The shepherd's hut they found was small and made out of rough planks hammered together. The lean-to alongside was probably more used to sheltering sheep and goats than horses, but there was room enough for Black Bess. Dick tied her up, giving her his cloak for warmth against the cold and propping the battered door up to keep out the wind.

In the hut, Swiftnick had dumped their saddlebags and found a half-full oil lamp for light. He had also made up a rough bed on the floor out of the old blankets he had found in a corner. There was no furniture and only a rough circular stone lined pit in the floor for warmth and cooking. A few tools had been stacked against the wall for use when the weather improved; a pitchfork, an half rusty axe, a sledgehammer…. Swiftnick was attempting to start a fire in it when Dick came in, stamping his feet and blowing on his frozen fingers. "I disturbed a mouse nest, other than that I don't think anyone's used this place in a long time," the youth commented.

"Shepherds follow their flocks. He could have found better pasture for bad weather. Here, go sit over there. I’ll do that." Shooing Swiftnick off to the blankets, Dick settled down to start the fire with the dry tinder his accomplice had found and soon had the fire crackling merrily. That done he rummaged through the saddlebags; a wicked grin spread across his face as he found the rowan box and he slid a quick look over his shoulder at his companion. Swiftnick had made himself comfortable in the blankets, propping himself against the wall.

"I'd better check the hand's still there," he said casually, groping inside the box to grip the cold clammy hand in his own. The he flung himself backward with a loud cry, flailing and writhing as he clutched the thing to his throat. "Help! Help! It's got me!"

"Dick!" Swiftnick shot to his feet, tripped over the tangled blankets and went sprawling as he scrabbled for the guns. He actually had his hand on his pistol when he realised Turpin had collapsed on the dirt floor and was laughing his head off as he waved the waxed hand at him.

"Fooled you!" Turpin chuckled.

"You, you…." Swiftnick sat back on his heels, glaring at him in outraged. "I thought it'd had attacked you! I could have shot you!"

"Nah!" Turpin chortled as he sat up and dumped the hand back in its box, grinning at Swiftnick's disgusted expression. "Cheer up, lad. It's harmless. It's all shrivelled up and looking like a bunch of half cooked sausages….which reminds me…."

"Reminds you of what?" Swiftnick demanded suspiciously.

"That I could murder a sausage sandwich."

Swiftnick shuddered in revulsion. "You’re as horrible as that hand! How can you think of food?!"

"Because I'm hungry," Dick replied easily, tossing his bandanna back over the box and its loathsome contents. He glanced at Swiftnick's squeamish expression and winked at him. "Ah, it’s a bit of nonsense is all. It can't hurt you," he said lightly. Leaving the box by the fire, he turned his attention to the other bag, finding his silver flask and his herbal salves, plus a rough packet of cheese sandwiches. He tossed the sandwiches to Swiftnick. "Here, have a bite to eat while I wash up."

"You’re sick, you are. Sick! I don't want the sandwiches."

Turpin grinned as he headed for the door. "I've told you before. Eat when you've got the chance. You never know when you'll get your next meal. Besides if I know you, you'll be hungry later," he said confidently and ducked out as Swiftnick threw his tricorn at him.

It seemed to have got even colder outside and the wind was screaming for vengeance as it tore around the hut, rattling boards and shrieking around the corners. The moon was huge overhead, staring down at him from a single milky eye.

Dick checked on Black Bess, pleased to see the mare was comfortable enough to doze. There was a fine layer of ice forming in the corners of the horse trough that he smashed with the leaky old bucket he found alongside. He filled the bucket to wash his hands, not wanting to dirty the water they might need later. With his fingers aching from the cold, he was glad to nip back inside as clouds crept across the moon, creating a blue white aurora around its pallid gleam. The wind snatched the door from his hand, slamming it back against the wall inside and making Swiftnick let out a yip of genuine fright.

"Sorry, lad, didn't mean to make you jump," Dick apologised as he forced the door shut against the wind and latched it securely.

"So you should be for leaving me alone with that, that thing! Why didn't you take it outside?"

"It'd get cold," Turpin replied amiably. "Won't do it much good if it freezes."

"It managed to survive being nailed to that rock all right," Swiftnick grumbled, snuggling back into his blankets. "And why do you think someone did that, huh?"

"So it couldn't get away of course."

Swiftnick stared at him wide eyed. "I'm sure I told you before that isn't funny!"

"Ah, but your expression is," Turpin replied gleefully.

Swiftnick stuck his tongue out at him.

"Ah, now comes reasoned argument," Dick said amusement. Coming over to Swiftnick he put down the lamp then settled down beside him and gave him the flask. "Have a sip of that, lad. Best brandy. It'll buck you up a bit. Not too much mind. You're not used to the strong stuff."

Swiftnick gave him a rueful grin and took a cautious sip. His eyes widened as the brandy burned its way down, leaving an amber glow behind it. "Smooth…" he croaked.

Dick chuckled as he took a quick swig for himself and then tapped the silver stopper back in place. "Bet the nob who owned it never had as fine a brandy as that in it," he said cheerfully. "Got if off an Earl despite his best efforts to stop me."

"Can I have some more?"

"Maybe after I have a look at your arm," Dick answered as he tugged at Swiftnick's ripped shirtsleeve. "Don't want your arm dropping off, now do we?"

"Oh, you are in such a fun mood," Swiftnick snorted, wincing as the highwayman peeled off the rough bandage. "Ow!"

