When Darkness Comes Read online

  Unfortunately, it had been a while since Brent had suggested such a thing. At the beginning of their relationship and for several years into it, nothing had to prompt Brent to take her hand and just start praying; about nothing specific sometimes. Every once in a while he’d just walk up behind her while she’d be cooking or folding laundry and rest his hands on her shoulders. Then he’d lean his head forward until it touched the back of hers and he’d just whisper a word of thanks to the Lord.

  After they had children things began to change. It was fatigue. The spring in their spiritual steps seemed to quiet down into just surviving each day and night. The nighttime feedings and diaper changes, the runs to the store, working extra shifts or doing off-duty work to offset some of the hospital costs and other new expenses. Of course, all of this should have caused them to focus more on the Lord, but both of them had allowed the spiritual things to slip into mundane, daily habits and ineffective religious rituals.

  Now, they still attended church, of course. And, certainly, they both still prayed; they just no longer did it together. Grace at the dinner table didn’t quite count.

  Life never let up, so they never changed their spiritual habits. They just tended to sometimes glide, sometimes drag from one day into another, never really asking the Lord for much in the form of help.

  Now Tara stood there looking at the man that she still loved more than life itself, seeing a new form of concern in his eyes. Slight fear maybe?

  “Okay. We’ve been long overdue anyway, so maybe this is a good thing.”

  He looked at her with raised eyebrows.

  “I don’t mean ‘good thing’ as in good thing. I mean sometimes God uses what the enemy means for evil to also accomplish some good.”

  He winked at her. “I knew what you meant.”

  “So, it must really be weighing heavy on you,” she said as she turned around and walked back to the table and sat down.

  He slowly walked back and sat down, as well. “Something the Pastor said… I can’t get it out of my head. And it’s that which scares me a little bit.”

  Tara felt a slight chill course through her body before he said his next sentence. It was as if a confirmation was penetrating before she had anything to confirm. “What was it?”

  “He didn’t come out and say that it was going to happen, but I saw his eyes when the thought occurred to him. It unnerved him. At least momentarily.”

  “What was it, Brent?”

  “He said that there was a possibility that a Principality or Power has taken station over our area. Or will.”

  Tara thought back to her days in the craft. She had never used those exact words, but she knew that there were powers in the heavenlies that dominated areas. But a Principality or Power over a city as small as Millsville? She knew the pastor’s phrase from the Bible, of course, but never gave it a whole lot of thought regarding her own life since her salvation.

  In fact, unlike Brent, she had never been tasked by the Lord to get involved in the rescue of another individual who was participating in the occult, let alone having to worry about the protection of a city. Was all of that about to change?

  “Okaaay,” she replied, dragging the word out, “Umm… okay, then we take it seriously. We begin to pray together, again, like we used to.”

  Brent sighed. Tara knew what he was thinking. Like we used to.

  “Hey,” she said, giving him a closed-mouth smile, hoping that it reached into her eyes.

  He took that moment and looked deep into her soul. Her heart skipped a beat. A spark! Her lips parted, and she felt a broad smile light up her face. “Let’s get back to who we used to be.”

  She gave a little nod. His smile reached his eyes, too.

  I love seeing that!

  He reached across the table and took her hands in his. With his next few words he maintained eye contact, then they both dove in with all of their hearts. “Father, we love you! Welcome us back into your throne room as we welcome you back into our daily lives.”

  3:47 P.M.

  BRENT WALKED INTO his captain’s office before heading out on patrol. The thought occurred to him that maybe someone in the department or in other local-area departments may have heard of some strange goings-on in the surrounding communities.

  “Come in, Brent. What’s going on?”

  Captain Morelli was just a couple years older than he. A genial man most of the time, he was someone who garnered trust among everyone on the force and he was as capable an administrator as he was an officer in the field. The thing that Brent probably appreciated most was that he took time for his men; he never just dismissed them out of hand, which was saying a lot, considering how sometimes he probably should. Maybe just like this time.

  “Afternoon, Captain. Just wanted to stop in before getting into that old jalopy I’ve been driving.”

  The Captain smiled at the jab and held up his hands in mock defense. “I know! I know! We’re getting there. The mayor is submitting the purchase of new cars to the town council tomorrow.”

  That took Brent by surprise. Pleasant surprise. “Well, now. That’s great to hear.”

  “Now you can go patrol in peace.”

  Brent chuckled. “Well, sir, as much as I do want those new vehicles, that’s not why I interrupted your day this time.”

  “Oh? What, then?”

  “Okay, this is going to sound a bit strange. And, no, I don’t have any hunches, and I’ve not seen anything. But a few concerned citizens have been remarking lately that they…” Brent closed his eyes and sighed.

  “I’m listening.”

  “… that they’ve been sensing something in the community. Something that’s not quite right. They can’t explain what they’re feeling. They’re just troubled. I was wondering if you had heard anything similar, or if another department in the area may have hinted at anything.”

  The captain cocked his head and squinted his right eye at Brent. “You’re serious?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m serious.”

  “Well, no reports of hobgoblins or gremlins as of late.”

  Brent gave a forced laugh. “Good. That’s good to hear. Thanks for your time, Captain.” Embarrassed, he turned for the door.

