A Trail of Fire by Diana Gabaldon Page B

to keep up, lurching on his bad knee with every step.
    ‘Where we going?’ he panted, when he thought it safe to speak.
    ‘We’re taking ye back to the stones near the lake,’ the dark man said tersely. ‘That has to be where ye came through.’ The fair one just snorted, as though this wasn’t his notion – but he didn’t argue.
    Hope flared up in Jerry like a bonfire. They knew what the stones were, how it worked. They’d show him how to get back!
    ‘How— how did ye find me?’ He could hardly breathe, such a pace they kept up, but had to know. The lantern was shut and he couldn’t see their faces, but the dark man made a muffled sound that might have been a laugh.
    ‘I met an auld wifie wearing your dog-tags. Very proud of them, she was.’
    ‘Ye’ve got them?’ Jerry gasped.
    ‘Nay, she wouldna give them up.’ It was the fair man, sounding definitely amused. ‘Told us where she’d got them, though, and we followed your trail backward. Hey!’ He caught Jerry’s elbow, just as his foot twisted out from under him. The sound of a barking dog broke the night – some way away, but distinct. The fair man’s hand clenched tight on his arm. ‘Come on, then – hurry!’
    Jerry had a bad stitch in his side, and his knee was all but useless by the time the little group of stones came in sight, a pale huddle in the light of the waning moon. Still, he was surprised at how near the stones were to the farmhouse; he must have circled round more than he thought in his wanderings.
    ‘Right,’ said the dark man, coming to an abrupt halt. ‘This is where we leave you.’
    ‘Ye do?’ Jerry panted. ‘But— but you—’
    ‘When ye came . . . through. Did ye have anything on you? A gemstone, any jewellery?’
    ‘Aye,’ Jerry said, bewildered. ‘I had a raw sapphire in my pocket. But it’s gone. It’s like it—’
    ‘Like it burnt up,’ the blond man finished for him, grim-voiced. ‘Aye. Well, so?’ This last was clearly addressed to the dark man, who hesitated. Jerry couldn’t see his face, but his whole body spoke of indecision. He wasn’t one to dither, though – he stuck a hand into the leather pouch at his waist, pulled something out, and pressed it into Jerry’s hand. It was faintly warm from the man’s body, and hard in his palm. A small stone of some kind. Faceted, like the stone in a ring.
    ‘Take this; it’s a good one. When ye go through,’ the dark man was speaking urgently to him, ‘think about your wife, about Marjorie. Think hard; see her in your mind’s eye, and walk straight through. Whatever the hell ye do, though, don’t think about your son. Just your wife.’
    ‘What?’ Jerry was gob-smacked. ‘How the bloody hell do you know my wife’s name? And where’ve ye heard about my son?’
    ‘It doesn’t matter,’ the man said, and Jerry saw the motion as he turned his head to look back over his shoulder.
    ‘Damn,’ said the fair one, softly. ‘They’re coming. There’s a light.’
    There was: a single light, bobbing evenly over the ground, as it would if someone carried it. But look as he might, Jerry could see no one behind it, and a violent shiver ran over him.
    ‘ Tannasg, ’ said the other man under his breath. Jerry knew that word well enough – spirit, it meant. And usually an ill-disposed one. A haunt.
    ‘Aye, maybe.’ The dark man’s voice was calm. ‘And maybe not. It’s near Samhain, after all. Either way, ye need to go, man, and now. Remember, think of your wife.’
    Jerry swallowed, his hand closing tight around the stone.
    ‘Aye. Aye . . . right. Thanks, then,’ he added awkwardly, and heard the breath of a rueful laugh from the dark man.
    ‘Nay bother, mate,’ he said. And with that, they were both off, making their way across the stubbled meadow, two lumbering shapes in the moonlight.
    Heart thumping in his ears, Jerry turned toward the stones. They looked just like they’d looked before. Just stones. But the echo of what he’d heard in