"Ah, the rough tough highwayman," Dick snorted as he clucked his tongue over the wound. It wasn't as deep as he had feared, but it looked a little red around the edges and he could feel the heat in the wound. "Did you eat all the sandwiches?"

"I never touched them," Swiftnick protested indignantly. "I told you I'm not…" He clamped his lips tight shut as Dick unexpectedly sloshed the brandy over the wound, the strain of holding his tongue showing as his eyes widened.

"Good, lad," Turpin said quietly. "Had to take you by surprise there…"

"Aye," Swiftnick agreed in a small voice. "I'd have punched you if you’d told me. I still might!"

"No, you won't. You'll hold still and let me finish." Turpin set the flask aside and broke open one of the waxed packets Glenrae had made up for him. The Scotsman had a peculiar belief that boiled bandages sealed up in waxed paper were the best dressings for a wound. Dick wasn't quite sure why; some kind of magic spell perhaps? But he had long ago stopped arguing. A wound tended by Glenrae's methods healed well most times.

He mopped up Swiftnick's arm and then slathered on his herbal salve. He didn't need to be watching Swiftnick to feel him relax as the pain eased and he made no objection when the youth picked up the flask and took a another quick mouthful. Finally satisfied that he had done the best he could for the wound, Dick tied a final knot in place and then tucked the blankets around his young partner. Settling down beside him, he spread Swiftnick's warm cloak across the both of them and settled back against the wall with the sandwiches. "Here, want one?" he offered as he unwrapped them.

"No." Swiftnick was being stubborn as he attempted to get his aching body comfortable.

"Cheese and chutney," Dick coaxed, waving a rough-hewn chunk of bread and cheese under the lad's nose. Swiftnick hesitated, his appetite awaking as he sniffed. "Make you feel better. You'll sleep better when you’re fed."

Swiftnick grabbed it and started chewing. "One of us should keep watch," he mumbled around a full mouth.

"I'll take the first one," Dick agreed, already certain it was unnecessary. No one was going to find them up here on the Fells. He put an arm around Swiftnick's shoulders as the youth shifted restlessly, striving to get comfortable. "For warmth," Dick urged amiably. After a momentary hesitation, Swiftnick accepted the other of the highwayman's shoulder as a pillow and settled against him. Turpin dropped an extra fold of cloak over him and Swiftnick burrowed in to it, polishing off the last remains of his sandwich and accepting the next.

"I still think you should stick that hand outside. It's not as if anyone's going to take it," Swiftnick muttered.

"And it's not going to get up and do a quick gavotte either," Turpin scolded. "Forget it and get some sleep."

"What about the lich?" Swiftnick fretted as he tucked a scrap of cheese into the corner of his mouth with one finger. He jumped as the wind screeched, making something clatter noisily outside. "W-what…"

"Only the wind," Dick soothed confidently. "What about the lich anyway? It's bubbling at the bottom of a bog by now. Not even Sobie can escape that one."

Swiftnick frowned up at him, determinedly thinking about something other than the weird noises the wind was making. "Why d'you think it's this Sobie anyway?"

Turpin shrugged. "Stories," he explained. "He was hung in these parts. Some say he swore he'd come back to get even. Some say the poor woman he tortured cursed him to never know rest. Others say the passengers on the coach are cursed; doomed to ride the coach until he goes to Hell. And he swore he'd never go to Hell if he swung on the gibbet."

"Shouldn’t we do something?"

"We did. I dropped him in a bog," Dick pointed out. "Now, finish your sandwich and get some sleep. There's no point in wasting powder and shot over it."

"Can I have some brandy to wash it down with?"

"A sip only," Dick said after a moment, deciding that a drop of the brandy would help Swiftnick sleep. "I don't want you drunk."

"On a drop of brandy! Hah!"

Turpin said nothing, watching indulgently as Swiftnick took a mouthful of brandy, savouring it carefully before he handed the flask back and settled down again. Whether it was the brandy or exhaustion, Swiftnick was soon sound asleep and Dick was left to keep watch over the flickering warmth of the fire and listen to the wind howling restlessly around them.

Swiftnick wasn't quite sure what woke him. The wind was whistling around the eaves of the hut, tugging at loose boards as if eager to get in. Turpin had dozed off and Swiftnick took that as a sign they were safe. He settled down again, resting his head back on Dick's shoulder and telling himself to relax when the highwayman man didn't pull away.

Was that something scrabbling in the darkness?

Swiftnick lifted his head again, suddenly uncertain and hoping that they were sharing their shelter with a rat. He heard the scrabbling sound again, closer now. He peered uneasily into the darkness, wishing that the lamp cast a better light and unable to see nothing but shadows. The fire had almost gone out and all he could see was vague outlines; hostile shapes looming up out of abandoned old tools…

He still couldn't see anything except the shadows and the noise of the wind made it hard to be sure of exactly what he had heard. He wanted to wake Turpin, but didn't dare; certain that the older man would only laugh at his fears and tell him he was letting his imagination get the better of him. And that was all it was; his imagination. There wasn't really anything scuffing about in the shadows…

It sounded very close now. Rats, that's what it was; rats. Pulling up his cloak over his shoulder, Swiftnick put his head down again. He was going back to sleep. He wasn't going to give Dick any more excuses to tease him.

