Once their decision was made, Sören’s group wasted no time in leaving Beinn Eallair. The road to Lanark was long, and they would have to cross the regions occupied by the English in the south.
Fortunately, the Brotherhood were correct: Edward’s forces were confined to their garrisons and had not yet gone on the march. Luckily, they didn’t come across any more Lann Fala, either.
It took two weeks for them to reach the meeting point, in the heart of an impenetrable forest of Lanarkshire. Dawn had barely broken when they entered a hidden, makeshift camp.
All around, men were busy in eager, continuous movements. Some sharpened weapons, cut arrows, or checked armor while others perfected their combat techniques. Every single one was preparing for battle and the tension was palpable on their faces.
“Sören!” rejoiced William Wallace as he saw them dismount their horses. “I’m glad you accepted my invitation. You’ll see, a great battle awaits us, and therefore a great victory, I can assure you.”
By way of greeting, the Norwegian grumbled.
“I mostly just came to ensure that my apprentice fulfills his role, and fulfills it well, before I hand him over to you.”
Fillan shook the Highlander’s hand.
“My word, Fillan! I don’t need to fight you to know that Sören has accomplished his mission. I’m happy to see it. And glad to see you survived his training. What I’m planning for Lanark is going to test everything you learned over the winter.”
“I’m ready,” announced Fillan, putting a hand on the pommel of Fal’s sword strapped to his belt.
“But what’s all this?” asked William, seeing the bound and gagged person strapped across a donkey. “Is that… Deorsa?!”
“Yup,” agreed Sören. “What you see there is the result of a democratic vote. He annoyed everyone so much, it was the only way to avoid a bloody tragedy befalling him. Right, Kyle?”
She growled.
Fillan was the only one who openly opposed it, more to look good than anything else, not wanting the Brotherhood to hold it against him afterwards.
Wallace rushed to the mule to free Deorsa.
“And the donkey, was that the result of a democratic vote, too?”
“No, that was just what we had.”
“Damn it, Sören, I know you hate each other, but you could have made an effort…”
“An effort?!” the spy began to bellow as William removed his gag. “The only effort he’s capable of is reckless violence!”
“Oh, shut up! Give it a rest,” retorted Sören with an evil look. “I could have abandoned you somewhere and I didn’t.”
“So what?! I’m supposed to be grateful?”
“Maybe…”
Fillan left them to their argument and headed over to greet James de Crannach, who was studying a map of the region.
“Fillan!” he exclaimed once he noticed him. “I’m happy to see you. Did you get my message?”
“Yeah, that was very kind of you. Why didn’t you come with Deorsa?”
“And have to put up with him the whole way? You’re crazy!”
They burst out laughing.
“Besides, I had other things to do, and Sören would never have allowed me to go to his fortress: so few people know where it is,” he added, giving Fillan an envious look. “But tell me instead how your training went!”
Fillan told him in detail about the winter he had spent at Beinn Eallair, explaining his progress.
“Have you taken the Leap of Faith yet?” prodded James.
“In the middle of the night, in the middle of a storm; I thought I was going to freeze there.”
He saw himself jump from the top of the tower, surrounded by darkness, and land in a body of water beside the fortress.
“You’ve progressed so fast, it’s amazing! This must be one of the peculiarities of the Children of Fal.”
Fillan smiled, torn between pride and embarrassment, and they continued to chat for quite a while. Thomas’s apprentice was eager to get in on the action at Lanark, just like Fillan. Everyone was eager to prove themselves, and a touch of competition ended up in their discussion.
An hour later they were reunited with the mercenaries, gathered around Wallace as he explained his plan.
“There are two targets. The first is the town sheriff of Lanark, William Heselrig. He is an odious and ruthless Englishman, put in place by Edward to rule the city and its suburbs with an iron fist.”
“Is he a Templar?” asked Fillan.
“Not directly, no. But it’s no coincidence that the king chose him. He assisted the Lann Fala after the massacre of Berwick. He is a close collaborator of the Order. James and I will take care of eradicating him. With the death of Heselrig, the garrison of the city will be in chaos. That’s what the population is waiting for to rise up and confront the English.”
“You mentioned a second objective,” Sören said.
