got to the center, which was the king's tent—or, in this case, the duke's.

The sun had set an hour ago and the slope was bathed in shadows cast by the tents surrounding the campfires. I managed to keep my footing, although more than once I had to stop and wait for a soldier to finish relieving himself before continuing on my way. Finally, I decided I had gone far enough away from my companions to risk reentering without being recognized. Those on guard duty were all patrolling the base of the hill, so no one would question me unless they thought I should be somewhere else.

I headed toward the center of the camp but angled back toward the area where I had been billeted with the others. It didn't take me long to find Brockner's tent. His crest was the improbable combination of a wolf's head below three fish stitched in royal blue on a field of dark orange. No one had any idea where his family had come up with it, including Brockner. Since colorblindness was rumored to run in his family, it was generally thought that was the reason for the eye-jarring color choice. At any rate, it was easy to find in the middle of battle (or the middle of the night) so it did have some advantages.

I strode confidently and a little drunkenly past the tent, pretending not to take notice of the one guard posted outside. He was talking to someone who was probably an off-duty companion and taking a generous pull from the man's wineskin. That was good news. If the count had been inside with a prisoner, the guard would have been inside with him, or at least not talking and drinking with a friend. If the prisoner wasn't in the tent at all, there wouldn't be a guard on duty. It was reasonable to assume the man I was looking for was inside and being guarded by only one bored soldier. I continued until I had passed out of their sight and then rounded a small stand of trees and rocks to circle back by way of the rear of the count's quarters.

It was unguarded and there was a thick patch of bushes nearby, which was good. The bad part was that not far away another group of soldiers laughed and drank. I was fully in view of at least half of them. I was going to need a distraction and a big one if I wanted in that way.

I continued walking along in my slovenly inconspicuous way. Wracking my brain for ways I could pull everyone in the camp away from the backside of that tent, I wandered from one to another clump of celebrating soldiers happy to be alive. Along the way I passed several long tents filled with wounded men not quite as enthused as the ones outside. I sympathized with them, but I didn't let it get me down. They were Huthans, after all; a race of people who had proved during recent years again and again that they preferred endless war to lasting peace.

I shook my head and tried to refocus my thoughts on freeing Bartram, but I realized a distraction was useless. The concentric ring layout of the camp would mean that no matter what event I could devise, it would bring people running right past the tent no matter what direction I orchestrated it. I wasn't usually a fan of the direct approach, but it was looking like that was the only course of action open to me that held some reasonable chance of success. I loosened the knife tucked into the belt loop behind my back and scooped up a wineskin from where it lay across an unattended backpack and made my way toward the entrance of Brockner's tent. I saw the guard's friend had moved on and no one else was in the immediate area.

There's a man who looks like he could use a bit of warming up on a cold night! I said with a broad grin as I wobbled toward him. He grinned and nodded at me as he stamped his feet and rubbed his arms. The crisp air of fall had just been replaced by the biting chill of winter, so although there was still no snow on the ground, the nights were long and close to freezing.

Aye. And there's a man who's soon to be a saint if there's any justice in the world, he said with a grateful sigh as I handed him the wineskin. I doubted he would hold that opinion for very long. For one, I had no idea whether there was water or wine or goat's milk in the skin. For another, I was about to put his lights out.

When a man tilts his head back to take a drink, he exposes the underside of his chin and severely restricts his field of view. If another man were planning on knocking the first man unconscious, he could not ask for a better opportunity, assuming he knew how to execute an uppercut correctly. Unfortunately for the guard, I was a man with such a mind as to do exactly that.

After taking a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, I stepped back and launched my fist into his upturned jaw. As my punch landed, his head snapped back and I heard the porcelain clatter of his teeth crashing together in his mouth. His body went slack and he collapsed to the ground. The wineskin landed nearby and began disgorging its contents. It looked and smelled like sour goat's milk. Well, I spared him that, at least.

I chucked the skin into the tent and then bent down and picked up the guard by his armpits and dragged him inside with me. It was dim in the interior, but significantly warmer. The ground was covered in thick furs and the walls were reinforced with layers of stitched animal skins. Two braziers glowed dully near the center pole and gave off a pleasant warmth. Sitting cross-legged with his arms tied behind the pole was a Durfan man—hopefully the one I was looking for. If he wasn't, I'd have to start thinking up excuses for Solin to explain why I didn't have my homework when I returned.

I took out my knife and advanced on him. He looked up and stared apprehensively at the knife. I stood over him and hesitated.

Er . . . Bartram Dropolous?

Well, he began. He licked his lips and looked from my face back to the knife. If that's for me, then I've never heard of him. If it's for the rope, then, yes—I'm your man.

Look, I'll free you either way, I just really need to find Bartram, I said as I knelt down and began sawing away at his bonds.

All right, let's say I'm him. What do you need me for?

I'm getting you out of here. Just stick close to me and keep quiet.

After freeing Bartram, I checked the guard to make sure he was still out. Either he was unconscious, or he was making a really good show of it. I ripped off his helmet and cloak and motioned to Bartram to take the belt and sword. He didn't seem enthusiastic about it, but he complied. The way he held the weapon as he stood up made me think he wasn't used to handling such items.

You know how to use that thing?

Well, no. Not exactly.

I reached around him and put the cloak over his shoulders and then capped him on the head with the helmet. They were both a little too large. Bartram looked like a pure-blooded Durfan, a race of people not known for their height. I was a half-head taller than him and most Huthans would stand a half-head more. He was stout enough, though, so the belt didn't slide down to his ankles when I buckled it around him. Thank goodness for small wonders.