Was that something tugging at his cloak? It felt like a weight was resting on it as he pulled it up; almost as if something was pulling at it as it climbed up…

"Dick?" Swiftnick's nerve broke. "This isn't funny, let go…" He pushed the cloak aside, lifting his head and certain that Turpin was playing another macabre joke on him.

The hand was sitting in the folds of the cloak between him and Turpin, its fingers hooked into the fabric. The lamplight gleaming on its waxy skin gave it an eerie bluish sheen. Swiftnick was sure it was watching him. But no, that was impossible. It couldn't possibly had done what he was thinking it had done. Disembodied hands did not crawl out of boxes on their own. Turpin must have put it there; somehow, someway, he must have…. "Dick, I don't think…"

The hand moved, flexing its fingers under it as it seemed to gather itself. Hypnotised Swiftnick froze, staring at it in terror before he started to reached for Turpin, meaning to nudge him awake…

The hand jumped, bounding across the cloak like some ghastly mockery of a spider. Swiftnick opened his mouth to scream in panic and the thing leaped on him, its pallid fingers slithering across his face and lips and it slipped down under cloak collar and embraced his throat in its ice-cold grip. Utterly terrified, Swiftnick clawed at it, striving to pull it off as the thing dug its talon like fingers into the soft skin of his throat, digging after bone as it strangled him. Gagging and choking, Swiftnick gasped for breath, unable to get to grips with the thing.

"What?" Groggy and annoyed at being disturbed, Turpin sat up and glared irritably about him. "You and your bloody nightmares…." Swiftnick whimpered at him, clawing at his throat. "What's wrong with you then?" Turpin growled, yanking at the cloak. "Can't you ever lie….sodding Hell!"

Moving the cloak had brought the hand into plain sight. For one split second, Dick thought it was a joke, then he saw the deep dents in Swiftnick's throat as the fingers dug in and registered the youth's choking noises. Turpin grabbed the hand by the wrist, yanking at it desperately. It wouldn't budge….

Swiftnick's eyes were wild by now and starting to glaze over…

"Think, man!" Dick hissed at himself, looking round in desperation for something that would help.

The fire flicked fitfully and with a flash of inspiration, Dick lunged at it and snatched up a brand. It glowed red-hot as he dragged it from the embers and darted back to his young partner. Grabbing the writs of the thing, he drove the brand into it, searing the ragged strips of waxed flesh and tendons. The hand spasmed and writhed, releasing Swiftnick's throat as it struggled silently in Turpin's grip. It was harder to hold onto than a wet frog, but Turpin kept a grip on it and carried it away.

Dropping brand in the fire and grabbing the abandoned pitchfork, he flung the thing back into its box and drove the tines through the hand before it could right itself and scrabble away on its fingers. The hand convulsed, contorting into a ball around the tines that tore through it before it then lay still. Turpin stared at it, feeling all the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

A soft sound from his partner snapped him back to attention.

"Swiftnick!" Dick bolted back to his accomplice as he registered Swiftnick's ragged gasps for air. Swiftnick gave him a very old fashioned look as Dick hastily unwrapped him from the folds of the cloak. "I know, I know, you told me so," Turpin muttered. "Let's have a look at you…" Swiftnick wheezed something as Turpin swatted his hands aside. "Whatever you said, I didn't understand it," Dick told him briskly. "You’re a bit bruised but…open your mouth…" Swiftnick grimaced at him. "Do as you’re told and open your mouth," Turpin ordered in a no nonsense tone. Sullenly, Swiftnick obeyed and Dick tipped his head back so he could peer down his throat. Dick relaxed, seeing no signs of blood. Swiftnick's breathing was settling back to normal now that the constriction had ease. "You'll do, lad. Why, if I’d known it was this easy to keep you quiet, I'd have throttled you myself long ago." Turpin narrowed his eyes as Swiftnick's lips moved silently. "That's enough of that sort of language too!" he scolded sharply, but his hand was gentle as he ruffled the youth' blond curls.

"Put…it…outside…" Swiftnick urged huskily.

Dick chuckled. "Girls will love that tone," he teased.

"Really?" Swiftnick looked pleased for a moment, but he was not to be distracted for long. He swallowed painfully, his voice slowly improving. "Get rid…of it…"

Turpin hesitated, glancing back at the box and its grisly contents. "That's cold iron that is. It should take care of it."

"Don't care…"

"It's cold out there. And dark…" Dick pointed out. Swiftnick folded his arms and glared at him. "Its still valuable."

"With holes…in it?" Swiftnick said huskily.

"Aye, even so…"

"And a habit of…throttling people?"

"Oh, very well," Turpin huffed. "I'll put it outside if it makes you feel better. But I'm not spending the night watching it. And you can stop looking at me like that. Come daylight we'll burn it."

"Promise?"

Dick scowled. "Aye, I promise. The box is rowan wood. That's proof against magic. Rowan, iron and fire will fix it."

Swiftnick nodded, watching Turpin steadily.

"Sodding hell," Dick grumbled, shoving impatiently to his feet. "You're still a pest even if you can't talk properly. I don't know, one good deed of taking a brat in…"

"I'm…not a brat…"

"And you pay and you pay and you pay," Turpin groused. "Do you have any idea of how long it's been since my conscience had anything to do? No, I don't suppose you. But along you come all bouncing and bloody innocent and what happens? I spend all my bloody time wrestling with the blasted thing. Don't smirk!"

"Wasn't."