  “Sergeant, if I hear anything similar to what you’ve just said, I’ll let you know. Especially if you’re wanting to be on the cutting edge of any paranormal police work.” He, too, chuckled.

  Brent walked out the door. No, Sir, he thought. That is the last thing I want on my plate.

  Eighteen sets of leather-shod feet trekked onto the shore. Fourteen men remained in each of the three boats that had transported them. The cloud cover was good for such an important raid.

  It had only been a matter of weeks since the discovery of the legendary Key of Bridei’s location in Ireland. But for the key to ever be worth stealing from another country, Clan MacKay had to first steal the standing stone that the key fit into from their own.

  Known simply as the ‘Key Stone,’ it was of such importance that these eighteen souls would risk their lives—give them, if need be—to retrieve it. If things should begin to go awry, the remaining forty-two men would rush into the village to their aid against the damnable Clan Ross.

  Clan Ross was as Scottish as they came. They still sang songs of the defeat of the ancient Picti people and how they had played such an important role in that carnage.

  Clan MacKay, on the other hand, could trace its lineage back to the Picts. The MacKays were considered one of the “mongrel” clans, being Scottish only through having been conquered. They had no hold on nobility and none among them would ever hold a title. That was fine by them, though. They wanted no part of Scotland, England, Wales, or of Ireland, for that matter.

  They considered themselves a people without a nation. But they hoped, now, to be able to rediscover their heritage. Mostly legend and myth, the stories told around the fire about the Picts, also known as the Cruithni in the Gaelic tongue, were still rich and caught the imagination. The
Legend of the Key of Bridei had been passed down from generation to generation for nearly 600 years. The tale of Drosten the Great could, even now, be told with great attention to detail by many of their children.

  The account traced the heroic acts of Drosten, who saved the identity of the Picti people. By some accounts, they had at that time been called Pexa. No one knew for sure how accurate that was, though. What they were sure of was that they once wielded glory and power. They had been a blessed people. Some stories even went so far as to call the Picts enchanted and maybe even related to the “faery folk.”

  This night would be sung about for a thousand years. Soon the name of Aonghus Roy MacKay would be synonymous with that of Drosten the Great!

  Aonghus crept forward on hands and knees over broken shells, pebbles, and rocks. They still had to traverse from where they landed, into the village of Portmahomack where the stone was being kept. It was no great distance, and the ground was flat. It should take just a few minutes, while hunkered down, to reach the outlying homes.

  There should be no reason for anyone to be about within the village. By their reckoning, they should pretty much be able to walk in and take the stone. The problem was the size and weight of it. And, from what they had been told, it stood upright in the ground as the centerpiece to the church’s graveyard. There would be the extra effort of extracting it from the ground.

  I’ll wager that they look upon it as the grave marker of the Picti people, thought Aonghus. No matter. That will change tonight.

  Five days prior, three boats with twenty-four men each, had set out northward via the River Naver on the 130-mile excursion which had first taken them into Torrisdale Bay. From there they sailed East through Pentland Firth, then South to the Tarbat Peninsula, finally landing near the village of Portmahomack. It had not been an altogether difficult journey. In fact, it would be the journey home that was going to tax their strength.

  Within an hour of arriving at Portmahomack, if all went well, they would repeat the same journey in the opposite direction, putting all their effort into distancing themselves from any possible pursuers. The thought of raiding the much-hated Ross clan had inspired many of the MacKays back home in Strathnaver to volunteer for this raiding party, and as a result, they were able to choose men of strength, courage, and endurance for the grueling round trip voyage.

  They had rowed passed Portmahomack to begin their approach to the village from the south. The landing had been easier and quieter due to a small stretch of sandy beach on the western shore of the Tarbat Peninsula. The remaining MacKays in the boats would guide the craft silently to the north and wait for the raiding party to reach them there. The shore above the village would be rocky, and certainly more treacherous to navigate by foot, but if trouble befell the raiding party, launching from the north would keep them from having to pass the village, while in harm’s way of arrows and spears, to head back home.

  Should the moon break through, all were prepared. They wore blackened metal skull caps so that they would not reflect any light. They wore no leg protection, save black hose, to, again, darken their appearance. Under dark-dyed quilted jackets, they wore light chain maille, as fast movement would be essential. All wore their clan badge—a sprig of great bulrush—pinned to their left shoulders, an extra level of identification if things should come to a head in battle.

  Nearly all of the men carried claymores. The sword could unleash hellish damage to an enemy. Nearly four feet long and double-bladed, it was the mainstay of any fighter’s arsenal. Two of the men, though, carried war hammers instead, handy for striking an opponent and rendering him senseless, then allowing for a more powerful follow-up blow. The spiked side of the weapon could penetrate armor and even tear apart a shield. All carried dirks fastened to their belts, daggers of about twelve inches in length and sharpened on one side.

  Coming up off the beach, they entered the field south of the village. They all kept low profiles as they went a few hundred feet inland before heading north. When they had come within two-hundred feet of the village, they encountered a low stone wall. This was good. It gave them a few minutes to reconnoiter from a short distance. All was as they had hoped. As far as the Rosses were concerned, it was just another calm summer night.