“In addition to the garrison in town, a camp has been set up not far away, in the woods. Its leader is Commander Dacre. He is the second target, and I would like Fillan to take care of this one.”
He puffed out his chest and looked determined.
“I can do it,” he announced calmly.
“Two assassinations and a revolt,” said Sören pensively. “Aren’t you afraid that something so dramatic will attract the attention of the Order and set them on our trail?”
“That’s the risk, of course. But if we coordinate, we hope that the Templars will be fooled into thinking that the death of the sheriff and the commander are only consequences of the revolt, not their point of origin.”
“It’s a dangerous game, but it just might work,” approved Sören.
“Especially if, as I hope, the revolt then spreads to all of Lanarkshire. I’m in contact with many people among the population, and they are just waiting for the right time to take action.”
“It’s an ingenious plan,” Deorsa observed. “I’ve already told you that. It has every chance of working. When are you planning to launch the attack?”
“Today,” the Highlander said.
“What?!” gasped Deorsa.
Fillan wasn’t expecting to have to take action so soon either.
“There’s no time to lose. With or without us, the people will rise up. Better to let it be on our signal. If we wait and the revolt is nipped in the bud, we will no longer be able to take advantage of the situation.”
“But I wish I had time to do my scouting in the area!” Deorsa sputtered in annoyance. “To make sure that we are in no danger of setbacks, or worse, that the Lann Fala aren’t waiting for the right moment to spring their trap.”
“That too is a risk worth taking.”
“Wallace is right,” his former mentor added. “Better to use the element of surprise. We strike fast, like lightning, and we disappear as soon as the revolt has taken hold.”
“Since when do you use ‘we’ again?” asked the spy with a haughty and contemptuous air.
“Rest assured that it has nothing to do with you,” retorted Sören, stepping threateningly towards him. “I’d rather die than be associated with a wart like you.”
William sat up, folded his arms, and interrupted them in a thundering voice.
“We don’t have time for these petty quarrels,” he raged. “The success of this operation hangs by a thread. It only takes one error, a hesitation, or a disagreement to make it fail—and then the fire won’t catch. If you have nothing better to do but argue, you can leave this camp right away.”
Sören stared calmly at his former apprentice and leaned his head aside, as a sign of appeasement. Deorsa folded his arms and scowled.
“Everyone knows what they have to do,” resumed the Highlander to conclude the meeting. “James, Fillan: we have to act in broad daylight, which will not make it easy for you. You must not be spotted. Don’t waste time, come on. Prepare yourselves and analyze the terrain.”
Everyone dispersed.
When Fillan found himself at the top of a tree, not far from the English garrison, the sun was at its zenith. The sun’s rays scorched his shoulders as he observed the comings and goings of soldiers in their tents and the different possible entries. The camp had been pitched in a valley, which was not to his advantage, but with the onset of spring, the vegetation was growing all around and offered plenty of cover.
He climbed back down and took the opportunity to exercise his shoulder to make sure there was no chance of it seizing up. It was stiff and tense, but it was bearable. Sören waited for him, leant against the trunk.
“Did you find out how you’re going to get into the camp?” he asked.
“There’s a gap in the palisade to the east.”
“Keep calm,” his mentor advised him. “And everything will be well.”
Fillan was calm. Terribly quiet. Impatient, too. Not just to prove his abilities, but because that first blood would taste like the vengeance he had long dreamed of satisfying.
They clasped each other’s hands tightly, and then he rushed forward.
Barely out of the shelter of the forest, he squatted down in the high weeds so the sentries wouldn’t spot him and moved forward quickly, discreetly.
He felt like everything inside him was colder than the inside of a dolmen. The terror that once paralyzed him was gone. He saw the wooden palisade erected all around the camp, as well as the entrance gate where two men were climbing the watchtower. It was far too risky an approach, so he wasn’t going that way.
He skirted to the left, hoping to take advantage of the shade projected by the wooden wall.
After a few steps, he heard a branch crack behind him and sensed a movement.
“Who’s there?” called out a voice.
It was a patrolman.
Fillan did not give him time to sound the alarm and silently cut his throat in one leap, without asking a single question. Without questioning how he felt about it.
The time would come for emotion.
Later.