Turpin snorted as he toed the rowan box gingerly, hoping the hand wasn't going to move. He thought its fingers quivered slightly, but that might have been the firelight. The sound of Black Bess neighing in her stable made him start and catch his breath in alarm and he heard a distinct snigger from Swiftnick. "Don't snicker either," Turpin snapped impatiently. Black Bess neighed again and there was a loud crash of wood. "What 's that bloody animal doing now?" Dick growled.

"Kicking her stable…down? She gets…impatient…when she's hungry…"

"Oh, shut up! It's probably the wind setting her off." Turpin started for the door and then paused, feeling that weird prickling sensation running across his skin like the scratching of fingertips. The constant droning of the wind had become something he could tune out, but now he thought he could hear something else; a scuffling, scratching sound as if there was something outside.

"Don't leave…me alone…with that…thing.." Swiftnick protested.

"Hush. Did you hear something?"

"How can I…hush and answer….?"

"Swiftnick, don't be bloody awkward…" Dick took another step towards the door, feeling the slow deep pulse of fear inside. He had a horrible feeling there was something outside the door, something waiting for him to open it so it could get in. He thought he heard a low wheezing sound and the shuffle of steps as whatever it was moved away.

"All I hear is Black Bess and the wind," Swiftnick retorted.

Turpin didn't answer, straining his ears to hear the sound again.

There it was; a slow stealthy sound as if someone was walking around the hut and brushing against the rough walls every now and then as it circled. A moan vibrated through the night and the roof creaked as the wind tore at it.

"Dick, that was the wind, wasn't it?" Swiftnick whimpered. This time he too had heard it.

Turpin held up one hand in their signal for silence, then beckoned for the youth to come to him, "Move away from the wall," he mouthed as he dithered over whether or not to douse their lamp. If there was someone or something outside, then the light might attract…it. But he would also need to douse the fire and that would take time and he didn't want to be trapped in the hut with the hand inside with him and Swiftnick and something else outside.

Swiftnick dislodged the cloak he had drawn around him for warmth and drew his feet under him to get up. Either the sound of his movement or the scent of blood from his arm reached the creature outside, for the wooden wall shattered as a blackened arm burst through it in an explosion of splinters. Half-strangled or no, Swiftnick let out a scream of fright as the arm seized him around the neck and dragged him back, clamping him against the wall. Its second arm punched through the wall, groping for his face with its a non-existent hand.

Dick grabbed for a brand from the fire and raced to his partner side, driving the blazing wood into the lich's arm and seizing its wrist in the other to pry it loose. Swiftnick half ducked half fell away from the thing, crawling around Turpin's legs to escape. The lich was bellowing as it pulled back through the wall, its arms smouldering from the fire. Dick scrambled backward and grabbed Swiftnick, yanking him upright and retreating across the hut with him.

Swiftnick was shaking, wiping frantically at his face where the slimy stump had rubbed his skin. Outside they could hear the voice of howling lich competing with the screaming of the wind. It was battering at the wall in fury and they could see the planks shaking under the impact of stump and fist.

"It'll be daylight soon," Dick muttered as crept across to grab up the pistols. "That'll send it back wherever it came from."

"Are you sure it knows that? You said it was at the bottom of a bog and couldn't come up again!" Swiftnick complained.

Dick glared at him as he shoved Swiftnick's brace of pistols at him. "Lichs to the left of me, glory hands to the right and here am I stuck in the middle with you!" he retorted. "Fire when you see the whites of its eyes."

"It doesn't have any whites of its eyes!"

"Then bloody well shoot whatever bit you can see!" Turpin snarled.

The lich bellowed and suddenly charged through the wall, wrenching aside the planks of wood that blossomed like some macabre wooden flower around it as it ripped the out of its way.

Swiftnick gulped in fright, but its shot was accurate and hit the lich in the middle of its chest. Turpin was half deafened by the blast of the pistol inside the hut, but his own bullet hit the lich square in the middle of its forehead. The lich halted, staring at them then toppled over and hit the ground with a thump.

Neither highwayman moved for a moment, then Swiftnick looked uncertainly up at Turpin. "Did we kill it?"

"It was dead to start with. But I can't believe it was that easy," Dick said dubiously. "Stay put…" Ignoring the thump of fear in his chest, Turpin eased forward, step by reluctant step, holding his gun aimed at the thing's head.

The lich didn't move, didn't breathe - although Dick wasn't that sure it had been breathing to start with. "I think it's dead," he said slowly.

"For how long? What do we do now?"

Turpin hesitated, reluctant to admit he didn't know. Dunking it in a bog had only annoyed it. If it did come back to whatever passed for life, it was going to be royally annoyed at being shot. "I think we'd better burn it and its hand," he decided. "Stir up that fire a bit, lad, and we’ll drag it outside."

"We?" Swiftnick quavered.

"Aye, we…" Turpin said firmly, taking a step towards him and then hesitating. Was that a twitch?

The lich moved with appalling speed, its hand shooting out to seize Turpin's knee in a crushing grip and yank the highwayman off his feet with its unexpected move. Flinging itself on top of him, the lich groped for his throat, its gaping maw slavering at mouthed him. Howling his head off, Dick rammed his pistol into its mouth and pulled the trigger. The ball blasted a hole through the back of the lich's neck and it let go, enabling Turpin to flung it off with the strength born of desperation. The lich gurgled, groping after him as it lurched to its feet. Turpin limped away from it, his knees threatening to give way under him. Moaning the lich reached for him, making a weird keening whining sound from its ruined throat.