  The men separated into two groups of nine, one taking a wide inland route around the village, the other, led by Aonghus, skirted the village itself. Quietly, they approached homes and other buildings, using them for cover as they listened for movement or conversation within. Thankfully, all was quiet.

  Aonghus was nearly beside himself with excitement. Never, in subsequent raids, had any raiding party gotten this far into Ross Clan territory without being found out. His heart beat with anticipation. Their goal, the churchyard and cemetery, was within sight.

  About a third of the way into the village, and toward the back, was the Tarbat Church. Around it was the graveyard in which their precious Key Stone stood waiting; beckoning to be rescued into the hands of the Picti people once again.

  The church and graveyard were also surrounded by a stone wall. Both parties met up again at the church grounds, and carefully all eighteen men climbed over, being careful not to allow the metal of their claymores or dirks to make contact with the stonework.

  Once inside the graveyard, they searched for their sacred stone. It did not take long to find it. It was tall, wide, and flat. One side, like any number of Pictish standing stones, was ornamentally covered with engravings. The opposite side was engraved, as well, but the bare circle at its center was what made the Key Stone stand out. In the middle of the circle was a hole about an inch-and-a-half wide. Upon its recognition, several of the men patted each other on the backs and shoulders, large grins appearing on their faces.

  But it was too early to celebrate in full. They still had to wrest this large object out of the ground. To that end, the two men who had brought the battle hammers began hacking at the ground around the stone with the pick ends of the heavy weapons, careful not to come too close to the stone. After a few minutes of loosening the ground, they moved away and four other men moved in to start scooping away large amounts of grass and dirt.

  The work went smoothly, and after they had gotten a couple of feet of dirt removed, the men began to shove the stone backward and forward, breaking the earth’s grip.

  Then it was done. With the stone having been lowered flat to the ground, ten of the men lifted it into the air like a stretcher.

  Now was the time of their greatest risk.

  The pace at which they moved north around the east side of the village was quick and easy. The only delays were due to two low walls which had to be crossed. Those walls now behind them, they believed they had passed their final obstacle.

  They were wrong.

  Dead wrong.

  One of the homes—one of the very last that they had to pass before meeting their boats at the shore, had a wood-post animal pen attached to it. And in the pen, nine hunting dogs. It might have been a muffled cough or the snap of a twig, but whatever caught the ear of the first hound triggered an event that would be remembered throughout the ages as the Battle of Tarbat.7

  The violent eruption of barking in the dead of night startled the raiders. As a result, the men began to run without regard for stealth. A Ross clansman, out of his home to relieve himself, found that he could see the party at a distance heading through a vegetable garden. In no time, he voiced an alarm that roused the households nearest him. He then began to run south into the village raising his clarion cry to new levels.

  Men began pouring out of their homes, claymores in hand. The MacKays stopped their forward progress as they were about to be cut off from the beach. They turned about, thinking to run from the Rosses, but unsure where to go for cover. One of the men purposely let go his grip on the Key Stone, followed by another who couldn’t maintain his. The extra weight in the hands of the remaining eight men caused them all to falter. The stone was put to the ground.

  Aonghus, knowing that
any attempt to reclaim the stone was going to have to come from the use of the sword, drew his. He turned to face the oncoming group of some fifteen Rosses who were already armed for conflict. The other seventeen men in his party did the same. They still had a chance.

  The call of alarm in the village had another effect that was unexpected by the Rosses giving chase. Forty-two men began to disembark from three boats and rush the shore.

  At first, the battle that ensued favored the MacKays. But within five minutes, the sixty MacKays were met by a force of men twice that of their own. Then it was three times the size. The men from the boats were being hacked down, while the Clan Ross chief, Alistair Ross, along with a band of forty men chased Aonghus MacKay and his raiding party back to the Tarbat churchyard.

  Having made it into the church, Aonghus and his men fortified the doors against Ross’s men in an attempt to organize for a counter attack. None of the eighteen had died yet, but they saw the writing on the wall. As Aonghus was evaluating their situation, through one of the windows he heard something that sent a cold chill down his spine.

  It was Alistair Ross. And he had just uttered two words that sealed their fate.

  “Torch it!”

  THREE DAYS AFTER having put all of the remaining MacKay bodies into a pit and lighting them afire, Alistair Ross ordered the Key Stone to be broken into pieces. He had decided against pulverizing it to dust. Instead the nine pieces of the stone would be used as a tease.

  A lone MacKay clansman, who was spared the sword and fire, was released with the knowledge that their precious Key Stone would now be used for building and repair projects throughout the village. The news delivered to Clan MacKay back in Strathnaver of the death of their chief, as well as the now-permanent ensconcement of their holy relic throughout Portmahomack, would serve as a final warning to never set foot into Ross territory again.

  Roughly twenty-four years had passed since David McNeill, a.k.a. Cowan Cormack, had discovered the first two pieces of the Pictish Key Stone in Northern Scotland. Since then, modern archeology proved to be one of the greatest assets to the Society of Bridei, leading to the discovery of six more of the nine pieces of the stone.