He hid the body in the tall grass and continued on his path with extra caution, nearing the wooden logs that rose high into the air and that were squeezed so tightly together that one might think they made up a single, gigantic tree.
It didn’t take him long to locate the irregularity that had made him try this approach. With the thaw, a log of wood had dropped out of place, leaving a thin passage at its base.
He listened.
Not a sound.
A peek through the gap revealed the back of a tent. He couldn’t have wished for a better way to conceal his entrance and went in head-first. At the exact moment he twisted and got his belt stuck, a soldier emerged from beside the tent door.
If he turns around, I’m dead, Fillan thought, freezing.
An ounce of fear crept into him and started to crack the ice of his emotions. He was afraid of being spotted, stuck so stupidly, without even being able to reach the commander’s tent. What a terrible and shameful end.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the Englishman stretch and walk away.
He managed to free himself as he took a deep breath out and completely emptied his lungs.
Still crouching low to be less visible, he approached the tent and mentally reviewed the entire camp. Once he was certain of the right direction, he slipped away, taking advantage of the shadows of the tents or the palisade, depending on the orientation of the sun. Every time he had to break cover, he cast a quick look around before running like the wind, carefully measuring each of his steps and controlling his breathing.
Once in front of the correct tent, he stopped, holding his ear to the fabric.
A man sneezed inside.
It was Dacre, his target. Fillan had seen him return to his tent while he’d watched from his treetop perch. Before slipping between the pieces of fabric that he took care to cut with the utmost discretion, Fillan felt for Ogme’s pendant against his chest and briefly clasped it in his hand.
Determination. Lucidity. Balance.
He entered silently to a subdued atmosphere. He noticed a bed overflowing with blankets, and the smell of camphor that permeated the air invaded his nostrils. A man stood leaning over a table with his back to Fillan, a little further away from the bed. He spotted armor propped against a chest, and its cape reminded him of something, but he couldn’t remember what.
Just as he was about to jump, a soldier burst through the entrance in front of him, forcing him to flatten himself on the ground.
“Commander, Pete hasn’t returned from his patrol.”
“That lazy ass must have fallen asleep at the foot of a tree trunk after sipping too much wine again. Find him for me! No rations for him tonight!”
Fillan felt his confidence crack a little more.
If the body of the man he was about to kill was discovered, the alarm would be sounded and the whole operation might fail. He must do it very quickly.
No sooner had the soldier left the tent than Fillan silently climbed over the blankets and approached, sword drawn.
Judging by the grayness of his hair, Dacre was an old man, and he walked over to a chest of drawers on his left to grab a glass as a coughing fit shook his shoulders.
It was curious. Fillan had a sense of déjà vu. This build and gait meant something to him.
Berwick.
The word popped into his mind.
It’s the cape and the build of the man I saw in the alley in Berwick.
Petrified by this dreadful observation, the image of his sister with her vacant eyes flooding his mind, he missed the perfect moment to strike. The commander turned and stared at him, dropping the documents and the cup he was holding.
“You… You’re…” he stammered, holding back his cough.
Fal’s sword pierced his chest, quickly, and it was quite dry when it came out.
The body of the old soldier fell to the ground, accompanied by Fillan’s arm.
A spasm shook one of his legs.
“You are Fillan…” he breathed as blood began to appear at the corners of his lips. “You… You have her eyes.”
Fillan did not have time to wonder what that meant before pain burst on the side of his skull and he dropped his weapon. A soldier who had just entered the tent rushed at him and immobilized him on the floor. A first blow flew at the level of his groin, a second to the liver, then a third to the temple.
Fillan was forced to shield his face, deflecting a new blow before he heard the shrill sound of a blade being drawn from its sheath. He barely stopped the dagger, an inch from his face, blocking the arm of his assailant.
Using a technique Kyle had taught him, he flipped his position by twisting his opponent’s wrist to seize the weapon.
With a flick of his hips, he rocked his entire body and pulled the warrior over, who rolled in the blood of the old commander. With a measured, precise gesture, he stuck the short blade to their throat.
Ogme was pressed against his chest, as though to remind him of moderation, restraint. He was about to slide his blade across the fair skin when the warrior stopped struggling.
“Fi… Fillan?” they said in a low voice, full of emotion.
He stared into the eyes of the person under the hood.
Two eyes identical to his.