Swiftnick stepped between Dick and the monster and he fired at it, drilling a hole through its chest. The lich halted and looked down at the hole as it spilled a viscous brown green fluid that stank like pus and worse.

Dick grabbed his young apprentice and shook him, shaking him out of his horrified stare. "Come on, we have to get out of here," he ordered, shoving Swiftnick past the lich towards the door.

The lich lunged, grabbing at them. Turpin intercepted it, using his pistol to batter the thing back. The lich hammered back at him, its lifeless arms feeling no pain unlike the highwayman who easily got the worst of the attack. Dick was forced to retreat, grimly away that he was being backed into a corner.

"Dick!"

Turpin flicked a quick glance towards Swiftnick as the youth yelled and felt a surge of hope as Swiftnick darted forward and threw his sword to him. The lich hesitated as if it sensed the blade was a danger to it, then started to back away as Dick turned the rout into an attack. Grimly Turpin pursued the creature back across the hut, slashing at it at every opportunity and doing his best to sever its remaining hand and arm.

Swiftnick hovered at the edges of the fight, attempting to reload his pistol and stay out of the way at the same time. He froze as the lich bellowed angrily and lunged forward, tired of being harried by the highwayman.

With a cry of triumph Dick executed a beautiful lunge and ran the lich clean through, his sword driving through the thing from front to back. The lich came to a halt, a look of almost ludicrous surprise crossing its seamed leathery face as it looked at the cold steel blade protruding from it stomach. Then its broken mouth snarled and it took hold of the hilt, drawing the weapon as it came on.

"Sod it," Dick gasped in dismay. "Run, Swiftnick !"

The lich screamed a blood gurgling cry of fury and lunged, seizing the startled Turpin before he could escape and locking its stump across his throat. As Turpin struggled to break free of the implacable grip, it attempted to chew through the leather of his waistcoat to rip open his flesh and taste his blood and at the same time, brought the blade edge to bear across his stomach.

Grabbing up a brand from the fire, Swiftnick did run, but toward the fight not away as Turpin had intended. Flinging himself at the lich's back, he whacked it repeatedly with the brand in an effort to drive it off; his efforts caused the smouldering branch to flame to new life but seemed to have no effect on the lich. Still it hung on to Turpin, seemingly oblivious to Swiftnick's efforts. Finally out of sheer desperation, Swiftnick steeled himself against his own squeamishness and rammed the burning brand into the hole under its shoulderblade where Turpin's pistol shot had blown through its chest. At that the lich screamed, long unused nerves twitching spasmodically to life as its arms jerked. Turpin wrenched free, ripping the sword from the thing's hand. In agony, the lich turned and lashed out, smashing Swiftnick across the chest and hurling the youth across the hut to crash into the wall. As he slid stunned to the ground, the lich staggered after him, its one hand clenching and unclenching and its eyes smouldering with an uncanny blue glow.

Sucking in a deep breath as his own senses spun, Turpin hurled himself grimly after the thing and plunged his sword into it; ramming the blade down inside its collarbone and wriggling the sword deeper to sever whatever tendons it had left. Squalling like an animal, the lich batted him violently aside and lunged once more for Swiftnick. Swiftnick tucked his feet under him and rolled aside, crawling through the hole in the wall. The lich followed, ripping aside the torn planking in its rage.

Dick rolled over, wheezing for breath from the blow and convinced he had cracked a rib or two from the pain flaring through him. Shoving himself up on his hands and knees, he looked dazedly around him searching for an answer. Outside he could hear the lich keening as it pursued Swiftnick; its cry rising to a howl.

"No more…" Turpin growled and he surged back to his feet with a burst of strength. Grabbing the pitchfork, he yanked it out of the box and then snatched up the grisly object inside as it spasmed and squirmed; its fingers writhing like worms as the faint rotten blue glow returned to it. Dick thrust the thing into the fire, a savage look crossing his face as fat spat and hissed as the hand caught fire. "Right you bastard, let's see how you like this…"

Cornered against the side of the lean to, Swiftnick had run out of places to hide. The lean to was empty and the door kicked down and Swiftnick feared what the lich had done to Black Bess. He was even more afraid of what it was gong to do to him though. The lich was implacable as it hunted him, its glowing eyes easily tracking him through the darkness. As it paced after him, it clawed at the sword still sticking through its collarbone. Unable to get the leverage to draw it free, it exerted itself and the blade snapped with a high pitched clink that made Swiftnick flinch and shrink back against the wall.

"Go away," he begged.

The lich lifted its arm, its finger hooked and beckoning as pus dribbled from its shattered mouth. It moved closer, making Swiftnick press himself back fearfully, but he couldn't run, his feet seemed to be frozen to the ground.

"Sobie!" Turpin's voice cracked like a whip through the night and the lich paused, slowly turning its head to look at him. The highwayman had emerged from the hut and stood framed against the darkness, the pitchfork held high beside him with the hand burning with a putrid blue glow above his head. Outlined by the eerie blue glow, he looked like a ghost from the coach and to Swiftnick's astonishment, the lich moaned and lifted its arm to shield its eyes as it half turned away. "Aye, I know you…"

The lich moaned, hunching as if it wanted to hide.

Turpin hesitated, confused by the unexpected reaction, he had expected rage not fear. Still; he was never one to pass up an unexpected advantage. "Move away from it, Swiftnick," he called quietly.