Well, you shouldn't need it anyway, I said as I stepped back and looked at him. Up close he looked exactly like what he was—a Durfan prisoner, slightly bruised, obviously escaping in a guard's helmet and cloak. That was all right, though. I didn't plan on getting too close to any more Huthans that night. Speaking of plans, I decided it was past time I started putting one together.

Can you ride a horse? I asked him as I lifted the tent flap and peeked out.

Of course.

Good. Drink whiskey?

Of course, but I— He was interrupted by the sudden gush of whiskey that splashed over his head and down his face as I upended my personal flask above him. He cursed and sputtered and when the flask was almost empty I took a big swallow and then doused myself in the rest. Most nights ended like that for me, but I had a feeling this one was just getting started.

The hell? he managed to say at last.

Part of the disguise. No one is going to want to get too close to us now.

I don't want to get too close to us now, he grumbled. I searched around the tent for a wineskin full of actual wine and when I located one, I headed for the tent flap, collaring Bartram on the way.

You couldn't have doused us in the wine?

Nah. Spilled wine just smells sour. Spilled whiskey smells like vomit.

No, it doesn't!

It doesn't? It always does to me. I wonder why that is?

Because maybe that's how you're spilling it, you—

Here we go! I wrapped my arm around Bartram's shoulder and commenced drunkenly stumbling toward the side of the camp where the horses were picketed.

The picket line was strung along the ridge on the crest of the hill. This made it easy to locate, but difficult to infiltrate. That had been the whole point of putting it there, of course. Everyone in the camp could see the horses and would be instantly alerted if anything should happen to them.

The precaution was well-advised; as a general rule, the Durfan tribes did not use large bodies of cavalry in battle, so they tended to be at a disadvantage against most Huthan tribes. The Eledani, the Durfan tribe with whom the Gregyans were currently at war, were not an exception to this rule. Consequently, they frequently used spies to slip into a Huthan camp and scare off or kill as many horses as they could.

I wasn't a Durfan spy and I didn't want to do any of that tonight. I just wanted to borrow two horses for a quick midnight ride. I doubted the guards patrolling the picket line would appreciate the distinction. Instead, I was hoping they'd appreciate a distraction. Well, maybe appreciate isn't the right word.

Need to get my blanket from my horsh, I slurred at the pair of guards who had converged on me as I walked toward them up the gentlest part of the slope. Bartram peeled off to the side and pretended to be sick in a nearby bush. The guards looked at us disgustedly and maybe a little enviously.

No one gets near the horses until dawn, one of them said. You know that. That's the rule.

S'cold! Need my blanket!

Tough. Go wrap yourself around another bottle.

Bah! I waved dismissively at them and then turned around and grabbed Bartram's cloak and pulled him away from his heaving act. Once we retreated far enough downhill to drop out of sight of the guards, I pushed him into the thick bracken that covered a steeper part of the slope and followed him in. We picked our way as far around and up the slope as we could and got as near to the picket line as we dared.

I signaled Bartram that he should stay low and quiet and he signaled back with an upright extended middle finger that he was well aware of the plan. A good man that Bartram.

It was only a matter of seconds until we heard a loud, high-pitched screech followed by a pop and a fizzle. Above our heads the night sky lit up like the sun had made an emergency appearance. A bright white ball of fire was floating in the sky and descending slowly over the tops of the trees on the side of the hill we had just come from. As it fell, shouts and screams erupted from the camp and the horses nearest the commotion stamped and pulled at their leads.

The shadows cast by the light of the mysterious ball were very long and dark on our side of the hill and Bartram and I made use of them while they lasted. We approached the picket line and found no patrolling guards. The horses were also generally calm on this end of the line with all the action occurring mostly out of their sight.

We picked out a couple of likely candidates and led them down the slope. Surprisingly, Bartram didn't seem to have any trouble mounting his horse barebacked, but I showed my relative lack of expertise in that area by failing three times before finally climbing my way onto the unfortunate beast's back with my usual signature grace. Bartram just shook his head as I winked at him and then pointed us away from the camp and kicked into a trot.

After another minute the light behind us disappeared and we slowed so the horses could pick their way in the dim light through the patchy forest that covered the valley below the hill. We were headed more or less toward the road that ran along the coast between Aelfa and the fishing villages in Orgslund, but it would be several hours until we reached it.

So what was that thing anyway? Bartram asked me in a whisper.

A flargon.

A what?

Aelfan magic.

Oh . . . Well, how did that little device you gave me manage to cause all that noise and light?

You asking me to explain magic?

Are you some kind of wizard?

No, I'm not, I said truthfully. But then I decided to play a hunch. Now that we were free, I didn't really have a surefire way of convincing Bartram to stay with me all the way to Aelfa. If he had any sense at all, he'd split at the first opportunity. But my master is a very powerful sorcerer. He ordered me to rescue you. He has important questions for you and you'd be wise to come with me and answer them. If you tell him all that you know, he'll reward you. Attempt to escape, however and . . .

And what?

Well, let's just say the last man he had to hunt down looked more like a toad than a man by the time my master hauled him back to Aelfa, if you know what I mean.

Oh . . . Well, what does he want to know?

I'm not sure exactly, but I think he's taken an interest in your stories about the Vizians.

He's interested in the Vizians? Bartram exclaimed in a loud voice. I waved frantically at him to keep it down and he nodded and whispered an apology.

He is, I said. And he'd like to hear more. Much more.

I was in luck. Bartram was instantly onboard. Solin had told me before he sent me on this mission that he had heard Bartram had been trying to organize an expedition to some ruins that he claimed were Vizian in origin. Apparently he had heard correctly. Before I got to him, the Durfan man had been unfortunate enough to have his small band of would-be treasure hunters ambushed by the Gregyan