Gulping Swiftnick obeyed, seizing his chance to escape and sneaking foot by foot to one side. Something alerted the cowering lich however for with a sudden whirlwind of speed it spun around and grabbed him, seizing Swiftnick by the front of his vest and lifting him off his feet. It hurled him against the wall, pinning him there with its rotten body as its gaping mouth snapped at his throat. Kicking wildly, Swiftnick slapped both hands on his shoulders, fighting with all his strength to hold it off and twisting his face aside as it pressed closer and closer…

With a wordless bellow of rage, Dick charged up behind Sobie and rammed the pitchfork into its back, hand and all. Flames exploded where hand met rotten flesh, sizzling with an uncanny fury as they raced across the lich's back, spitting sparks. Screaming in sudden pain, the lich dropped Swiftnick and turned to face Turpin as he yanked the pitchfork free and backed off. The lich stood tottering, its face contorted as it grasped at the air.

Abandoned, Swiftnick started to crawl away on his hands and knees, but the lich had not forgotten him. Still smouldering, it turned after him once more, its jaws snapping mindlessly as it sought blood and food.

Turpin charged again, plunging the pitchfork into the thing once more; this time ramming the burning hand deep into the gaping pistol wound in the lich's chest. Pus exploded into flame like lamp oil, erupting with a fierce blue white glow as it rapidly consumed the ragged flesh around the wound. Keening, the lich battered at the flames and clawed at the pitchfork. Dick put his back into it, driving the monster back into the wall and forcing the tines deeper and deeper until they ground on first bone then suddenly wood as they hit the wall. Startled Turpin let go and limped out of reach, staring as the lich clawed at its burning flesh. It seemed to be burning from the inside now; the flames devouring it pus and crackling flesh alike and making the thing gleam with a loathsome sickly light.

Swiftnick had crawled out of reach and slumped to the ground beside Dick, making him jump and look down at him in alarm as he rapped a fist on Dick's foot for attention. "Look…." The youth whispered. Turpin was reluctant to take his eyes off the burning lich, but something in Swiftnick's voice made him look over his shoulder.

On the slope behind the hut, the ghostly glowing coach stood silent; its horses standing quiet as the passengers stood beside the vehicle, watching the lich burn.

Feeling a sudden need for human companionship Dick reached down for Swiftnick and pulled him to his feet beside him, putting an arm around him as the instinct to protect the lad surfaced. Swiftnick wasn't averse to clinging to the older man and followed when Dick backed away enough so that they could watch both fire and ghosts from a safe distance.

The ghostly coachman came forward, walking down the slope with his glowing blue feet never so much as bending a blade of grass. As he passed Dick, the highwayman felt a cold draught brush his skin that had nothing to do with the wind. The ghost didn't look at him however, but halted in front of the lich and stretched out its hands as if to warm them. In response the flames burned higher, making the lich's limbs writhe and twist as they were melted from within. Then something inside the lich exploded violently and the white hot heat of the flames sent Dick and Swiftnick scrambling back out of reach as the wall of the hut went up in flame. When they could blink away the dazzle and see again, the blackened skeletal shape of the lich hung among the flames, crumbling as the bones and remaining scraps of flesh charred and burnt away; the stench rolling away on the wind as the lich crumbled to ashes. The wall of the hut gaze way with a sudden whoosh, hiding the remains beneath burning wood and embers. The fire had all ready spread into the rest of the hut, destroying everything in its path.

Putting an arm around Swiftnick's shoulders, Dick looked around him uncertainly, peering towards the ghostly coach and its passengers. A highwayman had murdered them all and he was none too sure how they might feel about him and Swiftnick.

Up on the slope, the coachman was helping his last passenger into the coach before he turned to look back at Turpin and Swiftnick.

"Oh no, we don't need that kind of ride," Dick muttered as Swiftnick's hand clamped tight on his wrist.

"Something's happening; look," Swiftnick blurted, oblivious to the ghost as he tugged at Dick's arm. Drawn by his tone, Turpin turned his head enough to look, hoping he wasn't going to see the lich reforming from the ashes for he could hear on the edge of his hearing a high pitched keening sound that was filled with rage.

Instead he saw something like a coil of glistening black smoke rising from the flickering flames, twisting and writhing as if it struggled to escape from something that would pull it down. The very shadows seemed to have come to life, sucking at the smoke, reaching up with clawed like protuberances that seized it coils and dragged it down. The keening drew itself higher, sharper fainter as if it would cut itself free then Turpin felt as if the very earth under his feet quivered and opened as the unwholesome darkness was sucked down into the depths and the crushing silence spilled back.

Instinct made Turpin look back at the coach. The coachman had climbed back to his seat and taken up the reins. As Turpin looked at him, he lifted one hand, half in farewell, half in salute and quickly. Silently the coach started to move up the slope, floating as it rose off the ground and started to glow, passing from blue white to violet and then to a spectacularly pure white before it vanished completely.

Feeling Swiftnick shiver against him, Dick tightened his grip instinctively and dragged his eyes away from where the spectral apparition had vanished. "You all right, lad?"

"All down one side I think so," Swiftnick whispered; his face a pale oval in the darkness.

Dick blinked, realising that he was starting to make out shapes now as the night started to lift and the turquoise and rose pink fingers of dawn started to creep across the edges of the sky. "Good. Me too. I think it's over."

"Someone's going to complain about their hut," Swiftnick murmured dazedly after a moment. "Shouldn't we put it out?"

"Put what out? There's hardly anything left!" Turpin looked at the crackling heap of burning wood and shivered. It was throwing off enough heat to warm him but he still felt cold. He also noted something else; Swiftnick was shivering but he felt warm to the touch under Dick's arm.

A shrill neigh made him leap in fright and whip around, expecting to see the ghostly coach but it was Black Bess who trotted out of the darkness. Snorting and stepping high she sidled around them and only condescended to approach when Dick crooned to her and held out his hand for her to sniff. She shied at the lingering smell of lich, but she let him catch her bridle and pull her closer.

"We'll have to ride double," Turpin decided as he ran his hands over his mare, examining her for wounds. She seemed to have come to no harm for her excursion into the night and Dick assumed she had broken out of her stable to escape the lich.

"Pity about losing the saddle," Swiftnick observed as he knelt wearily in the grass. Turpin had left the saddle in the lean to although he had left the mare bridled.

Turpin shrugged. A saddle could be replaced, so could their lost weapons and saddle bags and their cloaks. Their lives and their souls were a good deal more valuable! He ruffled Swiftnick's hair affectionately and swung himself up onto Black Bess' smooth back. "Come on, time to get ourselves home."

Swiftnick pushed wearily to his feet and clambered up behind Dick with the highwayman's help. For a moment, Turpin sat and looked at the embers of the fire as the dawn spilled across the Fell. Swiftnick put his arms around him and rested his head against his back and Dick could feel his warmth and exhaustion. "I'd best get you back to Glenrae," he decided. "Hold on tight, Swiftnick." Swiftnick's only answer was a yawn as Dick turned Black Bess towards Glenrae and home.

* * *

Swiftnick was warm and dry and comfortable at last and he drifted in content, somewhere between yielding to the need for more sleep and the urge to wake up. Hunger won as his stomach growled for attention and he reluctantly prised his eyes open. He was lying half curled up in the big bed back at the hideout. The room was dimly lit by firelight and the glow of candles from the twin gold candelabra on the table that they had taken off a fancy Duke a while ago. On either side of the table sat Turpin and Glenrae, talking quietly as Dick dealt out a hand of cards.

"I saw that," Glenrae muttered irritably.

"Saw what?" Dick responded innocently.

"Ye dealing me a dodgy hand! Why it comes to something when a mon can't even play a fair hand with his friend!"

Dick chuckled and retrieved the cards up to deal again. "Only checking you were paying attention," he said lightly. "You get fleeced far too often for my liking."

"Only when I'm playing with the likes of ye," Glenrae retorted. "Now a Scotsman would nay cheat at cards!"

"Unless he was playing an Englishman," Dick responded. "Don't think I didn't notice that extra pair you dealt yourself last round."

"And what pair would that be?" Glenrae grinned and chuckled richly at that then glanced alertly at the bed as Swiftnick made a small sound of amusement and lifted his head to better see that what they were up to. "Och, yon laddie's awake at last," he exclaimed, abandoning their card game.

Dick gave a sleepy Swiftnick a smile but reached across to check the pasteboards Glenrae had in front of him. He snorted at the cards the Scots had been holding. "Oh aye, the Scots never cheat," he observed sardonically as he pushed to his feet and came over to check on his apprentice. Swiftnick was squirming and complaining under Glenrae's brisk examination as the big man checked his temperature and prodded his arm.

"Dick! Make him get off!"

"Then lie still and let him finish," Turpin told him. "And as for you, Glenrae, you were cheating."

"Och, and how would ye ken I was cheating?" Glenrae sniffed as he sat on the edge of the bed to check Swiftnick's pulse.

"Because those weren't the cards I dealt you," Dick replied sweetly, winking at Swiftnick as he watched in fascination. "You took your time waking up, lad. Why I had to groom the horses myself! And Toby's a horror for rolling in the mud."

"I know," Swiftnick croaked, pausing in surprise at the rough edge of his own voice.

"Och, dinna fret. Ye'll be fine, yer fever's gone now and the sore throat will pass once ye've had a drink a bite of supper," Glenrae soothed. "Dickie…"

"Dick!" Turpin barked.

"Och, dinna fash yerself. Whatever. Fetch the laddie a cup of yon tea, will ye?"

Turpin snorted and stalked back to the table and the silver tea service sitting beside the candelabras and the crystal decanter of whiskey Glenrae and Dick had been sharing. It had taken Dick ages to pry off the Duke's insignia without damaging it!

"Can't I have what you’re drinking?" Swiftnick asked, more for the sake of it than because he wanted the cognac. "It'd make me feel better."

"No, you’re too young," Turpin barked.

Glenrae smiled sympathetically as Swiftnick grimaced in mock disappointment. "And it'll nay do ye any good after a fever," the Scot soothed. "Do ye remember what happened?"

"I got shot," Swiftnick answered.

"Barely creased you," Dick muttered, bringing over the tea as Glenrae let Swiftnick push himself into a sitting position.. "Is that all you remember?"

Swiftnick took a grateful sip of his tea, tasting the sweetness of the sugar with satisfaction and feeling it soothe his throat. "We went after a coach. But Sobie got to it first. He'd killed everyone when we got there and he came after us when he saw us… I suppose he didn't want anyone to tell on him."

Glenrae raised an eyebrow as he looked up at Dick. "Aye," Turpin said carefully. "Aye, that'd be it. We'd seen too much. He couldn't let us talk."

Swiftnick nodded, taking another sip and swallowing carefully. "I don't remember much after that. Was there a fire?"

"Aye…" Dick said slowly. "You were feverish and didn't seem to know what was happening."

Swiftnick frowned, gazing up at his brown eyed mentor as he struggled with his errant thoughts. He dimly remembered riding behind Dick on Black Bess and Turpin changing places with him so he could ride behind and stop Swiftnick from falling off. He vaguely recalled Glenrae carrying him inside at the hideout and scolding Turpin for delaying getting him back where the Scotsman could look after him. Glenrae must have tended his wound because the burning sensation had started to fade around then and he was sure Dick had been the one to put him to bed and falling asleep. Once he thought he had woken up to see a shirtless Turpin standing in front of the fire while Glenrae poked and prodded and muttered over him. After that he must have gone back to sleep because he remembered nothing else.

"Were you hurt, Dick?" he blurted. "Did Sobie hurt you?"

"Nah. What makes you think he hurt me?"

Glenrae snorted as he tucked the covers back around Swiftnick and got up.

"Didn't you fight…" Swiftnick paused uneasily, his memory rebelling. "Maybe I was dreaming? I had some very strange dreams…something about a hand strangling me…."

"Fever," Turpin said flatly. "Sore throat. It's all in your imagination, you little pest. Here, have some chicken stew."

Glenrae blinked as Turpin practically snatched the bowl of chicken stew he had filled from the pot by the fire from him and shoved it into Swiftnick's hands. Swiftnick didn't seem to mind Dick's gruff attitude in the slightest as he settled to eat the thick stew quite happily. He knew perfectly well that it was simply the way Dick was. He might bellow and yell, but he'd never lift a hand to his apprentice without good reason and if he denied him the likes of the cognac, Swiftnick knew it was for his own good; even if he did complain about it.

Hunger made Swiftnick eager and he finished a bowl and a half of the stew, plus a second cup of tea before exhaustion claimed him and he curled up to go back to sleep.

Glenrae covered him up, checking his temperature once more to reassure himself and watching Swiftnick snuggle down blissfully before he went back to the table. Dick was examining his spare pair of pistols, muttering under his breath over their plain plates.

"Look at these, bloody scruffy things!"

"Perfectly good brace of pistols," Glenrae commented as he sat down. "Only a fop would worry more over their looks than their aim."

"I've got a bloody good aim and as for their looks, why I have a reputation to uphold!"

"Hah! And you haven't got that for truth. Ye lied to the laddie."

Dick ducked his head, staring at the weapons. "Not exactly I didn't. You’re sure he's asleep?"

"Aye. I put a little something in his tea. He'll be asleep for a while and be fine when he wakes up."

Turpin let a out a little sigh. "What was I supposed to do? Let him remember it his way."

"Rather than that ye were chased by a lich?"

"Moon mist! There's no such thing."

"This moon mist ye're drinking must be powerful stuff."

"Glenrae!"

"Hush, ye'll wake the boy."

"You said he'd sleep."

"Not if ye start yer yelling he won't." Glenrae leaned forward across the table. "And that's no what ye told me when I carried yon Swiftnick in here. A lich is what ye said and a glory hand it was that throttled him."

Very deliberately, Dick reached for the cognac, poured himself a glass and took a swallow. He flinched as the wind howled outside, making the fire flare up as it gusted down the chimney. "I don't believe in such things; nor in ghosts neither."

"Och, but there's a likely story with ye starting at shadows. Ye ken they believe in ye. Ye have the touch of the fey about ye, Dick me boy. Always have had, always will have."

"Say that again when I've got a loaded gun in my hand!" Turpin growled, brandishing the pistol.

"Saved ten men in Gibraltar ye did because ye listened to yourself."

"That was in Gibraltar and it earned me a flogging for ignoring an order," Dick pointed out icily.

"But there's ten men walking around now who wouldn't be if it wasn't for ye."

"Swiftnick's only a boy. You know as well as I do ghosts like 'em young."

Glenrae sat back, watching the way Dick cradled his glass to him. "Och, aye," he said softly. "And what about them ribs of yern? Those nice bruised, maybe cracked ribs? What did that then?"

Turpin's fingers closed tight on the glass and he didn't answer for a moment. "All I know is we burned something evil out there. What it was or why it was I neither know nor care. Swiftnick and I are safe and that's all that matters." He paused, smiling faintly. "And I can get a new saddle and new pistols. And another sword! But I can't replace Swiftnick."

"Och, ken that now do ye? He's been good for yer soul."

Dick gave his old friend a slow look and a rueful smile. "Aye, aye, I know that. Hoots mon, och aye the noo!"

"Och, ye heathen!" Grinning, Glenrae took a swipe at him across the table and Dick leaned back in his chair out of reach, laughing.

Picking up the cards, Dick offered them to the Scot to deal and settled back, only half his attention on Glenrae as he dealt out the pasteboards and the rest on Swiftnick as he slept. The lad had had him worried there for a few hours, making him realise how important the young wretch had become to him. Was that why the ghosts had turned away from taking him too? Was Swiftnick the difference between him becoming as evil as the likes of Sobie?

"Och, are ye playing or moping?" Glenrae prompted. "Yon laddie will be fine."

Dick smiled and picked up the cards, settling down to thrash Glenrae and knowing that he would give as good as he got. As he said, Swiftnick would be fine and so would Turpin as long as he had the lad to ride beside him.

oooOooo